“You . . . you ask for the pain?” I said, astounded.
“To test my limits, to see if I can take it, of course. It’s an endorphin rush, like the guy who decided it would be fun to do Ironman triathlons, or the first weightlifter who said it might be a good idea to put half a ton of iron on their back and see if they could stand up with it or if it would break them in half. There are times, and Kade knows that line better than any person I sub for, that I’m quivering on the edge, pain and pleasure and everything mixing, and it’s powerful, more powerful than any drug you can think of. I’m like this far from saying our safe word, and then he rides that line right up until the point that my body explodes in the biggest orgasm I’ve ever had. I guess that isn’t quite what you want to hear, but I think you deserve honesty. But you’ll have the power, and he has his control. If you’re strong enough, you’ll see what I mean. I will tell you one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Who knows, Alix? Maybe you can be the one who can show him the levels that he’s shown me.”
I shook my head in wonderment. “I have a lot to think about. I mean, I haven’t even seen him naked yet, and we’ve only kissed once.”
* * *
After leaving Rita, I went to the bank, and after showing them two forms of picture ID as well as signing a document declaring that I understood I was taking out such a large sum in pure cash, I walked away just before the close of business with sixty thousand dollars in cash. The bank was nice enough to give me a complimentary tote bag to carry it in, but still a guard walked me all the way to my car from the door, which I did appreciate.
As I drove toward Sydney’s place, an irrational hope filled my chest. I kept thinking that with the payment, I could have a new life, one that was free of the stress of terrible boyfriends, exploitative clients, and the like. I realized that it meant leaving the modeling industry, but the idea of showing my body to just one person filled me with more anticipation than posing for a camera.
For one of the most sought after photographers in the Los Angeles area, Sydney lived in a pretty crappy apartment in North Hollywood, just on the edge between it and Burbank. When we first dated, I had wondered about it. As time went on and I learned more about him, I realized why he lived where he did.
Sydney Hale was born in what a politician might politely call a lower working-class family. What this meant in real terms was that his parents both worked jobs, his father sometimes working two, along with taking government assistance in order to make ends meet as their son grew up along with his two sisters and brother in what the locals called ‘The 209’ portion near Stockton. While his eye for photography, good looks, and ability to smooth talk people had gotten him out of the tiny, two-bedroom house that he’d grown up in, he was still marked by the neighborhood and its culture.
Syd was a hustler, as it was often called on the street, always looking for an angle or an advantage. I realized after he’d hit me that he was always looking to take advantage of people and situations. If a normal situation said you could gain five dollars, he’d look for an unfair advantage to get ten.
It was this attitude that attracted me to Sydney at first. He was dangerous, cocky, the bad boy type. And of course, Mom disapproved of him from the start, saying he wasn’t deserving of me, which only spurred me on to be with him even more. Looking back, Mom was right, at least on that subject if nothing else.
Moving to the Los Angeles area to further his photography career, Sydney settled in the North Hollywood/Burbank area because it was close to the movie studios. He was constantly trying to get in with them, doing test shoots and trying to work some angle. He thought that if he could, he’d be able to work his way into some sort of fame and security, I think. After a few years of being so-called stuck in the fashion photography world, I think he stayed in the same area because he was the top dog in a low area, the big fish in a small pond.
Knocking on Sydney’s door, I held the bag tight against my chest, looking around carefully—it was that sort of neighborhood. Sydney lived and worked out of the same studio apartment a lot of the time, and I assumed he’d be home.
“Who is it?” Sydney called from inside.
“It’s Alix. I have what you asked for,” I replied, unwilling to even say the word ‘money’ anywhere someone might overhear. I reached behind my ear and tapped the button on my new Bluetooth headset, starting the record function on my phone. According to what the app said, for the next ten minutes it would record continuously, or longer if I kept up a string of conversation.