Immoral

by Skylar Cross

  He turns to me with a smirk.

  "So I heard you hooked up with Jasmine," he says. "She's something else, isn't she?"

  "Hell yeah."

  "Good stuff. Amazing cock, huh?"

  I blush.

  "Ummm," I say, "that's an understatement. Speaking of rocketships."

  He laughs.

  And there it is. The electrical charge between us. It's like a cloud of energy throwing charges left, right, and all around. So intense it almost has a physical presence.

  I shift in my seat, facing him some more.

  He turns, leaning in closer to me. His right hand tussles my hair. I look down at his ripped jeans.

  Oh God, is this it? Is he going to kiss me?

  The energy swirls up and around. I feel myself drawn into it. It's like we're moving together without effort.

  Then he breaks it.

  His hand snaps back as he abruptly faces forward again. He bites his lower lip, folds his hands, and stares at the floor.

  What the fuck?

  Really, what the fuck?

  I so want to scream right now, but I know that if I'm going to win him over I need to be patient with him. We've already seen how he handles impatience. Not good.

  "I... uh... need your help," he says.

  "With what?" I say.

  He rubs the back of his neck and sighs, then leans back and folds his arms staring straight ahead at the empty screen.

  He was right here in the room with me a few seconds ago, but now he's a million miles away. Like he's living in another world on that movie screen.

  "I need to figure out how to put something behind me," he says. Then pauses. "No, that's wrong. Not put it behind me, but rather... how to go on living my life... despite it. Because it will never truly be behind me."

  Holy shit! The always cocksure Damien Cage is being vulnerable with me?! Oh my God!

  This is the moment to which I aspired that night at the party. Everything I've been through so far has been worth it.

  Tell me! Tell me, you gorgeous bastard! Whatever it is, I'll help you! I'll rid you of it! Of her! Whoever the fuck the bitch is!

  "But see," he says. "I want to do great things. I want to get my message out to the world. So far, I've sucked at that. Mainly because of this... something... that I haven't let go of yet. For three long years. So... the only way I'm truly going to be able to help people is if I first help myself. And for that, I need your help."

  "Anything," I say as I touch his arm.

  Electrical impulses travel all over me. From his slouched position he turns and looks at me.

  He feels it too! I know he does!

  He puts his hand on mine.

  Zing! Bolts of energy zap through me.

  As far as I'm concerned, we can stay like this forever. No need to fuck. This connection... this moment... is everything.

  God, I sound like an adolescent!

  But I can't help it. That's what this man does to me.

  "Will you..." he says, "be patient with me?"

  "Yes!" I say without hesitation.

  He looks down again. Whatever this is, it's eating him up.

  "Okay," he says. "I'm going to let you inside my life. Nobody knows this part of me. I need you to promise you won't write about it or tell anyone. This is private. Doesn't go in the book."

  "Of course."

  "There was a... girl... I met five years ago. Not your usual girl. Like you. Super-smart. And gorgeous. She was... she is... everything to me."

  Shit, I don't like the fact he changed was to is.

  So she's still around, huh? I'll fight the bitch if I have to!

  "And she's always going to be a part of me," he says.

  We'll see about that, buddy.

  "But I want you to understand me on a deep level," he says. "Not just because you're writing a book about me, but because I want you to see... and maybe feel... where I'm coming from... because you deserve to know."

  "Okay," I say.

  "So I want you to watch a movie."

  A movie? A fucking movie? Is he kidding?

  Chill, Annika.

  Fine. If he wants me to watch a fucking movie, I'll watch a fucking movie.

  "I can't watch it myself," he says.

  Of course, pal. You're going to leave me alone here in a movie theater in your house while you go fuck a couple of other girls. Of course.

  Shut up, Annika! If he wants you to watch a goddamned movie, then watch his goddamned movie!

  "Why can't you watch it?" I say.

  "Because it's too painful," he says. "She... Marcellina... is the star of it."

