Page 24 of Love Galaxy

COMMENTATOR CHLOE:

And don’t sayBriar.

FARMER SORIN:

I— Akh— That is?—

COMMENTATOR CHLOE:

Come on, Sorin. You’ve got to actually say something interesting for this to be an interview. We can’t include five minutes of you staring sullenly at the camera.

FARMER SORIN:

…

DIRECTOR SMITH:

Cut!

Briar

“So where do you live?” I ask Sorin. I haven’t seen another house. “How do we get there? How long will it take? Will I have to walk?” Maybe it won’t be so far away, and I’ll be able to sneak back to speak with Harlee and Lydia when Mr. Smith is distracted.

“Ask these questions when I’m filming you packing.” Chloe bundles me down the corridor and back into the walk-in closet. If Sorin tries to follow, Chloe closes the door before he can.

“But the camera won’t answer.” I cross my arms.

She doesn’t answer either. Rather, she tosses a duffle bag at me. It’s green, of course. My new signature color.

“How do I know what to pack if I don’t know where his house is?” I wrench the duffle bag off my face, where it had landed, only to find Chloe holding a GoPro. She grins because I’ve done exactly what she wanted—asked the camera a question. “Fine. Whatever.” I pretend acceptance and start stuffing clothes into the bag. It’s nowhere near large enough to fit everything, and I quickly change my tactic, trying to find the most useful items for an escape.

Considering I don’t yet have a firm escape plan in mind, I’ve no idea what will, in fact, be useful. Probably not the two dozen lacy G-strings they’ve supplied. Nor the bra that doesn’t have any fabric where the cups are supposed to be and that looks more like a torture device with all its straps and buckles—unless, of course, I need to restrain somebody and don’t have any rope…

I hold it up to my chest. It’s the most useless thing I’ve ever seen.

But, well, it’s not like it’ll take up much space… Turning my back on Chloe, I pretend my shoelace has come undone, and when I’m bent over, I shove the bra-cum-torture-device into my bag.

Straightening, I flinch back. “Oh, shit!” She’s standing right in front of me again, the GoPro in her hand about five inches from my nose. I can already imagine the commentary she’s planning to paste over this footage—The Human woman who hasn’t had sex in three years and who doesn’t know what a cupless bra is called is going to attempt to strap herself into one.“Seriously, though. Why are you doing this? What are they giving you?”

“A shit ton of money.” And she rubs her thumb over her index and middle fingers.

“Earth money?”

No answer. Clearly, she thinks it’s too dumb of a question to warrant a response.

“Who’s paying you?”

Silence.

“Mr. Smith?”

More silence.

“Mr. Smith’s boss?”

Even more silence.

I feel like I’m a member of parliament, asking the opposition probing questions and getting nothing but bullshit in response.

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