by Tara West
I slowly lowered myself onto the bed, the same bed where I’d lost myself to Brad’s passionate kiss, momentarily forgetting I was the one in control. No man had ever mesmerized me like that before, and I was determined not to give Brad the chance to do it again.
* * *
I woke up to a pounding headache. I draped an arm over my eyes before rolling onto my side. The banging in my head persisted, louder and more urgent. It took me a moment to realize the sound was coming from my front door.
Mierda. Brad.
I heaved myself out of bed and grabbed my robe off the chair, slipping into it before padding to the door. “Hold your horses!” I called before checking the peephole and unlocking the door.
He was standing there with a pained smile, balancing a bag of donuts and a tray with two steaming cups of coffee in one hand.
Damn. I could so go for a chocolate-glazed donut and something warm and caffeinated to wake me up.
I leaned against the doorframe, letting out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, Brad. I can’t see you anymore.”
“Ariana, please don’t do this.” When he jutted a foot forward, I was afraid he’d try to push his way inside.
I clutched the handle, ready to slam it in his face if necessary. “It’s nothing you did. I just need to focus on my career right now.”
“You think my career doesn’t require focus?” His voice rose an octave, and his cheeks flushed bright pink. “It’s called multitasking.”
Clearly I was pissing him off. Why had I expected him to be different from all the other pendejos I’d dated? “Brad, please. I just need some time alone.”
He blocked the door with his foot when I tried to shut it and jerked the handle out of my hands. “You need help.” His declaration cut through the fog in my brain like a hacksaw.
“Why should a girl need help just because she likes to be in control?”
“Because of the reason you like to be in control.”
Hijo de puta. “I’ve got a long day today. I can’t do this right now.”
I was about to kick his foot when he stepped back, holding up the donuts and coffee in mock surrender. “Okay, but you know where I am if you need to talk.”
Nervous laughter bubbled up in my throat, spilling over as I slammed the door behind me. This guy was relentless. Couldn’t he see I was never going to talk about it? Just like I was never going to give up control in the bedroom. This was who I was. Who the hell was he to try to change me? Who was he to think I needed help? He was a cardiologist, not a therapist. And even if he’d been a therapist, so fucking what?
I didn’t need to talk about it. I didn’t, even though telling Brad about the rape had felt somewhat cathartic. There was no one else I could have told, but he was gone now. I’d shut him out like I’d done with all the other guys who’d tried to get too close.
Somewhere deep inside, I suspected Brad was right. I needed help, but a therapist would make me bring all of those buried emotions to the surface, and I wasn’t ready to face those demons. Not now. Not ever.
eight
I didn’t know what my sleazeball director was expecting from me in return, but when I showed up to work, I had several more lines. I even had a name—Carmelita. It sounded like an ice cream topping. At least my lines were good, though painful. I had to describe to the detective the brutal details of the night my pimp beat and raped me.
Since the change to the script had been made last minute, I only had about an hour to go over my part. The prostitute’s story and mine had too many eerie similarities. I knew I could do this, but that would mean I’d have to go deep inside myself and drag out that terrified and confused high school girl, exposing her to the director, the cameramen, and the whole world.
You got this, Ariana. You can do it.
For several years I’d been preparing for my big moment on television. I’d studied the techniques. I could scream as if the very bowels of hell had opened up, threatening to suck me under. I could play a hard-nosed bitch, stuck in survival mode and not afraid to claw someone’s eyes out if I felt threatened.
But what I could play best was the victim. I could fall down, shuddering and withdrawing into myself, tears streaming down my face while that dark pit of emptiness threatened to swallow me whole.
All I had to do was summon memories of Bud Boudreau ripping off my jeans and rutting me from behind like an animal in heat. The stink and sweat on his filthy fingers when he’d covered my screams with his calloused hands, and the pain lancing through my body as he pushed his way inside me, ripping me open like a butcher knife slicing through raw meat. The agony of him squeezing my breasts so hard, the bruising had taken weeks to heal. But most of all, the rancid smell of foul whiskey on his breath when he’d licked my cheek, breathing hot into my ear while threatening to deport my mother if I told a soul.
