Page 10 of Rhythm and Rapture (Behind the Lens #5)

Chapter Seven

The Behind the Lens warehouse always smells like expensive coffee and ambition. It's a heady combination that hits me the moment I push through the heavy glass doors—Ethiopian single origin mixing with the particular scent of creative energy and barely contained chaos that defines this place.

The conversation was chaotic, ridiculous, and absolutely perfect until it circled back around to collaboration, and I think about the last message I sent:

"As for collaboration, I might have something in mind. Something that pushes boundaries. Question is: are you three ready to expand your definition of acceptable variables? Because I should warn you... I take my experiments very seriously."

The truth? I had absolutely no idea what kind of collaboration I could propose. I was completely winging it, making it up as I went along, and it felt... liberating.

Most days, I barely know who I am—existing on autopilot, my mind a constant blend of formulas, assignments, dissertation chapters, and treatment protocols.

Bills stack up like homework I can't complete.

The most vivid days are those I spend with Kael, etching each second into my memory, fearful of the pervasive clock ticking in my head that threatens to drown out my attempts at surviving.

The last three hours though, are etched in a different way.

It felt realer somehow, on a different level.

To just flirt and tease and play without the weight of everything pressing against every thought.

For three hours, I got to be just Sabina—not the guardian, not the student, not the survivor.

Just a woman trading increasingly flirty messages with three musicians who made her laugh.

I'm barely three steps into the lobby when Nova, the receptionist with the perfectly winged eyeliner and a voice like honey-coated steel, waves me over.

She's typing one-handed while applying lip gloss with the other, multitasking with the kind of efficiency that makes me wonder if she's secretly running three businesses from behind that desk.

"Sabina! Thank god you're here. Lorna wants to see you in her office. Said to send you right in when you arrived. Something about a special project."

My stomach does that familiar clench. Special projects in adult entertainment can mean anything from "exciting creative opportunity" to "we're about to ask you to do something that will haunt your Google search results forever.

" But Lorna's never steered me wrong before.

She's one of the few people in this industry who actually respects boundaries while pushing creative limits.

Nova leans forward conspiratorially, her voice dropping. "Fair warning—she's had four espressos already and she's doing that thing where she spins her pen like she's planning world domination."

"Did she say what kind of project?" I ask, already knowing Nova won't divulge details even if she has them.

"Nope. Just that it's 'perfect for June' and something about making history." Nova's phone rings and she answers it with practiced ease. "Behind the Lens, where your fantasies meet professional production values. How may I direct your call?"

I leave her to it and make my way through the warehouse—fifty thousand square feet of converted industrial space that Lorna has somehow transformed into something that feels almost like home. If home produced artistic adult content instead of Sunday dinners.

The space buzzes with its usual controlled chaos: laughter spills from a room down the hall where someone's recounting weekend adventures, computers hum as they render hours of footage into polished content, and somewhere a photographer calls out lighting adjustments with the precision of a surgeon.

Now that I'm not being occupied by messages from the guys, my mind whirls through possibilities. What couldn't wait for our regular check-ins? A new streaming concept? A collaboration with another performer?

I pass the craft services table—better stocked than most restaurants because Lorna insists well-fed performers give better performances—and catch glimpses of today's shoots through partially open doors.

Each room is its own universe: Room One with its stark minimalist setup, Room Fifteen's elaborate boudoir complete with silk sheets and strategic mirrors.

This place runs like a tech startup that happens to produce adult content. Clean lines, natural lighting, and people who look like they belong in Silicon Valley conference rooms rather than on porn sets. Which, Lorna always says, is exactly the point.

"We're not making porn," she told me during my first week. "We're creating artistic adult content that happens to make people orgasm. There's a difference."

I navigate past the editing bay where three people huddle around a monitor, debating color grading with the intensity of film school graduates—which they probably are. Behind the Lens doesn't hire amateurs. Everyone here, from the camera operators to the cleaning crew, is the best at what they do.

