Page 165 of The Encore’s Crown

“Jesus Christ Nat, when you say it like that, fuck.”

“It’s true.”

He sighs. “Yeah. I know. I’ve spent half my life backstage with rock stars and groupies,” he says. “There’s this unspoken expectation that they’re supposed to want sex all the time because they showed up. If they refuse, word gets passed around that they’re not the kind of girl you invite to parties anymore.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Everybody just pretends it’s normal.”

“People like ignorance when it benefits them.”

“Yeah.”

The silence that follows feels heavier than the one before.

Then he says, “I’m glad you made the choice that was right for you. That’s what matters.”

I smile and look around my room. Same vanity. Same bed. Same closet door Mama keeps threatening to replace. Everything exactly where I left it, while I feel like an entirely different person stepped back inside.

“Tomorrow I have to start figuring out the job situation,” I say.

“What job situation?”

“The one where I need a job.”

“Why?”

I laugh. “Because money can be exchanged for goods and services.”

“You can be my PA.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“A PA to what? Your body?”

“Among other things.”

The heat starts seeping back into his voice.

“That’s exactly why it wouldn’t work. If I was your PA, I wouldn’t get anything done.”

He scoffs. “No, I mean it. When I’m back in Seattle, the last thing I want to worry about is you being busy from nine to five. Well, except with me.”

I stare at the mirror.

“This is starting to sound like one of Mama’s favorite movies from when I was little. You might've heard of it, it's called Pretty Woman.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“The one where I fuck you for money and dresses.”

His laugh erupts and suddenly I have to pull the phone away from my ear. It might be the hardest I’ve ever heard him laugh. Nothing like the rough bark when one of the guys says something stupid. This is full-body laughter, breathless and helpless and so infectious I start laughing too. By the time he gets himself under control, I’m wiping at my eyes.

“Shit,” he says. “Then at least ninety percent of marriages in L.A. are basically Pretty Woman.”

I snort. “Honestly, that’s probably true.”