Yeah, all I needed to do was visualize the night Bud Boudreau raped me, and I could play the victim just fine.
I sat alone in an abandoned prop room and rehearsed my lines until they called me. I walked onto the set and sat at a table beneath the glaring lights opposite the pale blonde Detective Garza and her partner.
The cameras were rolling. She spoke briefly with her partner before turning to me, asking me to describe the rape in great detail. I inhaled a shuddering breath, looking at my hands fisted on the table. Then I turned to her with watery eyes and told Carmelita’s story—my story.
* * *
After we finished filming the scene, the crew congratulated me for a job well done. A few of the women were crying. The actress playing Detective Garza said she’d almost broken character and started bawling. My slimeball director gave me a standing ovation, eyeing me with a new sense of appreciation. Maybe he’d finally realized I wasn’t just a pussy with legs and I should be treated like a professional.
The courtroom scene wasn’t until the next morning, so I picked up a cup of coffee and a muffin and went into my little prop room to prepare. I was going to have to tell a similar story to the judge. I didn’t know how I would make it through the night with Carmelita in my head.
I turned on the video phone and recorded my monologue, playing it back a few times and critiquing my facial expressions. I was recording my final take when a knock on the door startled me. I threw down my script and turned around. Before I had a chance to tell him to take a hike, Sebastian Hendrix had slipped inside my cramped space.
“Hey, that was amazing. My producer is going to be—” he paused, tapping his bearded chin as if he was thinking of the right words to say, “—shocked when she sees it.” He ended with a predatory smile, the kind that made kids hide behind their mothers’ legs.
“Thanks.” I shifted uncomfortably as a warning siren went off in my brain.
Without asking, Sebastian pulled up a folding chair and sat facing me, his knees rubbing against mine. “What are you doing after work?”
I made a big show of scooting back, grumbling as I scraped the chair across the tiles. “Going to bed.”
“Really?” His eyes widened, then narrowed, like a wolf honing in on a lone rabbit.
I arched back, scowling. “Not with you.”
“Oh, come on.” He laughed, then scooted closer to me, as if this was all a big fucking game.
I gestured at my script on the table, covering the phone that was hopefully still recording. “I have to get back to my lines.”
“Wait.” He grabbed my sore arm, digging in hard as if he was trying to rip open my stitches.
“Ouch!” I snapped, shaking him off me.
“Sorry.” He ran a hand through his greasy hair. “I’m trying to work out an angle for you. Undercover detective working as a prostitute.”
The only angle he was trying to work was getting laid. “You already have a female Latina cop.”
“The execs are saying she’s not Hispanic enough.” He threw up his hands, rolling his eyes. “Whatever that means. I should have cast you in the first place.”
I r
aked a hand down my leg, fighting the urge to slap him. “A little too late for that.”
“It’s never too late, Ariana.” He lunged for me, grabbing the back of my head and trying to pull my face toward his.
I fell out of the chair, landing on my knee with a painful crack and slapping his hand away. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Do you want the job or not?” he growled.
My heart beat like a stampede in my eardrums. “Not on these terms.”
“Don’t lie to me, Ariana. I know you like to suck dick.” He jumped from his chair, grabbing my hair by the roots and thrusting his crotch at my face.
I hauled off and punched him right in the cajones.
He fell to the floor, curled up in a fetal ball. “Fucking bitch!”
I stood on shaky legs. “Touch me again, and I’ll kick your balls into your throat.”
* * *
I didn’t know if I should’ve been relieved or disappointed Brad’s driveway was empty. Sometimes he worked until late at night. I hoped that’s where he was, and not at some bar picking up a girl who wasn’t too controlling in bed.
