Chapter 9: The Interview
The silence in Roxy’s apartment after the upload finished was thick, charged. Not with triumph, not yet. More like the stunned quiet after a nearby lightning strike. The alley’s chill still felt embedded in Billy’s bones beneath the sweat, the phantom pressure of the Batsuit, the raw, exposed feeling of watching themselves come undone on screen. Roxy sat frozen beside him on the couch, staring at the closed laptop lid as if it might explode.
"Thirty bucks," Billy repeated, the number feeling absurd. Monumental. Ridiculous.
Roxy turned her head slowly. Her eyes, stripped of Catwoman’s smudged kohl, were huge and dark, reflecting the dim lamp light. Exhaustion warred with something wilder, residual adrenaline vibrating just below the surface. She didn’t speak. Just looked at him, a long, searching look that stripped away the remnants of Batman and Catwoman, leaving only Billy and Roxy in the cluttered, book-scented room. The air crackled with the unsaid, the unprocessed intensity of what they’d just filmed, and the heavier weight of what had happened between the takes, in the cold grime.
Her hand moved first. Not smooth, not seductive. Clumsy, almost. Fingers tangling in the fabric of his sweaty t-shirt. She pulled. Not hard. A question. An undeniable pull.
Billy didn’t hesitate. He met her halfway. The kiss wasn’t like the alley – muffled, desperate, constrained by masks and personas. This was open-mouthed, hungry, a collision of lips and tongue and ragged breath fueled by pure, unfiltered need. It tasted of stale coffee, adrenaline sourness, and something profoundly, terrifyingly human. Her fingers scrabbled at his shirt, pulling it over his head. He fumbled with the oversized tee she wore, his knuckles brushing the smooth, cool skin of her back.
They stumbled towards the bedroom, a tangle of limbs, knocking a precarious stack of art books to the floor with a thud they ignored. The bedroom was smaller, darker, dominated by a large, unmade bed piled with mismatched pillows. The faint scent of Roxy’s perfume clung to the sheets, woven with dust and sleep.
There was no roleplay here. No characters. Just the urgent press of skin on skin, the frantic shedding of clothes that felt like shedding armor. No latex, no armor plating, just the heat of her body under his hands, the solid curve of her hip, the softness of her belly, the frantic pulse beating in her throat. He kissed her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, the swell of her breast, his mouth seeking, claiming. She arched into him, gasping, her fingers knotting in his hair, pulling him closer, demanding.
It wasn't slow. Wasn't gentle. It was a release valve blowing, a dam breaking. The pent-up tension from the alley's performance, the shock of the footage, the sheer, terrifying intimacy of what they were creating together – it all channeled into this raw, wordless coupling. He pushed into her with a groan that came from his core, and she cried out, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting each thrust with a fierce, answering rhythm. The frame of the bed creaked in protest. The sounds were different here – gasps, ragged breaths, the slick, wet slide of their bodies, the thump of the headboard against the wall – intimate noises muffled by the clutter and the dark. It was messy, inelegant, and utterly consuming.
Afterwards, they lay tangled in the wreckage of sheets, skin slick, breathing hard. No words. Just the pounding of two hearts slowing down, the oppressive silence of the apartment closing back in. Billy traced the line of her shoulder, the reality of her body a startling anchor. She shifted, burrowing her face against his chest, her breath warm on his skin. He felt the tremble still running through her. Or was it him? He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer. The alley felt miles away, yet its shadow clung to them.
Morning light, grey and unforgiving, sliced through a gap in Roxy’s heavy curtains. Dust motes danced in the beam, landing on discarded clothes – Billy’s t-shirt, Roxy’s oversized tee, the dark heap of the Batsuit’s underlayer dumped by the door. Billy blinked, disoriented. The unfamiliar weight against his chest resolved into Roxy, still asleep, her fiery hair fanned across his arm, one leg hooked possessively over his. The scent of old paper was now mingled with sex and sweat.
Reality slammed back in. The interview. 2 PM EST. He gently extricated himself. Roxy murmured, frowning, but didn't wake. Billy padded naked into the bathroom, the cracked linoleum cold under his feet. The shower was a lukewarm, stuttering affair, doing little to scrub the lingering feel of the alley grime or the night’s intensity from his skin. He found a cleanish towel and surveyed the battlefield of the bedroom. Gathering his clothes felt like recovering artifacts.
Roxy stirred as he pulled on his jeans. She sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist, blinking against the light. Her hair was a wild mane, her face bare, vulnerable. For a split second, Billy saw the woman beneath the performer, stripped of armor both literal and metaphorical. Then she rubbed her eyes, and the mask of Roxy Valentine clicked back into place, the sharpness returning to her gaze.
"Shit. Time?" Her voice was raspy.
