THREE

 

For twenty minutes I waited outside that room, my hand itching to grab the handle and reenter. And then what? I wouldn't know what to do when I got back in there. Standing in the middle of the room gawking at them while they worked on each other could hardly be classed as participating.

So for twenty minutes I stood on the other side of that door, cursing myself for still being a virgin, and a confused one at that. Maybe that was it, why such a proposition felt so tempting. When you're undersexed, everything looks tempting. Even impolite, promiscuous rock stars.

It was all so surreal. As I paced back and forth I couldn't get the image of her on her knees, half-naked, out of my mind. There was no shame, no hurry to cover herself up.

When the door opened I straightened up quickly, stood back and watched as Autumn kissed the two women goodbye, not holding back on the tongue. When I realized that I was staring, open-mouthed, at this sensual farewell, I quickly turned away. And I was still turned away as they strutted past me, laughing to themselves like schoolkids.

“Are you just going to stand out there like a fool for the rest of the afternoon?” she said.

I hurried inside the control room, which still smelled like sex and perfume – a surprisingly delicious combination.

“So you're my new assistant?”

“Yes, Ma'am...Miss Anders. My name's Elle, Elle–”

“I don't need to know your surname.” She put up a hand to silence me. “Hell, I don't even need to know your first name. I'll call you whatever I want, and you'll answer. That's how it works around here.”

My mouth snapped shut. Wow! I was expecting an asshole, and that was exactly what I got. In that she hadn't disappointed.

“Yes, Ma'am,” I said quietly.

“And quit calling me Ma'am. What do I look like, Hillary Clinton?”

I didn't respond. No, she definitely didn't look like Ms. Clinton; about the only thing they had in common was their hair color. Autumn Anders couldn't have been further from presidential if she'd been a terrorist. With the long, wild hair, the handful of colorful tattoos patterning her skin, her well-documented hunger for the ladies, and her unapologetic love of pot and booze, she was just far too liberal for congress. I also doubted that a member of congress would be standing half-naked in a recording studio with a stranger they'd just met, which was precisely what Autumn was doing now. Although the women were long gone and it was just the two of us, she hadn't bothered to put on her top, out of a sign of respect for herself, or for me. She actually had less on than before, now that her jeans were abandoned on the floor. Just a very flimsy thong to hide her modesty.
She must have noticed that I was making a conscious effort not to look directly at her, because she said, “Does nudity bother you?”

“N–no, nudity in general doesn't bother me.”

“Oh, so it's just my nudity that you have a problem with?”

“Yes. I mean, no.” Well this wasn't turning out at all how I'd imagined. When I'd left my apartment that day, I'd been determined to stay focused and not get flustered, like I usually did in moments of extreme pressure. But that had gone right out the window upon walking in on a threesome. That I could form any sentences at all was a miracle.

“Well which is it?”

“Nudity is fine as long as it's in the home.”

She was silent for a beat, and then suddenly she burst into laughter. “They actually still make people like you? Honey, being an assistant to a rock star is the worst job in the world for a prude.”

I didn't know what I was more offended by, her laughing at me or calling me a prude. Okay, so some of my views were a little outdated, but a prude I was not.

“I'm not a prude.” I felt about five years old making that assertion.

“So by your reasoning sex should also only take place in the home, huh?” She was enjoying this, putting me on the spot. I could hear the glee in her voice.

“I think that there are certain things that two, or three, people shouldn't do in public places, where anyone might see them...”

Remember I told you that I had no filter when I became nervous? Yeah, well that was me with no filter. I told you it was bad. It was as if, once I got going, I simply couldn't stop myself. I could see the wreckage before it happened but was powerless to prevent it.

She folded her arms across her chest, briefly covering her breasts. I knew it was only a matter of time before she let them free again to become the center of attention. They were remarkable breasts. The type that made someone who had never seen a pair up close and personal drool.

“So what do you think of airplane restrooms? Or backstage at a concert? Or on the road in an RV? Because I've screwed in all of those places, and then some.”

I swallowed, then swallowed again, hoping to clear my dry throat. It didn't work.

Sadly it wasn't too dry to prevent me from making even more of a fool of myself.

“The bedroom is more appropriate, I think.”

She chortled again and I felt my face fill with color. I preferred her more when she was sullen. This cackling at my expense was really giving me a complex.

“You know what you sound like, besides a complete republican prude? You sound like a virgin.” I looked away quickly, afraid she would see the truth in my eyes – that one of those things applied to me – but it was too late. She'd already seen it. “Jesus! Green Pines sure has a sense of humor. The last girl they sent had a problem with dykes. Now they send me a virgin prude.”

“I'm not a prude,” was the only thing I could manage. I could feel the blush not only on my face but all over my body. Was my innocence that obvious that she could read it in my eyes? Or had she simply seen so many virgins in her time that she knew what to look out for?

She stared at me, intrigued, like I was a rare find. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.” I almost didn't want to tell her, and felt embarrassed for myself. To someone like Autumn Anders, a twenty-four-year-old virgin who hadn't decided whether she liked guys or girls, or both, was as sad as a forty-year-old-one; but you wouldn't see anyone making any films about me.

Her eyes drifted up and down me, sizing me up. “Hmm, you're not bad to look at. And you seem relatively normal. There's no obvious reason why you still haven't been laid.”

I could blush no more; if I did, I feared I would stay the color of a tomato forever.

“Some people still believe in being in love before they give themselves to a person...”

As soon as the words escaped my mouth, I could hear how positively prudish they sounded, and anticipated her throaty cackle.

“Do you believe in the tooth fairy as well?” Through the corner of my eye I watched her putting on her clothes, finally. “Did someone put you up to this? Sam or Greta? Because there's no way you can be real.” When she looked up and saw that I wasn't laughing, that no, I wasn't someone's joke to her, her eyes grew wide in alarm. “Wow, you really are that naive. You've got a lot of growing up to do, kid. But don't worry, you'll learn. You'll see that sex is all there is, the only thing that matters.”

“You're only saying that because...” I stopped myself in time.

She looked at me, glared more like. “Because what?”

“Nothing. Nothing,” I said quickly. The filter, though malfunctioning, wasn't as busted as I thought. My subconscious knew when I was about to cross a line, and that wasn't a bell I could ever unring. As if by fate, my eyes landed on the tattoo on her lower back. I hadn't noticed it before, but now it was as clear as day. Nancy was written in cursive script, in black ink. It stood out because she had no other black tattoos on her body.

Bringing up her dead girlfriend just so I could win an argument was a surefire way to not only lose the job I had, but ensure I never worked in the city again. I didn't know how much truth was in them, but I'd read stories about reporters and journalists losing their jobs because they'd dared to bring up Nancy Dunn's name when they were interviewing Autumn. Her haters saw it as yet another way of her asserting her authority, showing how much power she had. But I saw it differently. To love someone so much that merely hearing their name was too painful, too much of a reminder that a piece of you was missing, that sort of thing was rare. She called me naive because I was holding out for the type of love she'd experienced. Everyone knew that Nancy was her reason for being; they were the loves of each other's lives. On and off stage it shone through. Over the course of their eight-year relationship they'd been responsible for coaxing a lot of young women out of the closet. No one had deserved a happy ending more than they had.

Done with laughing, probably aware that I had come dangerously close to getting too personal, dangerously close to the forbidden topic, she waved a dismissive hand at me. “I don't need you until Monday. You can leave now.”

She didn't need to tell me twice. I said goodbye and left in a hurry, glad to be out of there, and certain I would never return.