On The Dotted Line

"Okay, okay, draw out slow, McManus, let us get some good proof you got her."

What?

"McManus. McManus! Listen to your direction, for Slayer's sake!"

More bumbling which they'd probably have to "fix in post" as James struggled onto his knees, only with help from the techies. One of them grabbed his kilt to make sure it didn't cover the view of his dick, softening slowly, numb now because of the UV, and pulling out of the Wraith's pussy. A mess of creamy fluids lathered up between them now spread over her lavender thighs and swollen, well-fucked alien pussy.

"Release me," Shiv hissed at the Shaktar, who didn't respond.

"Push some of that human cum out, Shiv, come on," Kurtis said, peering intently over the mobile cameraman. "Give us something to work with, and I'll give them that order."

Shiv snarled, and James flopped onto his back on the bed, aware the camera was close and in between the Wraith's legs. The only ones paying attention to him were the techies making sure he didn't fall of the bed. He was coming down fast, knew it was going to be a hard crash, and he noticed for the first time how many bright red smears and streaks there were on the sheets, and on him. And on his partner. Covering her claws and fingers down to her knuckles.

How long had they been fucking?

His thoughts were bleary. His back was on fire.

Did it work? ...What happened?

The only answer was his roiling stomach.

"Bloody shit," James croaked.

Intense dizziness swept over him as rolled over to the side of the bed and vomited onto the stage, splashing the techies' shoes.

^^^^^

Shiv was clean and dressed, hair still damp from what had probably been the coldest shower he could imagine, when she stepped outside her dressing room. Her entire body except for head and hands was now covered in a slim, black coolant suit, she wore boots instead of running shoes, and she had enough equipment to handle any BPN in Mid-town. She even had a motorcycle helmet hooked to her pack. James had been waiting for her and had picked up an umbrella from the gift shop.

Shiv stopped to see him. "McManus. You are still here? It has been hours."

He shrugged. "Had to be debriefed, same as you. Wanted to hear how it went."

She paused in front of him, visibly took in his scent—she didn't wrinkle her nose—and then jerked her chin toward the door. "Walk with me."

Neither spoke until they were outside. They had the ever-falling rain as background noise. James held the umbrella for them.

"Hey, look, uhm, first," he began. "I'm sorry for how they treated you. There at the end. Holding you down like that. I know you hated it."

Shiv nodded once. "I did, McManus, but I won. I killed no one, and I am still an Operative. I did not wound you critically, nor you me. That director got what I believe you call... sloppy seconds?"

"Hmph," James smirked. "I guess so." He paused. "That mean what I think it means? You don't have to do another shoot for them?"

Shiv's jaw was still swollen from one of the times he'd punched her on set; she hadn't taken any healing drugs yet and he was amazed how well she walked. He had already taken something, or he'd be one big, limping bruise after throwing himself around like a cannonball. Her smile looked a little strained from discomfort, but it was a smile, James could be certain. She wasn't showing teeth.

"Correct, I do not. My financier forced them to discharge my service when I told him what you and I knew. They tried, but he defended both of us. There is no breach this time."

"Yeah?" James looked at the damp sidewalk, thinking. "Your financier. Can't say I remember his name. Cage probably does."

"Tom. Tom Phalanx." Shiv handed him a business card without his asking; he got the feeling she was mimicking what she'd seen. "You were right, McManus. I should have told him sooner. He would have thought of what you did. Thank you. The ASC got their fight. They got their Frother on Ultra Violence, and their Wraith-in-heat mating scene. And I received my pay."

"Uhh, yeah. So did I. Plus, another offer to do another movie."

"Have you accepted?"

"Not yet."

Shiv nodded as they kept walking. "You bested me on camera. My reputation is now yours."

"You let me 'best' you," he protested.

The Wraith shrugged. "Result is the same. My 'fans' will be disgusted, but others will take to you. Franc Bouvard will pursue you as a novelty on the Channel. Do with it what you wish."

James was keenly aware then that their own deal had been nothing more than a word while he was drunk in the Sinkhole, and they'd never really reaffirmed it. Not verbally, and he had no recourse if she decided to go back on it. Depending on what happened next, he might return Franc Bouvard's call, might meet with him again.

He drew breath to ask, but Shiv interrupted him.

"What is your deposit code, McManus?"

Part of his brain went still, as if afraid a light would come on and scare all the roaches away. He pulled out his Oyster, tapped and flipped through to the right screen, and showed her. She pulled out hers, tapping with the precise tip of her thumb claw; it seemed she only glanced at his screen for a couple seconds before typing in the unique, complicated string of characters without error. James got a notification and looked at the message.

He almost choked. "You said ten thousand."

She shrugged, again smiling. "A bonus, for the dressing room. You are a 'good fuck,' James. Perhaps another time when we are not being recorded. My financier has your number, you have his."

The Frother felt his face heat in a fierce blush. Just the second time she called him by his first name. Shiv watched his reaction but said nothing on it. She gestured toward one of the garages as she stopped.

"My bike is parked in there. I am afraid it holds only one."

"Hey, no problem." He glanced at his screen again. The creds were still there. "I'll catch a cab."

Shiv nodded and left without a word. Apparently, their deal and conversation were finished. In a Clan girl, James would be expected to try to guess what this meant. Now, he figured if the Wraith needed anything again, she'd just ask like she did before.

Perhaps another time, she said.

Shiv would go into heat again.

Don't think I'm opposed.

On the way back to his House, James kept checking his balance, half-expecting to hear from the ASC that he didn't have a right to it and would find an excuse to deduct it from his account. He never had this many credits at once. It seemed thin as smoke on his screen, just a few digital numbers.

I hafta use this while I can.

EPILOGUE

"Good fer you, son!"

Douglas Trevor-McManus, one of the elder Clan Fathers, clapped James' back hard, testing if he would topple forward; he'd been ready and absorbed the impact.

"Thank you, Father."

The grey, unpainted dreadlocks were an ancient, hopeless mess and his haggard face looked like Hell had tromped over it in cleated steel-toes, but his House dress was clean and formal, and his boots were new and polished.

"Yep. I love t'see our boys and girls find their way through the system. Couldn't be prouder to sponsor yer relatives, now that ye proved yerself and made us look good."

James smirked, thinking over who his friends were and how it was still changing. "You must be in the minority, Father."

"Oh, piss on 'em, kid." Another stinging slap to the back. "Ye took a risk and did right by yer blood. I don't give a bleedin' sod how ye did it. You're top-tithin' fer the next six months at least, there will be two less teat-suckers in Downtown bein' productive among us, an' you have opportunities those other kids don't. Be smart about it, you might even get to be my age! HA!"

There was a betting pool on how old Douglas really was. Most didn't think it was over forty.

They were waiting at the Gauss station where his mother and sister were supposed to meet him. James was nervous as fuck, waiting to see them not show up, figuring something would happen to them at the last minute. Detained at the Wall, because he had missed something in the paperwork. Mugged by street punks or caught by the Skin Trade. Hit by the car of some rich exec on one of the exchanges, who would get off scot-free.

"Relax, kid, relax."

A squeeze to his shoulder instead of a pound on the back. Father Douglas had contacts who were feeding him good news; James hoped it was true.

When the train finally did appear, and when they were sitting in the seats they were supposed to be, James felt like he'd taken a hit of some new drug. They were dirtier than he remembered, and malnourished. But they were alive, and they'd made it.

"Jamie!" Patricia Callgahry's voice was hoarse and loaded with emotion. "Jamie, oh thank Mr. Slayer! It's true!"

Yes. It was true. Three years, and all it took was one porno.

Worth the signing.