I’d just come from a big blowout with my agent. The pendejo tore up our contract after learning I’d punched my director. What the hell did he expect me to do? Open wide so Carmelita could get a few more lines? Now I was without an agent, and very soon I’d be without a job. I didn’t wait around for Sebastian to fire me, but I was sure he was planning on it, right after his nuts dropped.
Despite my horrific afternoon, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. I rubbed my scarred knuckles. From now on, whenever I looked at that hand, I wouldn’t think of how Bud Boudreau had stomped on my hand when I’d tried to get away. No, I’d think of the time my fist had plowed into my director’s junk, and how Sebastian Hendrix curled into a ball on the floor and wept like a baby.
As I stared at my fist, I had a new sense of empowerment. I hadn’t needed to tie Sebastian up to protect myself. I’d known how to exploit his weakness, just as he’d tried to do to me.
nine
When I showed up to work the next day, I was surprised security let me into the parking lot and through the studio doors. I was equally shocked when nobody handed me a pink slip.
Weird.
Had Sebastian had a change of heart, or was he at a hospital somewhere, having his cajones extracted from his bladder ?
There was no sign of Sebastian on the set. I spun around when one of the assistant directors whistled at me, waving me over. She was a woman of about fifty, tall and skinny with a crooked nose.
My legs felt heavy as I trudged over to her. I was about to get fired. No doubt Sebastian had hired her to do his dirty work. She thumbed at the door behind her. “The producer wants a word with you.”
Fuck.
I hadn’t met the producer yet. A few of the crew members mentioned she’d had a family emergency. Apparently she was back. I assumed her first order of business was to hand me a pink slip. Sebastian had probably made up some wild story just to get me fired.
I hesitantly knocked on the door before poking my head inside. “You wanted to see me?” I squeaked, hating the mousy sound of my voice.
“Come in,” she drawled from behind an oversized leather chair that was facing away from me.
After closing the door behind me, I walked up to the desk. My jaw dropped when she spun around. I was momentarily shocked into silence before jutting an accusatory finger at her chest. “You cut my arm. Eight stitches, plus a tetanus shot.”
She folded her hands in front of her, eyeing me through slits. “I can do more than cut your arm, bitch. I can cut your entire career.”
I slapped a palm on her desk, turning my wound toward her. “The deductible was a hundred and twenty, not to mention there’s going to be a permanent scar.”
She didn’t even bat a fake eyelash as she leaned back. “As in you’ll never work in this town again.”
I glared at her. Seriously, what could the bitch do to me that Sebastian hadn’t already done? “What was that, a pocket knife?”
“A silver cross I was going to give to my mother.” She puffed her hair helmet. “It fell out of the wrapping.”
Oh, shit, a cross? I could never tell Mamá. She’d say it was a sign I needed to repent, then she’d force me to get on my knees and recite a hundred Hail Marys. “Couldn’t you have boxed it first?”
“Sit.” She pointed to the chair beside me. “You’re the mouthiest bitch I’ve ever met.”
I knew I was a mouthy bitch, and I considered her insult a compliment. I sat down, casually crossing one leg over the other and pretending to inspect grime beneath my fingernail. “Admit it. I’d make a perfect homicide detective.”
She laughed. “If you don’t give my director a fucking heart attack first. He said you punched him for refusing to give you the detective role.”
“That’s not why I punched him,” I growled. I was so angry, I was seeing red. That lying little prick.
She waved me off as if she was shooing a fly. “He was going to fire you this morning, but after I watched a playback of your stellar performance, I decided it would be a shame to waste good talent.”
Doubtful. She probably just wanted the honor of firing me herself.
I leaned forward, imagining my expression was so intense, it could peel the paint off the walls. “He tried to force me to give him a blowjob. I’m not sucking his dick for this part, just like I’m not kissing your ass when you’re the one who ran into me.”