  Marcellina.

  Fucking great.

  I have no idea what to say. Part of me wants to throw up. The last thing I want to do is watch a movie starring the love... former love... but apparently still current love... of Damien Cage's life. But I said I'd do it, so I'll do it. I just nod.

  But really? Is he fucking serious?

  Fine, whatever.

  Let's just get on with it, buddy.

  He gets up. He walks into a control room that we passed on the way in.

  The lights dim.

  The opening titles roll over blackness to the sounds of city streets:

  Phoenix Punch Films presents

  A Max Martin-Mike Weissberg Production

  of

  A Film by Robert Tisker

  Marcellina Montero

  in

  Tattered Angel

  Tattered Angel. My favorite Eon Sphinx song. Fuck, everyone's favorite Eon Sphinx song. Weeks at #1. Even overplayed there for a while.

  Written for her, apparently.

  Bitch!

  I make a promise myself to delete it from my iPod when I get home.

  For a moment, I even consider running out of here. Do I really need Damien? Maybe I should just keep on fucking Isabella and Jasmine.

  No... while that's fun and all, it's not what I really want.

  No, I promised I would watch this. So I'll watch it.

  I bite a nail.

  The credits roll over some working-class mill town. Looks like somewhere up north. Three-decker houses with drooping porches. Lots of Spanish-speaking kids playing in the streets. A hot summer day. A family block party with barbeques. Salsa music. A road sign reads Welcome to Brimford, Massachusetts.

  My heart skips a beat.

  Brimford?! Massachusetts?

  Where that guy Arely Gutierrez-Machado was killed. Where there was another murder this week being investigated by Detective Gomez.

  Oh my God, am I in danger?

  Shit, what have I gotten myself into?

  A whirlwind of thoughts zip around my head. The reporter in me comes alive.

  Focus on the movie, Annika! Just watch!

  The camera zooms in on an abandoned building. Inside a girl and a boy shoot heroin. Once they're high, they rejoin the block party outside.

  One of the opening credits reads:

  Screenplay by

  Marcellina Montero

  Fucking great. She's a writer too. Guess he likes writers.

  God, do I need a fucking drink!

  The movie focuses on the girl played by Marcellina Montero. Latina. Stunning. Gorgeous. I'm talking Isabella-gorgeous. Big beautiful brown-yellow eyes, with a glow like they're lit from behind. Black hair with blonde highlights. Thick lips. Beautiful light caramel skin. Tiny sexy frame. Big round ass.

  Shit, I can't compete with that! She's got me on every count.

  The girl in the movie is sexually abused by everyone in her life, starting at six years old. Her older brother feeds her heroin to help ease the pain of daily life in Brimford. While he's temporarily in prison, she responds to an ad to be in a porn movie so she can get $1,000 to buy some more heroin.

  She finds out she's good at it and does a series of more films. Moves to L.A.

  Then she starts to enjoy it. She becomes empowered, kicking the heroin habit. She forms her own porn company, makes a mint,
struggles with a bunch of family issues, and then ends up auditioning for a part in a big Hollywood movie.

  The ending is a montage of her new career as a mainstream movie star, crossed with her reuniting with a boy from school who once wrote poetry for her.

  The end credits roll.

  I'll admit, it's a hauntingly touching movie. Well done. I was unsure about where it was headed when she started doing porn, but the message was one of female empowerment.

  The lights come up.

  "That was Marcellina Montero four years ago," says Damien over the theater loudspeaker. "Now I'm going to show her to you today."

  The lights dim again.

  An image flashes onto the screen. Looks like a cellphone video.

  I put my hand up to my mouth and gasp.

  The video shows a woman in a hospital bed. She is connected to a feeding tube. The right side of her head is misshapen, all swollen up. One eye is puffed out to the point where it's open just enough to see some white. The other is closed. She has a receding hairline.