A panicked thought hits: Am I getting fired?

I immediately dismiss it. Lorna doesn't call special meetings to fire people. She's too direct for that.

Still, the familiar sights that usually ground me aren't working today. The "perfect for June" comment keeps echoing in my head as I approach her office.

Lorna's office door is open, and I can hear her voice before I see her—rich, commanding, with the kind of confidence that comes from building an empire from nothing while performing in front of cameras herself.

She's on the phone, but she waves me in with the hand holding her signature fountain pen—the one she does indeed spin when she's thinking.

"...absolutely not. We agreed on a 60-40 split for international distribution, and I'm not budging on that. Either they accept the terms or we walk." She pauses, listening. "Good. Email me the revised contract by end of day."

She hangs up and turns her full attention to me, and I'm struck again by how she manages to be simultaneously intimidating and welcoming.

Electric blue hair catches the afternoon light streaming through her office windows, the color so saturated it seems to pulse with its own energy.

Her tattoos tell stories up and down both arms—intricate botanical designs mixed with geometric patterns, and most prominently, that alien head on her forearm that everyone swears changes expression depending on her mood.

Today she's wearing a fitted blazer over strategically ripped jeans and combat boots, somehow making the combination look like executive power dressing.

The blazer is probably designer—Lorna has expensive taste and the bank account to support it—but the jeans look like she attacked them with scissors herself, which knowing her, she probably did.

"Sit," she says, gesturing to the leather chair across from her desk. "I have a proposition for you."

I settle into the chair, trying to read her expression. Lorna doesn't do small talk—everything is direct, efficient, purposeful. It's one of the things I appreciate about her. In an industry full of people who speak in innuendo and double meanings, she's refreshingly straightforward.

"Not sure if you've heard, but we're doing a calendar and I want you in it," she says without preamble.

My heart rate kicks up a notch. "A Behind the Lens calendar?"

"Our first annual." She leans forward, elbows on her desk, fixing me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing.

"It's a huge honor—I hand-select each person based on their top performance throughout the year.

This isn't some tacky wall decoration for mechanics' shops.

This is high-end photography, artistic direction, celebration of sexuality as art. "

This is new territory for Behind the Lens. A calendar would be a massive statement—professional, artistic, legitimate. The kind of thing that elevates adult entertainment into actual art.

"Each month gets a different theme," Lorna continues, spinning her pen between her fingers—Nova was right about the world domination thing.

"January was National Bittersweet Chocolate Day, February was Library Lovers Month, March had Saint Patrick's Day, April featured National Chocolate Mousse Day, and May celebrated Victoria Day. .. you get the idea."

I'm already imagining the artistic possibilities. Each month a different celebration, a different aesthetic, a different way to blend education with sensuality.

"And you want me for...?"

A smile plays at the corners of her mouth, the kind that suggests she knows something I don't. "June."

June. I run through the potential themes in my head—summer, heat, vacation, Pride month...

"What's the concept for June?"

The smile becomes a full grin. "National Sex Day. June sixth. Perfect opportunity for educational content with a celebration angle. Think 'The Hidden Chemist teaches advanced chemistry lessons while looking absolutely fucking stunning.'"

National Sex Day. Of course. Leave it to Lorna to find a way to make a calendar both commercially viable and socially relevant. She's built her empire on being one step ahead of what the market wants, and somehow she always knows.

"The shoot would showcase what makes you unique," she continues, clearly warming to her topic. "The intelligence, the education angle, the mystery. We're not just selling sex—we're selling the fantasy of being seduced by brilliance."

"Do I have to give up my anonymity?" This is the crucial question. My mask isn't just a gimmick—it's protection, for me and for Kael.

"Absolutely not." She shakes her head firmly. "The mask stays. That's part of your brand, part of what makes you valuable. We're not selling your identity—we're selling your mystique. Some of our highest earners have never shown their faces. The mystery is often more valuable than the reveal."