Copyright Page

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2019 by Lauren Beukes

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattle

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Original Stories are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

eISBN: 9781542091442

Cover design by David Drummond

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The recording booth has always been somewhere Nats can disappear. It’s just her and the microphone alone in the air-conditioned dark, with the director’s voice coming through the headphones, via fiber from somewhere in California. She wasn’t paying attention when Greg Gold introduced himself. Palo Alto, probably. That’s the epicenter of the industry, isn’t it? But voice-over talent is cheaper in Cape Town, and she’s grateful to be paid in cash dollahs. Win-win for everyone. Thank you, exploitation of the developing world and market crashes.

And it makes a change from doing crappy radio commercials.

“You got a pseudonym you wanna use?” Director Gold says, gruff and smoky; chewing-tobacco flavored, she thinks. He could do his own voice-over work. There must be Clint Eastwood fetishists out there among the growjob aficionados. She wonders what that would look like, how they would age up the bodies. Would they even need to, with the interchangeable heads? She’s never seen one in real life.

“Do I need to?”

“Oh yeah. I’d recommend it. You don’t want these weirdos tracking you down. Even in a whole other country.”

“Cutter,” she says. “Cookie Cutter.”

His bark of a laugh comes down the line clear as if he’s standing next to her. “As long as you’re anything but, sweetheart.”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. DeMille.”

“I find it’s best to warm up with some moaning.”

“Mmm,” she says. “Ohhh. Like that?”

“That’s great. Just riff.”

“Ohhh, mmm, that’s it. Oh god, yes, baby.”

“You’re a natural.”

“Mmm, yeah, daddy, fuck me,” she growls in the affirmative, not too close to the mike, you don’t want it to catch the plosives and fricatives. But this isn’t only talent, it’s practice. Better than a natural, she’s a goddamn professional.

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