“My beautiful Nate! How are you, gorgeous?”
I get up from behind my desk and meet her in the center of the office. She squeezes me against her body so tightly I can feel her nipples, and I hear her indecently-toned sigh as she wraps herself around me.
“Hello Dominique,” I say, with the small amount of breath she’s not squeezed out of my lungs.
She kisses me on the cheek – a little too close to my lips – and lets me slip out of her python-grip.
“Always better for seeing you, sweetie,” she says, dropping her voice down into pillow-talk frequencies.
“Take a seat,” I say, retreating behind the safety of my desk. When I sit down in my office chair, after discreetly wiping her lipstick from my cheek, she’s right there. Dominique’s interpretation of ‘taking a seat’ is sitting side-saddle on my desk, gazing coquettishly at me over her shoulder. She crosses her legs, an impressive feat considering the tightness of her skirt and the awkwardness of her position, and whips her hair behind her shoulder to reveal her cleavage.
“You look great, as always,” I say.
It’s only a half-lie. Dominique might be a sex-crazed cougar, but she’s nothing if not fuckable. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it. She’s famous for having a mouth like an industrial vacuum cleaner, and the sexual proclivity of a boy going through puberty.
“I love it when you compliment me,” she purrs.
She’s also got the viciousness of a cornered tiger and the mean streak of an angry Queen experiencing PMS. She puts about twice as much passion into seducing younger men as she does her work – and still consistently manages to act everybody off the set with her charisma and take-no-prisoners attitude. You can usually find Dominique by following the trail of shattered, broken, and worn-out men she leaves in her wake. As much as I might let my imagination run wild, I’d never be desperate enough to risk being chewed up by her.
“So what can I do for you?” I say, shuffling the scripts around on my desk to let her know I’m busy.
“I just wanted to see my agent – is that too much to ask?”
“Of course not. But it’s a bit of a bad time. I’ve got a lot going on right now.”
“Aw,” she says, drawing the word out sensuously. “Don’t tell me one of L.A.’s sexiest young men is wasting all of his time on work. My heart would break.”
I laugh lightly.
“If you’re referring to me, then I’m afraid so.”
I keep my eyes down on the scripts, scribbling things in the margins for show. I feel a cold finger under my chin, and Dominique lifts my gaze to meet hers. She’s smiling like she’s about to tell me a secret I don’t want to hear.
“When are you going to do the inevitable, Nate, and take me out to dinner?”
Before I can laugh I suddenly remember. Jessie. Dominique’s show is the one that Jessie has been working on. It’s been a few days since I spoke to Kyle, right before he went to London. I tried to call Jessie a couple of times after that, but there was no answer.
“Do you know a girl named Jessie? Works in the costume department on your show?”
A twinge of suspicion enters Dominique’s eyes.
“Are you trying to change the subject?”
“No,” I say, absently pulling her hand away from my chin, “it’s important. I’m supposed to talk to her.”
“Pfft. Do you really think I sit down and talk with everyone who brings me my coffee?”
“She’s not a PA. She does the costumes. She’s got black hair, hazel eyes, about—”
“Nate!” Dominique sighs. She eases herself off the desk, and steps slowly around it towards me, trailing her long fingernails against the wood. “You’re smart enough to know that kind of girl can’t really do anything for a guy like you. They’re good to look at and all, sure, but they don’t know what they’re doing when it comes down to it.”
I lean back in my chair as she steps in front of me.
“It’s not like that. I just need to check up on her for a—”
She presses a finger against my lip, and a hand on my thigh, leaning over me until all I can see is the Grand Canyon between her tits. A giant void that seems to have its own gravity.
“You’ve done a lot for me, Nate. A lot for my career. Let me repay you a little bit.”
“Dominique, seriously. I’ve got work to do.”
“So have I,” she says, her spider-like fingers working the buckle on my belt.
Just before I push her away the door to my office slams open, the mousey-haired head of Chloe poking itself through.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, without a hint of surprise at the awkward scene she just walked in on, “but your Porsche is being ticketed down at the curb, Ms. Ferreira.”
Dominique pulls her attention away from my groin and marches towards the door.
“For fuck’s sake! Every single time! When are you going to complain to the city about this?”