Chapter 1: Recording Control
The air in Lupe’s bedroom tasted like jasmine and poor decisions. Mark stood just inside the doorway, his polished office shoes sinking into the plush pile of a rug he knew cost more than his monthly car payment. The room was a confession in itself: silk scarves thrown over velvet pillows, the king-sized bed a landscape of half-unmade sheets, its headboard a dark wood carved with vines that seemed to twist and curl in the low light from a single floor lamp.
“Close the door, Mark.” Lupe’s voice was a low hum, matching the quiet thrum of the city outside her fourteenth-floor window.
He did, the click of the latch final. He could still leave. He could turn around, open it, walk out. The thought was a bird with broken wings in his mind. It flapped once and died. The video on her phone—a five-second clip of his eyes, hungry and stupid, glued to the sway of her hips as she walked to the photocopier—was the chain around his neck.
“You look nervous.” She was perched on the edge of the bed, one foot tucked under her. Her blouse was cream-colored silk, and it gathered in a way that drew the eye to the curve of her bust. A deliberate detail. Everything about her was a series of deliberate details.
“I am nervous,” Mark said. His own voice sounded foreign.
“Good. It means you understand the situation.” She picked up her phone from the duvet, tapped the screen. The red recording light glowed like a demon’s eye. She placed it carefully on the bedside table, angling it toward the space in front of her. “Come stand here. In the light.”
He moved mechanically. The scent of her perfume was stronger here, layered over the intimate smell of her skin, her bed. It was suffocating.
“Kneel.”
His head snapped up. “Lupe.”
“Kneel, Mark.” She didn’t raise her voice. She just smiled, full and knowing, and nodded toward the blinking red light. “You’re on. And we need the shot. I want your face next to my knees. It’s a good look for you.”
His knees hit the rug with a soft thud. The pile was obscenely soft. He stared at the intricate pattern, the swirls of burgundy and gold. He’d never looked at a rug so closely. The hem of her trousers was inches from his nose. He could see a tiny, loose thread.
“Look at me.”
He raised his head. The lamp backlit her, casting her face in shadow but haloing her dark hair. He could see the triumph in her eyes, the vibrant glee of total control.
“Say it,” she whispered.
His throat was desert-dry. “I can’t.”
“You can. And you will. Or this video gets a cute little caption and a direct message to Jessica’s Instagram. You know, the one with your anniversary photo as her profile picture?” She leaned forward slightly. The neckline of her blouse gaped. He shut his eyes. “Look at me, Mark. Say ‘I love you, Lupe.’”
He opened his eyes. The words were stones he had to vomit up. “I love you, Lupe.”
It sounded hollow, pathetic. A dead thing.
She shook her head, a parody of sweetness. “No, no. With feeling. Like you mean it. Try again.”
He swallowed. He thought of Jessica making coffee that morning, her hair messy, asking if he wanted an extra egg. The memory was a physical pain. “I love you, Lupe.”
“Better.” She shifted on the bed, the mattress groaning softly. “Now kiss me.”
He didn’t move. His body was frozen statuary.
Her hand came out, fingers cool under his chin, tilting his face up. Her nails were painted a deep, bloody crimson. “Right here.” She tapped her knee. “A devoted kiss. For the camera.”
He bent forward. The soft wool of her trousers brushed his lips. He pressed a closed-mouth kiss against her kneecap. It was an act of profound humiliation, so much worse than anything he’d imagined.
“Now here.” Her finger moved, tracing a line up her thigh to a spot midway. “And say it again.”
He obeyed. The fabric was warmer here. He felt the solid muscle of her leg beneath it. “I love you, Lupe.”
“Once more. Here.” Her finger touched the crest of her hip, just where the bone jutted against the silk of her blouse. He leaned in, off-balance on his knees. He kissed the taut fabric. Her scent flooded his senses. A traitorous, shameful heat flickered in his gut, buried under the avalanche of dread.
“I love you, Lupe,” he whispered into her hip.
She laughed then, a soft, rich sound that filled the shadowy room. Her hand left his chin and speared into his hair, fisting gently. Not a caress. A claim. “Now look up at the camera and say it like you’re drowning in me.”
She pulled his head back, forcing his gaze toward the little glowing eye. His face felt bloated with shame, his eyes wide and wounded. He saw himself reflected in the dark glass of her phone screen—a kneeling man, disheveled, trapped.
The words came out raw, scraped from the pit of him. “I love you, Lupe.”
She held him there for a long moment, then released his hair. She leaned over, her breasts pressing against his shoulder, and stopped the recording. The red light vanished.
“Good,” she said, examining the screen. She played it back silently. The tiny, luminous images danced in her eyes. “Really good. You’re a natural.”
Mark slumped back onto his heels. A wave of nausea passed through him. “Are we done?”
Lupe swung her legs up onto the bed, rolling onto her side to face him. She propped her head on her hand, a study in casual ownership. “Done?” She smiled, slow and deep. “Mark. Sweetheart. We’re just getting started. That was the audition. Now we make the movie.”
She reached over and picked up the phone again. Her thumb hovered over the screen. “Jessica’s probably wondering why you’re working so late, huh? You should text her. Tell her the server crashed. That you’ll be a while.” Her eyes locked on his, dark and endless. “You’re going to need to sell it. So start thinking of details.”
The bird in his mind tried once more to fly. It didn’t get off the ground.