Chapter 37
She'd avoided her phone, but figured it was time to see if Tyson was contacting her still. Yesterday he seemed to have had no idea some drunk bimbo had called her with video chat.
Her phone was in her purse in the other room. She padded down the hall, wrapping a ponytail holder around her wild hair. When she picked up her phone, she saw a missed call from Tyson, plus a handful of text messages.
Syria, I've missed you.
Did you go out tonight? I'll call you after work.
Easy gig, just a Christmas present for this lady from her quilting group. She was hilarious and fun, at least seventy.
That made me smile, picturing a group of old ladies whooping it up for Tyson as he stripped.
I'm guessing you're having a great time somewhere. Miss you.
Heading to bed. I'll call again tomorrow.
Syria held the phone to her chest. Whatever had happened at that party, he didn't feel it was anything to worry about. There was no note of concern in any of his messages. Had he not checked his outgoing calls?
He couldn't know. Even Mia must not have told him. Or any of the other women they called. I remembered the girl exclaiming, "He has SO MANY girls in his contact list!"
Syria returned to her bedroom and flung herself down. Why did he have to be so far away?
And if she talked to him, what should she say about the phone call?
Or for that matter, what to tell him about Erik?
Maybe a boyfriend wasn't a good idea, especially a long-distance one.
It was too early to call, and she couldn't sleep, some weird hangover-ish headache like a dull thud in her temples.
So she stood in her studio, looking over the second-hand lights, the inexpensive drops, other than the fancy one she'd just bought. Her camera was good, but not the best, and while she did well with what she had, Syria could only imagine what magnificent equipment Erik could provide. His offer didn't have a lot of holes, other than maybe the t.i.tle. He was courteous, generous, and considerate. She didn't doubt he would treat her very well. And it wasn't exactly the rest of her life.
She remembered the contract that Erik had pa.s.sed her in the car. No harm in looking it over. It sat on the corner of her desk. She slid in to her chair and pushed aside the keyboard and drawing tablet. The small desk lamp illuminated the rich leather, hand tooled along the spine with an intricate design.
The cover fell open to reveal a stark white summary page.
Part 1: Nondisclosure Agreement Part 2: Term and Compensation Part 3: a.s.sets Part 4: Behavior Part 5: Expectations Part 6: Medical and Legal Part 7: Termination of this Agreement Addendum: Power of Attorney, Fingerprinting, Physician Forms, Financial Doc.u.ments, Risk a.s.sessment Whoa.
Syria rested her chin in her hand, elbow braced on the desk over the doc.u.ment. She flipped through. It ran for dozens of pages.
She flipped back to the beginning, turned past the nondisclosure agreement, and paused on Part 2, blinking at the numbers in front of her.
Term, five years from sign date.
See Part 7 for early termination circ.u.mstances and procedures.
Compensation, $125,000 per year, with a resigning bonus of $300,000 at contract end.
She jumped out of the chair, walked in a circle, then looked at the page again.
Over half a million dollars in five years.
"How did this happen?" she asked the ceiling. What did someone like Erik see in her that was worth this much money?
She sat back down and looked more seriously at the other pages. All her a.s.sets would remain hers, but would be jointly managed by The Executive. All expenses incurred by The Exhibitionist- She halted. The what?
The Exhibitionist.
A bit of dialogue filtered in from her memory. They were walking out, Syria laughing and relaxed. A woman in a flamboyant red dress had pa.s.sed her and b.u.mped into her shoulder.
When Syria had stopped, the woman paused and looked her over with disdain. "Is she your new exhibitionist?" she asked Erik.
"Good to see you, Sylvia. You are looking lovely," he said. "Please excuse us."
Syria hadn't realized at the time what the woman had meant, but thinking back over the evening, she began to understand. Erik wanted her to be the girl he met at the bondage exhibition, and he'd led her back to it last night with the rope knot on the dance floor.
She wasn't sure if she could do that, although the memory of the rope, the knot, the onlookers, the attention...
Maybe.
Syria looked back at the page.
All expenses incurred by The Exhibitionist would be paid for by The Executive. Compensation would be placed in the accounts of The Exhibitionist. Any expenditures by The Exhibitionist from the account requires approval by The Executive, other
So he would control her money.
She flipped to Part 5: Expectations.
The Exhibitionist will accompany The Executive at functions.
She knew all that. She flipped the page.
s.e.xual and criminal acts. The Exhibitionist will not accuse, threaten, blackmail, or report The Executive for alleged acts that are covered in this contract, including forced intercourse, corporal punishment, s.e.xual play, or role playing that could be construed by outsiders as a criminal act.
Now she was getting somewhere.
The Exhibitionist will fill out the addendum ent.i.tled, "Risk a.s.sessment" to establish the parameters for disallowed, occasionally allowed, and frequently allowed activities that may put The Exhibitionist at risk for injury, pain, or mental anguish.
This was the craziest doc.u.ment Syria had ever seen. She wasn't sure if it was even legal, although she a.s.sumed someone like Erik would make sure it was binding.
She got up and paced the room again. She couldn't do something like this, could she? She should run it by Mia.
And Tyson.
