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He remains silent for a long time. My gaze darts around the space, searching for where the speakers are hidden. I don’t find any. It’s like he lives within the walls.
His soft inhalation drifts out before he speaks. “That was not okay. You were only meant to sleep for the duration of the journey, not pass out for eight hours. Accept my apology.”
My breath expels the relief locked in my chest, although there’s a lingering sense of incompleteness in the apology. “Thank you. I accept.”
He exhales. “I will resume full ownership now, Lucky.”
My heart begins to race for another reason. “Okay.”
“Good. Go downstairs. The kitchen is to your left. Your breakfast is ready.”
Releasing the bannister, I walk down a sweeping grand staircase carved out of solid light oak.
When I reach the bottom, I look around me.
The place is grand, the type of house you see in dynastic sagas on TV. Only with a contemporary decor and high tech touches. For instance, there’s a camera built into the chandelier that hangs in the magnificent foyer. And the same tablet-like panel set into the wall upstairs is fixed next to the double doors leading outside.
I take the left hallway and arrive in a chef’s dream of a kitchen, complete with a double pantry.
On the breakfast island, fresh coffee, five types of juices and smoothies, bagels and condiments in all flavors are laid out. Domed dishes reveal fluffy scrambled eggs, Eggs Benedict and sliced sausages.
My stomach somersaults with pleasure but I pause in the act of reaching for a warm plate.
“Are you here, in the house with me?”
“Not yet, but I’m on my way.”
My heart joins in the circus trapeze act. While it tussles with my stomach, I grip the plate and contemplate another quandary.
“Eat, Lucky.”
My gaze roams the kitchen until I spot a blinking light above the fridge. “You can see me.”
“Yes. Something else is worrying you?”
I nod. “If you’re not here, then who put me to bed last night?”
“Someone I trust.”
That holds no reassurance value for me whatsoever, but I nod again and pick up a warm bagel. Spreading it with thick cream cheese I bite self-consciously into it, stop myself from wolfing it down like a rabid animal. I finish off with orange juice and I clear my throat.
“Will you be staying here, in this house, with me?”
“In another wing, yes. But we’ll only see each other when we fuck.”
My breath stalls. I’m reminded that I’m not wearing a bra when my sensitive nipples form pellets against my T-shirt. I casually cross one arm across my breasts and lean my elbow on the island.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“You’re going to a lot of trouble to remain anonymous. So does that mean this…production isn’t for your exclusive use?”
“Will it matter to you one way or the other?”
My head drops a little. I’ve sold my body for the better part of five years, not just to put a roof over my head or food in my stomach, but because I had no choice. From the moment I was born, Clayton Getty laid claim on me and there was no way I could’ve escaped Getty Falls if fate and felony hadn’t greased my way out. But performing sexual acts was done in private, my humiliation saved for the depraved eyes of the paying client. The thought of performing in front of a camera, the act immortalized in a digital time capsule threatens to send my breakfast back up.
“It…it shouldn’t matter, but it’s hard not to think about it.”