  A female nurse in blue scrubs checks her monitors and IV tubes. A machine beeps.

  The camera moves in closer. I start to cry. If Damien hadn't told me it was the same stunning girl who was in the movie, then I wouldn't have recognized her.

  But it's her. Definitely.

  The screen goes dark. The lights come up.

  Damien sits next to me.

  My hand is at my mouth. My eyes are full of tears. I look over at him. So are his.

  Fuck it, I wrap my arms around him.

  We sit like that for a long while, his head on my shoulder.

  Chapter 34

  "She's been like that for three years," Damien says. We're back in his lounge overlooking the pool, drinks in hand. "Not sure what happened. Nobody knows if it was intentional or not. Could have been a bad batch like the one that killed Philip Seymour Hoffman. She had just picked it up somewhere and was coming back to the house. She pulled into a strip mall parking lot to shoot up. And that was the end."

  I'm sitting next to him this time. I turn, reach over, and squeeze his hands.

  "I'm so sorry," I say. "Is there any hope for her?"

  "They've always said no," he says, "but I never believed them. The first doctor told me she's mostly brain dead. So I flew in a specialist who said she isn't and might wake up someday. But my gut tells me he was just making that up because I paid him so much money. According to the scans, the best she can ever hope for is to function as a three-year old. If she ever wakes up, that is. Which is highly doubtful."

  I wipe some more tears away from my face.

  "She was here for a year," he says. "This house. Bouncing around here like a ball of light and happiness. Made the place alive. Made me whole. Filled it with joy and warmth. We were unstoppable. We were perfect. Nothing was ever so perfect."

  He breaks contact with me, walking over to the window. He stares out at the ocean for a long minute. I can't see his face.

  "I'm damaged, Annika," he says. "I don't know if I can ever love anyone like that again. I don't know if I have it in me. I'm seriously broken. I'm still with her. I'm afraid I always might be. So understand that I may never get there with another person. I just want you to know that."

  "I so appreciate your sharing this with me," I say. "I had no idea."

  He turns around to face me, his arms still folded.

  "Nobody does," he says. "We kept our relationship well-hidden. She was actually a real... porn star. Damien Cage doesn't fuck porn stars. They're mostly unstable. Not all, but mostly. How we met is a story all on its own. I just wanted you to see what you're dealing with here so you can run if you want. I wouldn't blame you."

  I stand up and face him.

  "Run?" I say. "How could I possibly run?"

  "Because it would be smart," he says. "It's going to be a long painful struggle with me. If you're not up for it, I get that. I'm not even sure if I'm up for it."

  I walk toward him and grasp his folded forearms.

  "You have a mission," I say. "You want to help people rise above their position in life. I've already codified it in the first two chapters of the book I'm writing for you. But now... now I understand. I get your motivation. I'm so glad you shared this with me because it wasn't enough to be irritated with Lija Charry winning America's Top Voice. I knew there was something deeper. This is your why. Now I know where I need to go with it. I am up for it, Damien Cage Rock Star."

  "Don't call me that!" he says as he flicks my hands aside and storms off to the other side of the room. "Jesus Christ!"

  "I'm sorry. What did I say?"

  "You called me Damien Cage Rock Star."

  "So?"

  He runs his hand through his hair, pulling at it.

  "First you mention Far Away the day we met," he says, "a song that has deep meaning to her. Next, with nothing but moonlight, you find the private garden that I had built for her. Now you call me Damien Cage Rock Star... which is what she... always called me... God, it's like there's a part of her in you! Like she's trying to communicate through you or something."

  I reel my fist back to punch him in the face.

  But I stop myself mid-punch.

  He puts his hand up, palming my fist.

  Holy fuck! What was that?! Why did I do that? Where did that come from?

  I realize I'm breathing heavily.

  His mouth hangs open.

  "I'm... sorry," I say between gasping breaths. "This... is going to sound weird... but I don't know why I was about to punch you. It was like something took me over. Like somebody else was inside me."