"Eleven. We gotta prep." Billy tossed her discarded tee towards the bed.
She caught it, sniffed it, made a face. "Ugh. Right. Operation: Present as Non-Homicidal Sex Entrepreneurs." She swung her legs out of bed, all business. "You showered? Water pressure any better?"
"Marginally." He watched her stride naked to the closet, the confidence back in her movements. The vulnerability was gone, tucked away.
They dressed in silence, the air thick with unspoken thoughts. Roxy emerged from her closet in sleek, dark trousers and a silky emerald blouse that made her eyes look impossibly green. She applied makeup with swift, precise strokes – war paint. Billy felt absurdly underdressed in his slightly-too-small button-down (borrowed, forgotten by some previous occupant of Roxy’s life) and his least-wrinkled chinos. He tried to tame his hair. Failed.
The laptop sat on the cluttered coffee table like a ticking bomb. They cleared space – shoving books, empty coffee mugs, the garish Catwoman goggles into a cardboard box. Roxy plugged in ring lights on stands, bathing the worn velvet couch in a harsh, unforgiving glow. Billy felt exposed. She adjusted the angle, frowning. "Try not to look like you're being interrogated for murder, Farmboy. Think… passionate artist. Visionary."
"Visionary who what? Accidentally started a porn empire?" he mumbled, shifting on the couch.
"Exactly. Lean into it. Mystery. Charisma. Smolder." She demonstrated a smolder. It was impressive. And intimidating.
"I smolder like a damp campfire."
"Just… look at me like you looked at Catwoman. Without the latex." She paused. "Mostly without the latex."
2 PM. The laptop chimed. Roxy took a deep breath, smoothed her blouse, and clicked ‘Join’. Billy’s palms were slick.
The screen split. Their side: Ring-lit, looking suspiciously polished against the backdrop of Roxy’s chaotic bookshelf. The other side: A stylish, minimalist home office. A woman in her forties with sharp glasses and a sleek blonde bob smiled warmly. "Roxy? Billy? Hi! I’m Marcy, from Creator Partnerships. So great to finally meet you!"
The interview started politely. Marcy was effusive, professional. She praised the "unique quality" and "raw authenticity" of their content. "The Wonder Woman/Superman piece was explosive, but this Batman/Catwoman… wow. The setting, the lighting, the sheer physicality of it. Tell me about the process. How do you conceptualize these?"
Roxy took the lead, smooth as ever. "It’s about the dynamic, Marcy. Iconic pairs. The push-pull. The inherent tension. We wanted Gotham gritty, not Metropolis shiny. Found that alley, set up portable LEDs… Billy’s a stickler for lighting." She nudged him.
Billy jolted. "Uh, yeah. High contrast. Deep shadows. Needed to sell the… danger. The intimacy." The word felt too loaded.
"The costumes?" Marcy prompted.
"A guy downtown," Roxy answered smoothly. "Mikey. Does amazing replica work. Heavy investment, but crucial for the feel." She didn’t mention the triple rate. Or the alley floor.
"And the… storylines? The shift from conflict to, well…" Marcy smiled diplomatically. "Connection?"
Roxy leaned forward slightly. "It’s instinctive, mostly. We find the characters, feel the scene. It evolves. The tension builds, and then… it breaks." She met Billy’s eyes briefly. A spark. "It feels real because, in the moment, it is real."
Marcy nodded, tapping her tablet. "And that authenticity resonates. The engagement is phenomenal. Subscribers are… invested." She scrolled. "Let's see… ‘Jezebel89’ asks: ‘The chemistry is insane. Do you rehearse?’"
Roxy laughed, light and easy. "Rehearse the fighting? Yeah, we block it out. The rest?" She shrugged, a perfect performance of casualness. "That’s just us reacting. Finding the moment."
Another scroll. "‘DarkKnightFan77’ wants to know: ‘Is Batman always that intense? Asking for a friend.’" Marcy chuckled.
Billy shifted. "The suit… helps. Gets you in the headspace. Protective. Focused." Possessive, he thought but didn’t say.
"‘QueenHippolyta’ says: ‘You two look at each other like the world disappears. Is it just acting?’"
Roxy fielded it. "When we're in it? Yeah, the world kinda does disappear. That's the point. Total immersion for us, total immersion for the viewer."
Marcy scrolled again, her expression softening slightly. "This one… quite a few variations, actually." She paused, meeting their eyes through the screen. "‘ObsidianDream’ puts it bluntly: ‘You guys have something real. That connection… it’s love, right?’"
Silence. The hum of the ring lights sounded suddenly loud. Billy froze. The question hung in the digital space, huge and terrifying. He felt the phantom grip of the Batsuit, the cold concrete, the heat of Roxy’s body. Was it? Could it be? It felt too big, too dangerous, a canyon opening beneath him.