The ache for him became fierce. She glanced at the clock. Still only 8 a.m. and even earlier in Seattle. She went to her bedroom for a coat and tennis shoes. Time for a walk, so she could think.
12: Grief When Syria returned from her walk, her exposed hands red and chapped from the cold, a courier waited outside her door.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
The man handed her an envelope and headed back to the street.
"Wait!" she called out. "Did you just get here?"
"I was told to deliver it personally," he said.
"I hope you didn't have to wait long," she said.
"It's my job." He saluted her and headed back to a white van.
Syria unlocked her door, puzzling over the package. From Erik, no doubt. Maybe he'd forgotten part of the contract. This one probably said she couldn't pee without his permission.
She kicked the door closed, wis.h.i.+ng her walk had helped her come to some conclusions. She sat on the bench in the hall and tore open the envelope. The page inside was a handwritten letter in a crisp clear style.
Syria, Based on our search of your birth certificate, and the details you gave of your father's other children, we have definitively narrowed the search to Arnav Sharma of Kolkata, born July 3, 1951. Married Anisha Shah in 1974. They had two boys, Deepak in 1976 and Manish in 1979.
Anisha filed for divorce in 1995, but rescinded the papers one month later.
All these things align with what you told me last night.
Arnav worked as a banker and did very well for himself. Unfortunately, he had a heart attack on Dec. 6, 2012 and died in surgery the next day. I have enclosed his obituary. I believe his resemblance to you makes this definitive.
I am very sorry, Syria. Perhaps we can still make a journey to his country together and see the places he called home.
Fondly, Erik Syria peered at the obituary, a print out from a web site memorial. The man stared up at her, his black hair shot through with gray, but a riot of curls. His eyes were shaped like hers, set wide, and something about his mouth seemed familiar, as though their smiles would be the mirror images, if she could make the face on the paper come to life.
She let the paper go. It fluttered from side to side as it caught on the current from the heater, then rested beneath the hall table. She felt so heavy, like she might fall forward. She succ.u.mbed to it, sliding off the bench to the floor. She'd never meet him. Never know him. He would never explain anything to her. She would not know if her laugh mimicked his, since it was not like her mother's.
She wouldn't know anything at all. Not ever.
Her head fell against the satin cover of the bench, cool and firm. Maybe it was for the best. She could nurture this fantasy of him all her life now, and the real thing could never disappoint her.
She should call her mother. Or Mia. Someone. She had to tell someone. Maybe Erik. He said he would contact her today.
Her heart thumped against her chest. No. She wanted Tyson.
She tugged her phone from her coat pocket. Maybe all this would be all right. He'd have some explanation about the call from the party. They would laugh about it. Then she could tell him about her father.
Or she could talk about her father and forget the video ever happened.
She laid the phone on the bench. This was all so impossible.
Syria pushed herself up and walked back to her desk and woke up her computer. She started the looping slideshow of images she'd taken of Tyson from the first shoot, and a few others she had acc.u.mulated on his visits. Three times she'd seen him. Just three. How could she know him any more than her mother had known her father?
A close up shot of his face came on screen, and she paused the show. She stared into those gray eyes tinged with blue, earnest, merry, open. She couldn't see anything about him that made him look like a liar. He was open about his work, the stripping, the parties. He had told her on that first day, or maybe later, that he didn't have s.e.x with his clients very often, but that certainly left room for the possibility that sometimes he did.
She picked up her phone, her finger hovering over his name in the contact list. Rather than go directly for video chat, she called him normally on the voice line.
Each ring seemed to last an hour.
Finally, he picked up. "Syria?" he asked, sleep thick in his voice.
"The grannies kept you up late?"
He chuckled. "Those women were live wires. But they had trouble deciding which to do first - make me a sandwich and sit in my lap."
"Sounds like you had fun."
"Gigs like that are a nice break from the aggressive ones."
He'd handed her an opening. "Like the night before? The bachelorette party?"
He was quiet a moment, then said, "Yeah, like that one."
"You want to talk about it?" Maybe he would just tell her, and that would be that.
He sighed. "I'd rather forget the whole thing happened."
Syria hesitated, the news about her father heavy on her heart. She could bring it up now, and forget the party. Or she could tell him about the video chat.
But he cut in. "Apparently they called Mia using my phone. Did she tell you?"
"I knew about that, yes."
"They seemed to think they were busting me."
"Who all did they call?"
"I don't know. My phone never turned up. I got a new one yesterday and had the other shut off remotely. I was able to keep my number, thankfully, and my contacts were backed up." He paused. "Did they call you?"
"Yes."
"Can we switch to video?" he asked. "I need to see you."
Syria gripped the phone. "Okay." She pulled the screen away and saw the Facetime request come up. She accepted it and Tyson's face, hair every direction, made her heart flip. "Hey," she said.
"You're all bundled up," he said. "You just come in?"
Syria looked down at her coat. "I went for a walk."
"So did you answer the call from the party?" His eyes were earnest again, like in the photo.
"Yes."
"I take it she asked if you were my girlfriend. She asked Mia."
"She did." Syria didn't really want to volunteer what she had seen, to see if he offered it up.
"That party got out of control." He ran his hand through his hair, and the phone dipped so she could see his muscled chest.