One corner of her plump lip twitched before she flashed a cosmetically enhanced smile. “Isn’t that what you do best? Suck on married men’s dicks while their wives are getting Botox?”
I drummed my fingernails on the top of her shiny mahogany desk. “I don’t sleep with married men. I lied to piss you off.”
“It worked.” She grabbed a pen out of a drawer, squeezing it until her knuckles whitened. Then she slanted a sideways smile. Either that or her lips were due for a collagen boost. “But I’m glad to hear you don’t sleep with married men.”
I shrugged. “I wouldn’t knowingly.” I’d only slept with one married man that I knew of, a sailor I met my freshman year in college. I was dumb enough to believe the hot stud I’d been fucking didn’t have a wife and three kids back home until I read a text from his wife. I’d ended it right then and there, despite his reassurances he was about to file for divorce.
The producer traced lazy circles on a blank piece of paper, stopping to leer at me from beneath her lashes. “Do you know Sebastian’s wife?”
“No, and I don’t care to,” I grumbled. “I’m not here to fuck him. I’m here to play a goddamn homicide detective.”
If the bitch was going to fire me, I wished she’d just get it over with.
She picked up a photograph off her desk. “Just so you know, I’m Sebastian’s wife.” She spun the photograph toward me. It was an image of her and Sebastian holding hands. She was in a modest, off-white wedding gown, and he was in a tuxedo. They were both shoeless and smiling on the beach. What a happy moment. Too bad it obviously hadn’t lasted.
“Oh!” I tried to erase the look of shock from my face, but I knew it was too late. She had to be at least twenty years older than him. Wow. I’d figured her as the gold-digger. Guessed I had my stereotypes reversed.
“Sorry I haven’t been around much.” She tossed the pen on her desk. “I had to make funeral arrangements for my mother. She had a massive heart attack two days ago.”
“I’m sorry.” The fucker had been trying to get a blowjob while his wife was burying her mother? Wow. The guy had balls. I was so glad I’d smashed them.
“Shit happens.” She dabbed the edge of her eyes with a tissue before throwing it in a wastebasket. “The show must go on, as they say.” She pulled out her cellphone and hit a few buttons. “Sebastian,” she yelled into the speaker. “I need you in my office. Now.” She plastered on a cool smile while looking me over. “So you wanted the detective
part, did you?”
I pulled back my shoulders, determined not to let her intimidate me. “I thought I had the part when Sebastian hired me.”
She waved a manicured hand at my elbow. “Did he know about your injury?”
“I told him about it during the callback audition.”
Her smile thinned. “I see.”
Suddenly, it all made sense. No wonder Sebastian had been so fascinated by my bag-attack story the day of my callback. His wife had probably already told him about the incident with the mouthy Latina and my empty threat to suck her husband’s dick.
Wow, Ariana. Insert foot in mouth.
I studied her features once more, this time from a different perspective. Here was a woman who’d obviously busted her ass, working her way up to television producer, only to be taken advantage of by a money-grubbing parasite who was more interested in getting his cock sucked by other women than in being a considerate husband.
“You can do better than him, you know?”
Her sculpted brows dipped beneath stiff bangs. “Is that so? Thank you.” She held out a hand. “I’m Johanna, by the way. Johanna Johnson.”
I shook her hand with a smile. “Ariana Alvarado.”
“Nice to meet you, Ariana Alvarado. I apologize for bumping into you.”
Wow. Progress. Maybe she’d even reimburse my copay, but I wasn’t holding my breath.
I let go of her hand when the door opened behind me and the sleazeball slipped inside. I knew he would try to stick to his story, which was hilarious, considering I had audio of the incident. There was no way he was hiding from the truth now.
He walked with a confident swagger, then stopped as if he’d slammed into an invisible wall. He paled and then turned as red as an apple when he saw his wife and me casually sitting across from each other like we were old friends.
“What did you say to her?” His gaze darted from his wife to me.
I turned up my chin. “That I’m not sucking your dick.”