Page 14 of Bound By Brielle (Crave & Cure Productions)

“Augustus, whatever. Is it possible that he’s like the Gia Coppola of porn? I mean, you said Mr. Leon told you he’s friends with this guy, went to school with him even.” She drops her phone into her purse and smiles at me, her freckles darkening. “It could be cool.”

I roll my eyes, folding my arms over my chest. “I don’t want it to becool. I want it to be amazing. And honestly, if they’re friends, Mr. Leon likely feels bad for him and is doing some sort of charity favor thing.”

Winnie rises and claps a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be stuck up. It could be cool.” She leans in, sniffing. “And you’re wearing too much perfume.”

“I am not,” I scoff, but after she shuffles out of my room, I raise my wrist to my nose and sniff. Fuck, she’s right. Before grabbing my purse, I smear my wrist down my skirt, pull my hair into a ponytail and head out.

In the kitchen, Winnie sips a can of Coke she yanked from my fridge. I check my reflection in the small mirror by the front door. I went with minimal makeup—pink lips, mascara, a little blush. “You look good, B,” she says, watching as I smooth my fingertips over my eyebrows one final time.

“Thanks.” I snatch my keys from the counter. “Alright, well, I’m going. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” she smirks over the top of the can. “And try not to be tooQuincey-ish.”

I give her the bird, and slam the front door behind me. I don’t relish being like my father but in this case, he and I may be on the same page.

He pays too much for me to get paired with a porno director when other grad students are being paired with actual artists.

But… I wanted a big change. Something different to break up the monotony. Anything so I’m no longer the forgettable girl.

So, here I go. Chasing my dreams.

At a crawl.

Behind the wheel, I dig out the paper from my purse with Crave & Cure’s address.

“Psh, Crave & Cure,” I gripe to no one, because sometimes, talking shit alone makes me feel better. “Crave & Cure,” I repeat, typing the address into my phone’s map app. Suddenly, the name clicks in my brain and I look up, out the windshield, staring at the cement barrier in front of my car. “Oooh fuck, I get it. You crave it and they cure it.” I volley my head. “Okay, that’s actually good.”

My GPS—set to an Australian male accent because obviously that’s better than a robotic woman—announces the first direction, and I throw my car into reverse then drive, following his orders.

Approximately twenty four minutes later, my jaw rests comfortably in my lap as I put my car into park—not even one block from Rise & Grind. This revelation deserves a phone call. I take my phone from the mount in my car and call Winnie.

“Yes I’m still at your apartment,” she answers, mouth full. “And yes I’m eating your food. You have money and I don’t,” she says.

“I don’t care about that,” I say, peering out my windshield at the large, brightly colored brick building in front of me. “Get this, Crave & Cure is literally like, two minutes away from Rise & Grind. On the same street.”

Winnie chokes on her mouthful of free food because karma works like that. “Wh-what?” she coughs. “Oh my god! That blue, orange and pink building!”

I nod vigorously despite the fact she can’t see me. “Yes! That one!”

“We always wondered,” she says dreamily. “I kind of thought it was like a candy factory or something.”

I blink at the building, noticing now that there are many, many security cameras hidden in the eaves, pinned to the iron fence around the property, and even over the back door where a guard stands. “I’m surprised,” I breathe, my pulse picking up. Probably first day nerves. “But… there’s a lot of security.”

“Good, there are a lot of weirdos in the city,” Winnie comments.

I glance at my watch, and realize I don’t have time for this call. “Yeah, and I’m about to go protégé for one.” I pop open my car door and swing a leg out, the cool bay air drifting into the cab. “Gotta go. Later.”

“Later B.”

Okay, so, I can admit that this is not what I pictured. I mean, part of me, somewhere very deep down—like inside my intestines deep—knew Mr. Leon wouldn’t send me to some warehouse in San Quentin but still, I imagined it anyway.

I pictured a building with a guy smoking cigarettes outside, a bunch of beater cars with no license plates, and a woman with bad extensions standing around in a Julia Roberts inPretty Womantype of dress.

But this isnotthat.

I slam my door closed and the security guard’s head veers my way, his dark eyes narrowing on me as I approach. When I reach the bottom of the cement stairs, he holds a palm out, one hand reaching for the radio on his chest. “Who are you and who are you here for?” he questions.

I find myself swallowing a lump of nerves, my hands clinging to my purse strap. “I’m Brielle Parker, I’m here for the mentorship with… Augustus Moore,” I recall after a moment of panic eats my brain.

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