Roxy didn’t hesitate. She reached across the narrow space on the couch and took Billy’s hand. Her grip was firm, grounding. She laced her fingers through his, holding their joined hands up slightly, turning fully towards the camera. Her smile was different now. Not the performer’s polished charm, but something warmer. Softer. Startlingly genuine. Her eyes found Billy’s, holding his gaze.
"It’s… more than acting," she said, her voice lower, huskier than before. Softer. "What Billy and I have… it’s something special. It’s intense. It’s messy sometimes." She squeezed his hand. A tiny, almost imperceptible reassurance. Or a lifeline. "But when the cameras roll? That feeling… that connection… it translates. It comes through the screen. That’s what people are feeling." She took a breath, her gaze never leaving Billy’s. "Yeah, Marcy. It’s love. That’s the feeling."
Billy felt the world tilt. The cluttered apartment, the harsh ring lights, Marcy’s expectant face on the screen – they all blurred. All he saw was Roxy. The fierce certainty in her green eyes. The warmth of her hand in his. The lie that didn’t feel like a lie. The terrifying, exhilarating truth she’d just launched into the universe.
Marcy beamed. "That… is incredible. Truly. That raw emotion is exactly what sets PlastiqueFantastique apart. It’s… magic."
Roxy finally looked back at the screen, her smile turning professional again, though her hand stayed firmly wrapped around Billy’s. "It’s lightning in a bottle, Marcy. We’re just figuring out how to hold onto it."
The interview wrapped with logistics, scheduling, enthusiasm. Billy barely heard it. He sat frozen, Roxy’s hand a brand on his, the word echoing in the suddenly too-quiet space after Marcy signed off.
Love.
It hung in the dusty, book-scented air, heavier than any Batsuit. A promise. Or a trap. Roxy finally let go of his hand, slowly, and closed the laptop lid with a soft, decisive click. She didn't look at him. She stared at the blank screen, her expression unreadable. The silence stretched, thick and electric, charged with the weight of what she’d said and the terrifying, uncharted territory they’d just stepped into.
The silence stretched, thick and electric, charged with the weight of what she’d said and the terrifying, uncharted territory they’d just stepped into. Dust motes drifted lazily in the harsh ring light beams, catching on the discarded Catwoman goggles lying atop a stack of art books. Roxy finally exhaled, a long, slow release, her gaze still fixed on the closed laptop lid as if it held answers. Billy watched the pulse flutter in her throat, the only movement betraying the stillness she projected.
"Thirty bucks," she murmured again, her voice flat, devoid of its earlier triumph. She pushed herself off the couch, the movement stiff. "Need coffee. Strong. Black." She padded towards the tiny kitchen alcove, the silk blouse incongruous against the backdrop of peeling linoleum and overflowing recycling.
Billy stayed rooted, the phantom imprint of her hand still burning on his skin. Love. The word echoed in the cluttered space, bouncing off the spines of forgotten novels and the dark vinyl heap of the Batsuit’s underlayer dumped by the door. It felt too big, too fragile, a soap bubble floating in the aftermath of their alleyway detonation. He picked up a stray prop diamond from the coffee table, rolling its cold, fake weight between his fingers. The harsh ring lights buzzed, an irritating counterpoint to the silence.
Roxy returned, thrusting a chipped mug of steaming black coffee into his hands. She didn’t sit, leaning against the doorframe instead, cradling her own mug. Steam curled around her face, momentarily softening the sharp lines of her makeup. "Don’t look at me like that, Farmboy," she said, her voice raspy. "It played. It worked. Marcy ate it up."
"It wasn’t… just playing," Billy managed, the coffee scalding his tongue. He stared into its dark depths. "Was it?"
Roxy took a long, deliberate sip. Her eyes, when she met his, were unreadable pools of green. "Does it matter?" She gestured vaguely towards the laptop. "The alley footage? That wasn’t playing either. Not entirely. It’s… fuel. We burn it. We sell it." She pushed off the doorframe, pacing the small space between couch and bookshelf. "The ‘love’ angle? It’s premium fuel. Authenticity crackling through the screen. That’s what they’re buying."
Billy flinched. Reducing it to ‘fuel’ felt like a violation. "And us? What are we buying?"
Roxy stopped pacing. She looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time since the interview ended. The performer’s mask slipped, revealing something raw and uncertain beneath. "Survival," she said quietly. "A way out. Maybe… something else." She shrugged, a defensive gesture. "Doesn’t have to have a label yet, Billy. Just… keep riding the lightning." She turned away, busying herself unplugging the ring lights, plunging the room back into its familiar dim clutter.