  He grabs my wrist and looks deep in my eyes.

  "Marce?" he says, staring into me.

  "Huh?" I say.

  His eyes narrow and he steps back from me.

  "Nothing," he says. "Never mind."

  What was that?

  Why was I about to punch him?

  "I'm really sorry," I say.

  I mean it. I have no idea what that was. One second I was listening to him. The next I was about to hit him.

  What the fuck? Why? Am I losing my mind?

  "It's okay," he says, folding his arms and staring at the floor. "What are your plans for the next week?"

  I shake my head, trying to make sense of all this.

  "Umm..." I say, "working on your book."

  "You need a break," he says. "You're a little stressed. Time to relax a little."

  "I'm fine."

  "Well, I need a break. We're going to South America. You and me."

  Did he just say...?

  "Excuse me?" I say.

  "You heard me," he says. "Tell your mother and whoever else you need to tell. You work for me, remember?"

  "Where in South America?"

  "A tiny country most people don't even know exists. I have a place there. I found it a while back when I was... despondent. Nobody knows about it. Not even Jasmine. I've never taken anyone else there. But I need to go there now. And I need you with me. It will help you with your writing."

  "But I–"

  "No excuses. Go home, pack, and do what you need to do. Be here tomorrow morning at eight."

  Chapter 35

  The plane swerves left over the mountaintop, then banks hard and down.

  Shit, we're going to die.

  This is not how I thought I'd go, so young and in some tiny South American hellhole. Never even heard of this airline. Or this city. Or even this fucking country.

  Boom!

  The plane hits the ground with a smash. I bounce in my seat, almost hitting my head on the ceiling. Then the airbrakes kick in and we screech to a full stop.

  Thank God!

  Worst. Landing. Ever.

  Damien just looks at me and laughs. My white-knuckled hand is clawing into his. If I hadn't bitten most of my nails off recently, he would be bleeding.

  The plane taxis to the terminal. I breathe again.

  "That wasn't normal!" I say.

  "Actua
lly it is," he says. "The only way to land here is to come in down low off the mountain top, then dip down into the valley while taking a hard left and descending onto the runway at the same time. It's rated one of the most difficult runways in the world."

  "Well, isn't that just super-fucking-fun!"

  He laughs.

  The airport, such as it is, is nothing but a cluster of little brown cinderblock buildings.

  A blast of heat hits us as we walk down a steep set of stairs to the blotchy tarmac below. No jetways here. Not surprised.

  It's overcast and sputtering rain but hotter than hell. Even the raindrops are hot. We pick up our suitcases from a couple of guys unloading them onto carts right underneath the plane.

  Fancy.

  Then we walk right through customs without a word. We're on the street... well, slightly paved road... where Damien hails a taxi.

  I don't recognize the car model. It's part-orange, part brown, and makes a noise as loud as the aircraft we just stepped away from.

  I look longingly back at the plane, then get in the taxi with Damien. It smells like wet warthogs stewing in a pot of bat droppings. Not that I know what wet warthogs stewing in a pot of bat droppings smells like, but I'd bet it's something like this.

  "Casa Pedro," says Damien to the driver, who turns up a large hill into the city.

  Again, city is not the right word. Unless it was 1790. Then it would be a city. In today's terms it's more like a... mosaic of old buildings smashed tightly in together with little narrow streets in-between.

  "No fans at the airport," I say loudly over the noise.

  The car hits a pothole. We bounce hard.

  "Holy shit!" I say.

  "And this is one of the good roads," says Damien. "Yeah, I don't get fans down here. Kind of why I like the place. Nobody knows who I am. I can walk the streets in peace."

  "Why is that?" I say.

  "Most people here are too poor to own an iPod. Or even a computer. Life here is simple. It's work all day long, eat, sleep, then get up the next day and do it again."

  "Sounds miserable."

  "That's the part you may be surprised about."