Page 9 of Bound By Brielle (Crave & Cure Productions)

“Don’t say that,” he breathes as my spine grows wobbly and my legs weak. I reach out for his hand, but he steps back. Moving his hand to the door, he finally looks at me again. “Don’t. There’s no reason.”

Words clutter my throat and fill my mouth.There is a reason. I fucking love you. I love you so much that my life is largely pointless if you’re not in it. Please, please.

But he’s right.

Please what? What can I offer him now that I couldn’t before?

Not a fucking thing.

I would do it if I could. I would give him exactly what he wants if I could. I would do it a million fucking times if I could do it even once.

But I can’t.

The cruel irony of our situation is that I would give him every fucking thing imaginable yet… the one thing I can’t give is the one thing heneeds.

But I cannot fall to my knees.

Icannotbe submissive.

Not to him, or anyone.

I tried and it felt like my body was burning alive from the inside out. My skin crawled with discomfort, I broke out in sweat, nausea churned through me. And I just… couldn’t. I am not a dominant by choice. It’s in my blood, like DNA. I can’t be something that I simply am not.

My mind fogs and the door slams closed, and by the time I lift my head, he’s gone. The clouds have covered the sun and a drizzle begins, spattering against my cheek and bare arm. I grab the sandwich from the ground and toss it into the can and head inside.

Now I will stand next to him and work for several more hours together, knowing I alone am the reason we are so broken. The reason we are destroyed.

I trudge toward the set when Otis, one of my actors here at Crave, clips my shoulder. I look up to find him smiling as he walks past. “Sorry, boss.” Then he pauses, furrowing his brows not unlike a confused child. “Cheer up, life is beautiful,” he says before wandering toward the makeup chair off-set.

I used to think life is beautiful. Now I’m not so sure.

five

Everyone watches porn.

brielle

The bonesin my legs actually vibrate as I stomp across campus, a printed paper clutched in my fist, purpose carved into my features.There has to be some mistake.

My dad called not even an hour after the mentor/protégé list populated, screaming and hollering at me as if I had some choice in it.A mistake. That’s what we both agreed it was. BecauseQuincey Parker will not have his daughter step foot in a pornography studio, and certainly not with what he pays that school.I’m paraphrasing, you get the idea.

It would be nice to gooneday without hearing how he pays for my graduate program. Honestly. But I have to take it because heispaying for it, and from the measly income I earned working in the props department at the local theater over the summer, I can’t pay for it myself.

Loans. I almost went up to my chin in student loans, but Winnie made me realize how fucking idiotic that would be, and that taking a few lectures from Big Daddy (barf) is totally worth not going into years of debt.

I’m beginning to wonder if Winnie was wrong, because I am so beyond sick of hearing about how much he pays for my education.

One thing we do agree on? My program assignment must be a mistake.

Ithasto be.

UCSF has one of the most prestigious film school graduate programs. Like, ever. And, not to toot my own horn or anything, I am averygood student. Never missed an assignment. I’ve done all the extra things all of my professors have ever asked. And Mr. Leon is the one who suggested I take the job at the local theater, advising me that being part of all facets of the industry will help me be a better director.

This assignment has to be a mistake.

I’m… well,I’m too talented and bright to be a protégé to a porn director. There, I said it.

My phone vibrates in my purse and I stop in my tracks, digging it out so I don’t miss the call. Maybe it’s Mr. Leon calling to tell me there’s been a mistake. Ten feet from the film department doors, I yank my phone from my bag, sweat beading on my upper lip from my indignant, irritated march.

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