The afternoon bled into evening, the tension easing into a brittle kind of normalcy. They ordered greasy Chinese, ate straight from the cartons perched on the cleared coffee table, avoiding the elephant in the room. They cleaned the Batsuit and Catwoman vinyl meticulously, the scent of leather cleaner mixing with soy sauce and stale beer. The alley grime came off the suits; the residue of Roxy’s declaration lingered. Billy found himself cataloging her movements – the precise way she folded the vinyl, the absent-minded tap of her fingernail against her temple as she stared at the drying suit. Was she cataloging him too?
Darkness settled fully outside the grimy apartment windows. Billy was elbow-deep in lukewarm soapy water, scrubbing dried alley muck from Batman’s armored gauntlets, when Roxy’s phone erupted. Not the default ringtone. A jarring, hyperactive carnival melody. Harley Quinn’s theme.
Roxy snatched it off the cluttered counter, frowning at the screen. "Chloe?" she answered, putting it on speaker. "What’s up, trouble? Haven’t heard your particular brand of chaos in weeks."
"Roxy! OhmygodROXY!" Chloe’s voice burst through, tinny and breathless, thick with her signature Brooklyn accent. "Just saw it! The Bat and the Cat! Holy shitballs, Valentine! That alley thing? Raw! Filthy! Genius! The sound when she… y’know…" Chloe whistled low and appreciative. "You guys are blowing UP!"
Roxy leaned against the counter, a ghost of her stage smirk touching her lips. "Keeping busy, Chlo. What’s new in your world of glitter bombs and questionable life choices?"
"Questionable?" Chloe laughed, a bright, slightly unhinged sound. "Pfft. Inspired! Listen, listen. Saw your collab callout buried in the PlastiqueFantastique bio. Got me thinking." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, crackling with excitement. "Batman. Catwoman. Gotham’s all dark corners and messed-up power plays, right? Know who thrives in that kinda messed-up? Who loves playing with fire?"
Billy paused his scrubbing, water dripping from the gauntlet onto the floor. He knew exactly where this was going. His stomach did a slow, uneasy flip.
Roxy raised an eyebrow, her gaze flicking to Billy. "Go on, Chlo."
"Harley freakin’ Quinn!" Chloe crowed. "Picture it! Batsy’s got Catwoman cornered in some grimy warehouse, all that broody tension, claws out… then BAM!" She made an explosive sound effect. "In swings Harley! Mallet optional, but highly recommended! Messing up their whole angsty dance! Maybe she wants a piece of the Bat? Maybe she wants to play with the Cat? Maybe," Chloe’s voice dipped, thick with implication, "she wants ’em both."
Silence hung on the line, thick with the unspoken proposition. Billy stared at the soapy water, the image forming unbidden: Roxy’s sleek Catwoman, Chloe’s chaotic Harley, himself trapped somewhere in the middle. The alley’s intensity felt suddenly claustrophobic.
Roxy’s expression was unreadable. She tapped a fingernail against her phone case. "A threesome," she stated flatly, her eyes locking onto Billy’s across the kitchen. Not a question. A confirmation.
"Think of the dynamics, Rox!" Chloe pressed, oblivious to the tension crackling through the speaker. "The jealousy! The power shifts! The sheer, glorious mess of it! Harley crashing their party? Gold! We could totally riff on it! Make it wild! Fun! And the fans?" She whistled again. "They’d lose their damn minds. Payday city."
Billy felt the cold water seep through the knees of his jeans where he knelt. He couldn’t look away from Roxy. Her green eyes held his, assessing, calculating. The performer was fully present now, weighing angles, potential, risk. The vulnerability from the morning was gone, buried under layers of practiced control. He saw the moment the calculation solidified.
"Sounds…" Roxy paused, drawing the word out, a slow, deliberate smile spreading across her face. It wasn't warm. It was predatory. Excited. "...intriguing, Chlo. Very intriguing." She glanced at Billy, her smile widening fractionally, a silent question, a challenge. "Let’s talk logistics. When are you free?"
Billy’s hands went numb. The gauntlet slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly into the soapy water. The sound echoed in the sudden, deafening silence of the apartment after Roxy ended the call. She turned fully towards him, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed. The predatory smile remained, sharp and expectant.
"Well, Bats?" she asked, her voice low, husky. "Think Gotham’s ready for a little anarchy?"
Billy stared at the murky water, the submerged gauntlet, the distorted reflection of the single overhead bulb. Chloe’s manic laughter seemed to echo in his ears. The alley’s shadows felt deeper, the scent of vinyl suddenly overwhelming. The lightning Roxy insisted they ride crackled brighter, hotter, threatening to consume everything in its path. He swallowed hard, the taste of soap and impending chaos thick on his tongue.