I’m nervous as shit. I’ve already taken two wrong turns, and I keep wondering if this is a sign that I should just turn around and go home. I swerve to take a right hand turn, and as soon as I do, I'm greeted by a large, white office building.  

I swallow as I pull into the lot and park my car between a Land Rover Sport and a BMW.  A quick check of my lipstick, a spritz of some perfume, and I step out into the dry heat of the San Fernando Valley. I feel uncomfortably out of place in this pencil skirt and dress jacket, and I’m not even sure this is the correct attire for this kind of job—but what would be? As I approach the entrance, I catch my reflection and almost laugh. This business look doesn't suit me at all.

What kind of company doesn’t have their name plastered on the front of the building? I glance at the tinted, double glass doors—no name on the door. And for a second, I hesitate. I have that weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. That overwhelming sense of impending doom.

Just when I think maybe I should say screw it and go back home before I get sold into sex slavery, a Barbie Doll blonde brushes past me.  Holding the door open, she glances over her shoulder. "You coming in?"

"Sorry, I was just...wasn't sure I was in the right place," I say, following her through the door. Inside, everything is white. There's not one piece of art hung on the walls, and all that's in front of me is a narrow corridor leading to an open room. 

A slight smirk plays across her face as she looks at my clothing. "Hmmm, pretty dressed up." 

"Oh," I tug at the hem of my stiff jacket. "I'm here for an interview." 

Her gaze narrows and her smile broadens. "Really?" 

"Yes." 

"For a role?" 

"Uh, no. No, for a personal assistant." 

"Oh..." She laughs. "About to say, what role, a secretary?"  She stops midstride, one eye narrowing. “You look familiar…”

“Yeah…” Swallowing, a nervous laugh bubbles through my lips. “I get that a lot.” Please don’t start singing “Let It Go”.

“No, like really, really familiar.” She shrugs and then resumes walking.

"Um, where is Mr. Matthews' office?" 

"Mr. Who…oh, oh, you mean Hud? His office is on the third floor. All the offices are on the third floor." She points at the elevator. "But maybe I should show you before you end up in the wrong place."

She goes to the elevator, presses the button, and we stand in awkward silence. My eyes keep straying over toward her. This girl is a porn star. She fucks guys for money. Rams their massive cocks down her throat and has them jizz on her face. It’s not every day you find yourself standing next to someone you know screws people for a living. I kind of want to ask her questions like what the hell is up with all those high pitched fake moans, I mean, let’s be honest, no one sounds like that, but I imagine that wouldn’t really be appropriate, so instead, I stare at the floor.  

When the stainless steel doors slide open, two men wearing jeans and tight t-shirts walk out. The taller one smacks the girl on the ass as we step inside. "Hope you stretched for later, doll," he says, winking, and she laughs. This is so fucking weird.

A few seconds later we're heading down another long hallway. She leads me to the end, stopping in front of a slightly cracked door.  

"Hey, Hud," she taps on the door. "The girl for the PA spot’s here." 

"Okay." 

Silence. She shrugs. 

"You gonna come in?" I bristle because his voice sounds like an angry bear. 

"Well, good luck," she says as she spins around and trots off. 

The hinges creak as I push the door open and step into the office. The desk is positioned in front a large floor to ceiling window, and the man sitting at it is silhouetted by the bright sun pouring in. I squint against the bright light.

“Oh, my bad,” he says and reaches behind him to close the blinds.

I don’t know what I imagined the guru of the porn industry to look like, but this is not it. At. All. This guy is scrawny and younger than I expected. His reddish-brown hair is a mess on top of his head, and it looks like he hasn't taken a razor to his face in a few days. 

 "Jemma, please, have a seat." He motions toward the chair in front of the desk and take a seat.  

Hudson's eyes flick over me, a slight smirk flashing over his lips. After a few seconds of silence, that smirk widens into a mischievous smile. That uneasy feeling stirs back to life in the pit of my stomach. I cross my legs. I can't help but scratch at my neck. I clear my throat. 

One of his brows arches, creating tiny expression lines on his forehead. "Do you know what company this is?" 

"Um, yes… I do.”

“I bet you do.” Another gross smirk.

Something about this man seems so perverse, so sick and twisted, and I’m starting to think this is not such a great idea after all. Maybe I should keep trying my luck with the fucking commercials. "I'm sorry, I think maybe I should...um…" When I lean down to grab my purse, he burst out in laughter. 

"Relax, chicken. I'm not the Big Bad Wolf. I'm a professional man..." He opens a desk drawer and pulls out a piece of paper. "Before I can discuss things with you, I just need you to sign this waiver so I know you aren't going to sue my ass for offending you or sexual harassment or some shit like that." He tosses the paper across the desk, and I stare down at it.  "Sorry," he says, "I only have one for the actors, but the legal implications are the same...well, except for the second interview, but I don't do second interviews for clerical positions." 

I pick the piece of paper up and read over the print: