He stared at me longer, and I was about to say something when he said, “You have interest in them?”
I had no interest in porn on the whole. I didn’t judge, it just didn’t do anything for me.
But porn wasn’t about reality.
Porn was about fantasy.
In most cases, it didn’t really have anything to do with what you got off on in the real world.
I mean, I had no doubt men wanted to have sex with the slutty nurse with lots of lip gloss and her uniform undone down to her navel.
Or three slutty nurses done up like that.
But he knew it was never gonna happen.
So it was about what you got off on mentally.
And right now, either way you swung it, gay or straight, it was produced for the mentality of dudes.
Now a hot guy going at a hot guy and make that hot, but also a love story?
“Absolutely,” I answered.
He again stared at me.
I took it.
Finally, he nodded.
“Make it a ménage,” he declared.
Oh shit.
That was too close to the bone.
“I—”
He slithered off his stool in the only way a slimy reptile could.
“Have the script rewritten, make it a ménage. I’ll read it and consider it.”
It hurt a lot to say it.
But I had to say it.
“Thanks, Benito.”
He stilled and studied me in that way that creeped me out. Partially because I was worried he’d figured me out, as in, I was there to inform on any little thing I’d seen or heard that might put him behind bars, and partially because I worried instead that the asshole actually liked me.
“Please do not ever hesitate to bring your ideas to me, Tallulah. I mean no offense when I say I honestly had not expected this, but I find our collaboration very rewarding, and not just monetarily.”
Yeah, it was the second.
And yeah, that totally creeped me out.
“That means a lot, Benito.”
Damn, but I was proud of myself I got that out without choking.
“I’m glad it does. Now I hope whatever that distressing call was about you get it sorted out.”
I wondered how much he heard.
I really had to be more careful.
“Family stuff,” I muttered.
“Always difficult,” he muttered back.
If he had family, that would surprise me. He seemed the type to kill his mother and eat his young.
“Sadly, I have things to do,” he went on. “Perhaps we can have dinner some night?”
Oh God, no.
“That’d be cool.”
He smiled his oily smile, tipped his head to me and slunk away.
Gulk.
I decided to come in early the next day and go over my notes.
In other words, get the hell out of there.
I didn’t take this work home with me.
I lived alone, so it wasn’t like anyone would see it.
I just didn’t want it at my house.
I was on my way home trying not to think of my chat with my mother, my chat with Benito or the fact that I somehow had to pull off a tender “first time” sixty-nine scene the next day when my car rang.
I looked at the dash, closed my eyes, opened them because I didn’t want to kill myself in a car accident, and instantly decided after this was over to take a vacation somewhere there were no phones, no Internet, no television (so no porn channels), just a beach, a hut and mai tais.
Lots and lots of mai tais.
Then I took the call, feeling guilty that I didn’t want to take the call.
“Hey, Amy.”
“Hey, doll. Dinner this week?”
My mother was a lunatic who thought she could “reprogram” my brother.
And Amy was using me to fill the shoes of the daughter she’d lost to drugs, pornography and a clearly very dysfunctional relationship.
And there I was, unbeknownst to Amy, directing porn films.
Undercover.
But still.
“You name the night and the place, I’m there,” I said.
“Excellent. How’s Friday? But just so you know, Paul won’t be joining us. He has other plans.”
Yes.
I knew that already.
This was mostly because Paul would have a date with the bottom of a vodka bottle.
“Friday’s great. And that’s okay about Paul. Tell him I said hi, though, and want to see him next time.”
“Yes. Of course. I’ll tell him you’re missing him.”
I was.
In a variety of ways.
“You having a good week?” she asked.
I was having a shit week.
Nope.
I was having a shit seven months.
And it was worth a repeat.
I had to direct a tender “first time” sixty-nine scene tomorrow.
It wasn’t likely to get better.
“It’s been great.”
“You haven’t given us a YouTube link to tune into in a while,” she fished.
“I’m working on a few things. Soon,” I lied, feeling crap about it.
“You’re so talented, Rebel. I’m calling it now. I get to help you pick your dress when you win an Oscar.”
Like the Academy would give a woman a director’s statue. It seemed almost made up that Kathryn Bigelow scored it. Barbra hadn’t even gotten a nod for Yentl.
Though at least Jane Campion got to buy a suit in 1993 and nabbed screenplay for The Piano.
I pulled down the alley that led to my back drive.
“We should start a binder, get ideas,” I suggested.
“I’d love that!”
Amy couldn’t wait to watch something I did, and that had been the way even before Diane had died.
I wasn’t sure my mother had even watched the DVD I sent them of the first wedding I did solo.
“Waste of your fuckin’ time,” Dad had said when I did that video in high school and I’d asked them to watch. “Not gonna waste mine.”
“Mm-hmm,” Mom had agreed.
On that happy memory, I pulled into my back drive.
“I’m home now, Amy. Gotta get some food then pop next door to check on Essence.”
“Right. Okay. I’ll text with where we’re going and the time. I’m thinking Mexican. No! Thai! You love Thai.”
Diane did too.
“Sounds awesome.”
“It does. Look forward to it. See you, doll. Tell Essence we said hello.”
“Will do. ’Bye, my lovely.”
“Goodbye, honey.”
She disconnected, and I stared at my dash for I didn’t know how long.
Then I got out of my car.
I weaved my way through five cats and had no choice but to let Ashes in, since he scooted by me when I opened the back door that led to my colorful kitchen.
The paint job was Essence’s idea. It was whacky as all get out.
But I dug it.
At that moment, though, it did not make me feel what it usually made me feel: the warm welcome home of Essence’s whacky goodness.
I just wanted to get in my car and drive.
And drive.
And drive.
And then when I got to the end of the earth . . .
Scream.
My phone in my hand rang.
I dug it out, saw it was again Mom, took the call irately and put it to my ear.
“Mom—”
“This is your father. I’m using your mother’s phone since I can’t get through to you on mine. And let me tell you, missy, it is not all right you speak to your mother the way you did. Your position in this family drama is unhinged. I’ve a mind to—”
“Go fuck yourself,” I bit out, disconnected, found her contact, blocked her and stood there staring at the phone.
Though I’d probably unblock her in a week just because I was me.
It wasn’t weak.
It was the fact that if I blocked them, they’d turn to Diesel and I could not let that happen.
Okay then.
Well that was that.
At least for now.
The rest?
I had a dead friend.
And really no father, and that wasn’t because of this latest shit. He’d never been a good father to me (or D).
Also, really no oldest brother, because Gunner had always been an asshole.
Now I had a feeling, if she didn’t get her head out of her ass, I might be losing my mother.
And somehow I had to find a way to protect Diesel from all this shit.
But I was a standin daughter to grieving parents, one of whom, if what his daughter went through was anything to go by, was on a one-way trip to unrecovered alcoholism.
And every day I took my life in my hands, directing porn and trying to take down a drug dealing pornography producer and get some slippery woman I did not trust to finagle a confession from a killer.
So yeah.
Great day.
Great week.
Great last seven months.
Awesome.
But I had D.
And Mad.
And Molly.
They just were hundreds of miles away and had no idea all this was happening to me.
Not even Diane.
“Meow?” Ashes called.
Translation: Where are the treats?
I should not feed him.
He wasn’t even mine.
And Ashes was getting fat.
I went to my huge-ass stash of cat treats.
It seemed I was incapable of not doing bad things.
Especially if, in the end, they had some slim chance of making someone happy.
Mr. Allen
Rebel
Present Day
It happened when I was on Speer Boulevard, about to take the bridge over I-25 to get to my place in the Highlands.
First, two bikes passed me on either side, moving in together in front of me and slowing down.
Then, I saw movement to my left and sensed it to my right.
Looking side to side, I had a bike at both.
“Shit,” I whispered, lifting my foot from the accelerator while taking in the identical patches on the backs of the leather jackets of the riders in front of me before I glanced in my rearview.
Two more bikes behind me.
“Shit,” I hissed.