Chapter 4: The motel sheets stick to their sweat-slicked bodies as the director barks orders, forcing them to reenact their viral scene for paying viewers while the air conditioner drips brown water onto the stained carpet.
The motel room smelled of cigarettes and defeat. It was a different kind of stale than the library—less dust, more sweat, with an undercurrent of mildew from the shag carpet Brittany’s knees were pressed into. The carpet was a swirl of burnt orange and brown, and she could feel individual grits of dirt against her skin.
“Tilt her head up, Laura. I want to see her face. Yeah, just like that.”
The director’s voice was calm, almost bored. He was a man named Vince, late forties, with a paunch straining his black t-shirt and eyes that never seemed to blink behind his glasses. He held a small, professional camera, a red light glowing like a single, unblinking eye. Another man, silent and hulking, handled the lighting, a softbox diffusing a harsh, unforgiving glow that erased all shadows, all places to hide.
Laura’s fingers, trembling slightly, cupped Brittany’s chin and lifted it. Their eyes met. Laura’s makeup was perfect—smoky, dramatic—but her eyes were glassy, distant. Brittany’s own face felt foreign, a mask of heavy foundation and glittery shadow applied by a brisk, silent woman an hour before. Her long blonde hair was curled, pristine. It felt like a costume.
“Action,” Vince said, not raising his voice.
From the corner of the room, crammed onto a sagging floral-print loveseat, came a low chorus of male voices. “Yeah, come on Brittany.” “Show us that spirit, Laura!”
They were there. Mike and Jason from Phi Kap. And Chad. Of course, Chad. He leaned against the stained wallpaper, arms crossed, a faint, proprietary smile on his face. He’d been the one to give Vince their numbers. He’d called it “an opportunity to monetize the hype.”
Laura’s mouth came down on hers. The kiss was performative, all open mouths and sliding tongue, exaggerated for the lens. Brittany could taste Laura’s lip gloss, a fake strawberry flavor. She could feel the heat of the lights, the weight of the stares. She tried to lose herself in it, in the familiar feel of her best friend, but her mind was a cold, whirring machine. Arch your back. Moan. Remember the camera.
“Good, good,” Vince murmured, circling them. The camera lens tracked Laura’s hand as it slid from Brittany’s cheek, down her throat, over the ridiculous lace bustier they’d been told to wear. “Now, Laura, turn her around. Get her on all fours facing me. I want that look of innocence right into the lens.”
The rustle of fabric, the creak of the bedsprings as they moved. The lumpy mattress was covered in a garish red satin sheet, vinyl to the touch. Brittany positioned herself, the position jarringly vulnerable. She stared directly into the black circle of the lens. Behind it, Vince’s expression was one of clinical assessment.
“Alright, Laura. From behind. Take your time, let us see everything.”
Brittany heard the tear of a foil packet, a sound that sent a jolt through her. This wasn’t the messy, heated chaos of the frat room. This was a dissection. Laura’s hands settled on Brittany’s hips, her touch hesitant for a second before firming.
“Louder, Brittany,” Vince instructed softly. “The mic picks up everything, but sell it. You’re enjoying this. You love it.”
A sound escaped Brittany’s throat, a high, strained gasp as Laura entered her. It was dry, despite the gel, a sharp, unwelcome friction. The physical sensation was secondary to the exposure. The camera was inches from her face, capturing every flinch, every rapid blink. She could see her own reflection, distorted, in the glass of the lens.
“Tears,” Vince said, a note of satisfaction entering his voice. “Perfect. Don’t wipe them. Let them run through the mascara. That’s the money shot.”
The tears were real. They welled up from a deep, cold well of shame she hadn’t known was there and streaked hot paths through her foundation. She heard a low chuckle from the loveseat.
“She’s crying,” Mike said, his voice thick with beer.
“They’re happy tears,” Chad corrected, his tone light, conversational. “Aren’t they, Britt? You wanted to be a star.”
Laura’s rhythm faltered. Brittany felt her friend’s hands dig harder into her skin, nails biting. A silent communication passed through the grip: a shared, desperate hatred. Then Laura resumed, her movements becoming harder, almost punitive, as if she could punish the room, punish Chad, punish the camera through the act itself.
“Switch,” Vince commanded after an eternity.
They rearranged themselves, limbs slick with a fine sheen of sweat under the lights. Now Brittany was over Laura, her blonde hair curtaining their faces. For a second, they were in a fragile pocket of privacy.
“I can’t,” Laura breathed, the words a ghost against Brittany’s lips.
“You have to,” Brittany whispered back, her voice cracking. “The contract.”
Vince moved in closer, the lens hovering just beside Brittany’s head. “I need more,” he said. “It’s getting repetitive. Laura, on your back. Brittany, I want you to use your mouth on her. Slow. Show the camera every detail. And Laura… I want you to look at the boys. Talk to them.”
A new, deeper cold seeped into Brittany’s bones. She moved down Laura’s body, the red satin sticking to her knees. The taste was artificial, salty-sweet from preparation, utterly devoid of intimacy. She focused on a freckle on Laura’s inner thigh, a tiny, familiar landmark in the grotesque landscape.
“Look over here, Laura,” Vince directed.
Brittany could see, in her peripheral vision, Laura’s head turn toward the loveseat. Laura’s chest hitched.
“Say something to them,” Vince urged, his voice a coaxing whisper. “They’re your fans.”
There was a long pause, filled only with the muffled game show laughter from the TV and the low hum of the lights. Then Laura’s voice, strained and thin, cut the air.
“You like watching this, Jason?” she said, her eyes fixed on the frat boy. “This what you wanted when you slid into my DMs?”
A nervous laugh from the couch. “Hell yeah, it is.”
“Then watch,” Laura spat, the words gaining a shred of venom. She tangled a hand in Brittany’s hair, not guiding, just holding, a signal. Brittany closed her eyes, shutting out the sight of her best friend’s tear-streaked, defiant snarl aimed at the laughing shadows in the room.
Vince was right. It was a better shot. The degradation was no longer just physical; it was etched in the defiant agony on Laura’s face and in the mechanical, hollow motion of Brittany’s head. The camera drank it in, the red light a steady, pulsing heart in the center of the room.
“Cut,” Vince finally said, the word landing like a guillotine. “That’s a wrap. Payment’s on the dresser. You girls clean up. The bathroom’s through there.”
The lights snapped off, leaving a swimming, greenish afterimage. The sound of the frat boys getting up, zippers, low, congratulatory murmurs to Vince. The door opened and closed, leaving a sudden, ringing silence.
Brittany slowly lifted her head. She crawled off the bed, her body feeling used and rickety. On the scarred wooden dresser lay two stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills, held by a thin, black band. More money than she’d ever held.
Laura didn’t move from the bed. She stared at the water-stained ceiling, her chest rising and falling rapidly, the glitter on her skin catching the faint light from the bathroom. The defiance was gone, collapsed in on itself.
“We can’t go back,” Laura said to the ceiling, her voice utterly flat. “There is no back.”
Brittany picked up the money. It felt heavy. Dirty. It was the only thing they had. She looked at the closed door, then at the bathroom, then back at Laura’s still form on the ruined red satin.
The momentum was gone, replaced by a terrible, still weight. They had traded one kind of exposure for another, and the account was still being settled. The only direction left was deeper in.