The Master's Exploits: Night One by Jessi Bond Page B

always the possibility that someone might hire you because telling you their story turns them on. I’m sure that occurred to you.”
    “It did,” I said, praying that I wouldn’t blush. “But I don’t get that feeling from you.”
    He raised his palms. “I swear to you, I’ve been honest about my intentions. If I just wanted to hire a woman to listen to me talk, I could have gotten that for a lot less.”
    “I’m sure you could have gotten that for free,” I said, before I could stop myself.
    This time, his chuckle had a slightly different quality - one that made a warm feeling spread through my body. “You’re probably right,” he said. “I’ve never tried.”
    “Can I ask you a question?” I hazarded, taking another sip of wine as I waited for his response.
    Mr. Alexander leaned back in his leather captain’s chair. “Of course,” he said. “I might choose not to answer.”
    “What made you want to do this?” I held his gaze. “What made you want to turn your life into erotica?”
    He drummed the tips of his fingers together for a moment. “Because I can,” he said. “I’ve never needed any other reason to do the things I want to do.”
    A slight shiver went through my body.
    That wasn’t the real answer. I could tell, just by watching his face, this wasn’t a whim. His chiseled features were drawn slightly, and he ran one hand through his jet-black hair before he continued.
    “I got the idea when I saw how popular these stories had become. They’re everywhere. The internet makes it possible to disseminate these kinds of stories to anyone who wants them, at a reasonable price, and privately. That’s fascinating to me. A female friend clued me in to their existence, and when I started researching it, and found that many of my own life experiences could easily turn into stories for other people’s entertainment.” He took a deep breath, and let it out. “And that’s all you need to know about my motivations. I’ll be more than happy to answer any questions that will service your writing.”
    That was a clear boundary. And, oddly, I found that comforting. So there were boundaries, even if they didn’t necessarily make sense to me.
    Still, though, he had to understand where I was coming from.
    “With respect, Mr. Alexander,” I said, “knowing a little bit out about you, as a person, is definitely going to serve my writing. It’s like I said earlier - you’re not a character in one of these stories. Not yet. But I’m going to turn you into one. I can’t do that, if I don’t know who you are.”
    That smile came back, wicked and knowing. “Trust me, Ms. Reynolds,” he said. “By the time this night is over, you’ll know exactly who I am.”
    Oh, boy. I polished off my wine, and set the empty glass down. Almost before it touched the end table, Mr. Alexander was on his feet, gliding over to refill it. He wore his slate-gray suit like a second skin. Now that he was lingering close by, I could smell something distinctive on him. It wasn’t anything I could describe, but it put me in mind of sunsets and the open sea, of digging my toes into the sand as a girl.
    In real life, my toes ached from the ridiculous shoes I’d worn. To impress him? Why? He’d already hired me.  
    “What’s that cologne?” I asked him, innocently, holding my pen as if this were an important detail for the stories.
    “It’s a custom blend,” he said, smiling down at me. “Do you like it?”
    I nodded. “The readers will like it, too.”
    “The readers won’t be able to smell it.” He returned to his desk and sat down, his eyes silently challenging me.
    Smiling, I made a note of my impressions on the scent. This was one thing I was confident about, even if the rest of this experience was completely new to me.  
    “They’ll be able to smell it,” I said. “It’ll be different for everyone, but it’ll always be perfect. That’s the advantage of written fiction.”
    Mr. Alexander leaned