Chapter 8 #2
Only once the line goes dead do I dissect his words about the evening Mason and I shared.
My cheeks heat at the thought of Mason discussing technique among other details, like hyped-up locker-room talk at some overpriced country club.
Of course, Trystan knows all about it; he’s the right hand to the CEO.
While Mr. Mercer was on a conference call, Trystan guided me to Sercio’s opulent bar and began briefing me on the mechanics of the Mercer family and what made Mason tick.
As he sat almost regally on the heavy leather stool, his impeccable shoes peeking from the bottom of his tuxedo pants rested on the footrail.
Most of the females in the room had eyes on Trystan, and many of them weren’t discreet about it either, yet he paid them no mind.
His perfunctory notes covered rules like not bringing up his family unless he mentions them first and being open and honest. Mason values honesty above everything else.
The way his almost melancholic tone delivered the words made me think of it as a bad thing.
In a world with billion-dollar acquisitions and a constant stream of actors playing a role, honesty and integrity should be important.
They should be paramount in any tax bracket.
Up with the sun and out for a run? I hadn’t even started, and the untruths were already pouring from me like that wine.
For two and a half thousand dollars a day, I would spray myself green and sing show tunes if that’s what he requested of me.
But no more lies. Now that I was once again employed, I had nothing to shield my mother from, other than the finer details of my job description.
If the lies stopped for her, they would stop for Trystan and Mason too.
This money was important for Cait, for Mom and Dad.
I’d be the best damn EPA Mason Mercer had ever employed.
Receiving party? The party was raging inside my head, the syncopated beat contesting that of my pulse. Executive Personal Assistant.
One million dollars. No more flabby Sabby now, bitches.
To: SabrinaBroe1101@
From: TrystanHynd@
Subject: Required appointments and documentation. Private and confidential.
Dear Ms. Broe,
First and foremost, congratulations and welcome to the executive team at Mercer Media.
I look forward to working alongside you in the demanding role such a position requires.
Together with Helen Paul, we handle the various demanding needs of Mason Mercer, CEO.
Please familiarize yourself with the contract prior to your commencement at 08:00 on Monday morning.
I have scheduled the required appointments.
Your driver, Clinton, will collect you sixty (60) minutes prior.
I can confirm that the doctor’s office has received a copy of your medical records.
You will have a complete physical examination, including a blood draw and contraceptive injection, as outlined in clause 11b of the contract.
Waxing services as per clause 14c will be performed in the afternoon.
You are welcome to take lunch between appointments, please direct Clinton to your chosen establishment.
I have attached several documents requiring your signature; your prompt attention to this matter is appreciated. Helen has secured a courier for your Mercer Media lanyard and key fob, parking permit and credit card, which will not be activated until Monday, when the PIN will be provided to you.
Once again, congratulations on your appointment. Please reach out if you have questions pertaining to this email or the contents enclosed within.
Yours,
Trystan Hynd
EA to CEO
Mercer Media.
The removal of each wax strip represents another layer of my soul leaving the salon.
I keep myself pretty tidy down there, but never quite the hair-free state requested in the contract, unless done with a razor or depilatory cream.
No one can contort their own body to remove hair from their back door anyway, I figured.
Melany with a ‘y’ has no trouble finessing molten wax, talking animatedly about how liberating and addicting a full Brazilian wax is, and how often she’ll see me in future maintenance visits.
If it were up to me, Melany, I would not be on my hands and knees in your treatment room.
It is my last appointment after a medical examination, blood drawing, and contraceptive injection.
Now I know why the waxing was scheduled last, because after I’m in the required hair-free state, the last thing I want is to have a doctor anywhere near the tender skin.
Pen is beyond bursting when I arrive at Covet after an inordinate amount of time stuck in rush-hour traffic. The idea of it being an hour is as perplexing as using the word rush to describe lanes of grid locked traffic stuck in place like pawns on a chessboard.
“Come here, you!” Her girly squeal is equal parts infectious and beckoning.
“Oh my god. Pen, I cannot thank you enough!”
Penny had texted when Melany was mid-rip on a stretch of wax in the rear. As much as answering her text would have been preferable to attaining a hair-free state, the burgeoning tears meant I couldn’t see who was texting, let alone answer.
Racing around her sparse yet functional desk, her long arms wrap me in a genuine hug. As the talent director of Covet, the business will enjoy a hefty commission. As my friend, she is thrilled to the back teeth, as my ma would say, for my success.
“I know how life-changing this is for Cait. Just remember, please,” she says squeezing out the last word as if pained, “not to discuss a thing about the job unless it’s with me as your agency representation, understood?”
Her words come from a place of sage wisdom.
She left school at seventeen to pursue an international modeling career.
Fresh-faced and lithely built, she strode catwalks for couture designers and graced many magazine covers, including those managed by Mercer Media.
That was until a horse-riding accident at twenty-two affected her ability to sit and stand, much less walk in heels and glittery garments.
She took on a talent acquisition at Covet, the agency that took her on as an unknown with stars in her eyes and zero in her bank account.
“Understood loud and clear, boss,” I say, pulling back to offer a salute.
“I’m not your direct boss, babe. Your boss will be the one driving his big dick into you when you’re bent over his desk. I feel it’s important not to confuse the two.”
Her dry humor aside, it has been made crystal clear that a Mercer NDA is an NDA on steroids.
It’s more watertight than a goldfish’s butthole.
Any hint of a clause breach and I’ll be on my backside on the pavement after being hoisted through the rotating front glass door.
Then the legal mire will consume me like a quicksand bog does a stricken deer until nothing is left.
Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, and do not even think about working in the city or state again.
Perhaps leaving the country might be a safer option, only the might of the Mercer name has tentacles that reach around most of the globe.
“Bri, it’s a role. Think of yourself as an actor. Pull the mask into place and portray it as if you were in the moment, only make sure your head stays out of the clouds, yeah?”
“Of course.”
“There is a lot at stake. I don’t need to remind you of that fact.
Be you, but remember the sex you are about to have isn’t attached to any relationship, romance, or happy ending.
It’s a job, like filing and spreadsheet data entry, and month-end financials.
Don’t glamorize it, don’t build it up to be anything it’s not.
She steps me back, her arms extended. There’s now a void between us.
I just know she’s going to fill with something confronting, a blade through the soft, billowy clouds she warned me not to live in.
“Because if you do, you will not be getting fucked; you’ll be getting fucked over.
Hardcore. Bri, please. Whatever you do… don’t fall in love. ”