Page 31 of Silk and Steel

“Oh yeah,” she says, pointing at her stomach. “He totally did it. Had the bottom two removed and a spacer put between the vertebrae on his back. It was not just a rumor.”

“No way,” I reply. “Just so he can do…that? On stage? There has to be an easier way to make a buck.”

“Well, if he was any good at making music, he wouldn’t need the facepaint and the self-pleasuring on stage, would he?” She shakes her head and grimaces. “Out of all the video shoots I’ve worked on, that was the only one where I felt truly uncomfortable.”

“Nothing happened to you, did it?”

“No, nothing happened to me. I was lucky, I guess. At any rate, the really gross thing is when men have to shave behind their ears.”

I do a double take. “What, now?”

“It’s true!”

She pantomimes grabbing her cheeks and stretching them up and back.

“You see, when they get a face lift, they just grab everything and pull it back and stitch it in place. So the skin that used to be on their neck is now behind their ear. If you see stubble or razor burn behind a guy’s ear, that’s how you know he’s had surgery.”

“Damn. I never would have guessed. How did you even notice that sort of thing?”

“When you’re helping someone with a dance routine, you get all up in their business. Bad breath, sweat, drugs, booze…I’ve been privy to a lot that I keep hidden. Don’t want to lose clients by spilling their bad laundry all over the place for everyone to see.”

“Like you just did with the double M guy?”

“That’s different. His career is already over, and even if it weren’t, no way would I work for him again. Or anything involving him.”

She checks her phone, the screen illuminating her lovely face.

“It’s getting late, and I have to be at the studio by seven in the morning. I’m going to turn in.”

“All right. Don’t forget you’re down the hall.”

“How can I forget, after watching you sweat and cuss all night trying to get the bed into the guest room?”

Emory stands up and stretches like a cat, eyes squeezing shut. I can’t resist taking a long, lingering look at her lovely body. Her eyes open, and she walks past me toward the steps. My eyes bulge out of my head. She’s been sitting this whole time. I had no idea those shorts were so, well, short.

The grin on Emory’s face says she knows exactly what kind of effect she’s having on me. Once she’s out of sight, I shake my head and sigh.

“She’s not making it easy, that’s for damn sure.”

I stay awake a little bit longer, then retire for the evening myself. It’s hard to find sleep. I’m used to bedding down in lots of different places. The problem is an internal one, not external.

The next day, I rise with the dawn. I wait until I’m sure she’s finished in the bathroom before I even venture in there.

Emory is laser focused on her job today. She’s polite enough, and engages with me some, but her primary concentration remains on the dance number for Boys R Us’ comeback video. She spends as much time staring at her phone as anything else when we dine on breakfast tacos delivered from down the street.

Once we reach the studio, I take her around back. I chat with the head of security for a bit, and secure permission for us to use the rear entrance for the time being. I like the rear entrance much better because it’s a wide open, plain, and empty street guarded by a twelve-foot stone wall.

In other words, there’s nowhere to hide, and nowhere to set up an ambush. Much better than the glitzy, always crowded main studio entrance.

Lucky me, I get to meet the band, Boys R Us. I’ll admit they’re not quite what I expected. Especially when I watch Emory put them through the ringer. Those guys work their butts off to learn the choreography, and then perform it without a hitch.

It kind of reminds me of demolition disposal. You have to follow all the steps, in order, or you’ll be in trouble. The difference is what happens when you fail. Botched choreography isn’t quite the same as a bomb going off in your face.

Around midday, the band is taking a break while Emory takes notes on her tablet. Something moves out of the corner of my eye. A man, walking swiftly across the studio’s concrete floor. At first, he seems like just a food delivery guy, but then I take a closer look.

A hat with the brim pulled way down low hides most of his face that isn’t obscured by dark glasses and a thick, possibly fake beard and mustache. He makes a beeline for Emory, his hand reaching inside of a paper bag–

“Get down!” I bellow. I don’t have time to make sure Emory is listening. I interpose myself between the assailant and Emory.