"So, I pay the talent, and you own the output?" she finally said, her voice sharp.
"I provide the platform, the camera equipment, the lighting, the editing, and the publishing power that just took a video to half a million views in two days," I countered, leaning back slightly, letting my physique do the talking. "You two are the talent, but I am the launchpad. It's a fair trade for the exposure and the introduction."
Jess didn't look convinced. She ran a hand through her short, damp hair, a sign of deep thought. "Look, I get it. You're building an audience, and you have the technical skills. But this is my transition, too. If I'm paying Sasha $700, and I'm risking my image by doing a full-blown feature, I need to capitalize on it for my own platforms."
She met my gaze, her competitive spirit blazing. "I'll do it. I'll pay Sasha, and I'll let you shoot and edit the entire thing. But I have to be allowed to publish the scene on my own private channel as well. Sharedpublication rights, or no deal."
I paused, considering the counter. Shared publication meant losing the exclusive tag, but a three-way scene with two massive performers would be such an explosion of content that it would lift both channels anyway. The key was the initial viral burst and the intellectual property.
"Deal," I said, extending my hand to shake. "You can publish, but the content is my IP. I film it, I edit it, and I own the raw footage. We can agree on a coordinated release time to maximize the buzz. You handle your audience; I handle mine."
Jess grasped my hand, her grip firm and professional, entirely unlike the flirty touches from yesterday. "That works. Now we're talking business, Druski. I'll pay Sasha, you handle the production, and we both grow." She looked genuinely excited now that the contract was finalized.
"Great. I'll talk to Sasha and coordinate the details. I'll need to know when you're ready to shoot."
"Perfect," Jess said. "Just ask her if she's into girls, and tell her I'll be in touch soon. I need a day or two to clear my schedule and decide on a theme. I'll let you know when I'm ready for the shoot."
I didn't get the chance to ask Sasha about Jess. She wasn't answering calls, and her phone wasn't going through. She was probably on a "sex vacation" with one of her high-end clients for the week. I left her a text detailing Jess's proposal and the fee, hoping she'd see the potential when she resurfaced.
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The day for the anonymous meetup with Red Eye finally arrived. The clock had run out. My anxiety peaked as the afternoon turned to evening. I spent the entire day flipping my house upside down, looking for signs. Anything that could give me a clue about Red Eye, his boss Big Mom, or the spot.
I found nothing. I looked at the message on my phone again:
[Red Eye: meet me at the spot in 6 days]
What spot? There was no address, no context. I realized that the message had been for the old Druski. He probably would have known where this spot was. But I couldn't access his memories.
There was no time and zero leads. I checked my watch; it was now 6:30 p.m. I gave up the fruitless search. Tired from flipping the room over, I decided to take a nap, hoping the rest would sharpen my mind for whatever lay ahead.
I was disturbed by a series of urgent messages chiming on my phone. I woke up with a shudder. I checked the time first: it was now 1:12 a.m.
I checked the messages. They were from Red Eye. My heart skipped a beat.
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[10:17] [Red Eye: You are late]
[10:39] [Red Eye: Where the fuck are you?]
[11:05] [Red: You're fucked]
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Then they stopped.
My heart was pounding like a jackhammer trying to smash its way out of my chest cavity. A wave of ice-cold dread washed over me, leaving my hands clammy and shaking. I felt the pure, desperate terror of a man who had just missed his own execution. I had slept right through my meeting with possibly, an enforcer from a dangerous crime syndicate.
Was I involved in some sort of drug-related gang? What if the old Druski had been mixed up with some truly awful people? Human traffickers, weapons smugglers? The thought of Big Mom suddenly felt less like a high-stakes debt collector and more like a criminal overlord.
I had just committed the cardinal sin. I had probably stood up the debt collector. My life was now measured in borrowed seconds.
I was dealing with something I didn't know. Enemies, possibly. I had no idea how they looked like. They knew what I looked like, where I lived, and they were probably watching me right now.
The message You're fucked probably translated to "you're dead."
I couldn't stay here. Negotiating with a man whose last three messages were escalating threats, especially after I'd missed the deadline, was suicide. The only option was survival. I needed to get out of here and go somewhere that was far from this place.
I scrambled out of bed, the image of that glowing red socket in the dark running through my head. Survival instinct took over.
I ripped the stash of cash from its hiding spot, counted out $4,600 in notes, and stuffed it into my jeans pockets. I grabbed my ID and the external hard drives containing all my footage. My camera equipment—the three high-end cameras and the editing laptop—were shoved into a large duffel bag. Nothing else mattered.
I moved silently but quickly, checking the windows. The street was dark and quiet, but the paranoia was suffocating. I didn't see anyone, but that didn't mean they weren't there.
I slipped out the back door, got to my car, and drove off, not bothering to look in the rearview mirror until I was three streets away. I headed straight for the highway, aiming for the anonymity of a distant city and the cold comfort of a motel.