Hooked Up: Book 2

by Richmonde, Arianne

  Sophie dabbed her lips with a hint of gloss. “Alessandra will be all over her, I just know it.”

  “Who?”

  “Alessandra will be all over Pearl.”

  “That’s right, you met Alessandra Demarr, that time backstage after we’d been to see her in that play. I’d forgotten about that. What’s she like?”

  Sophie turned her face away from me and said, “Oh look, our table’s ready. I’m starving, aren’t you?”

  At the time I didn’t put two and two together.

  SUSPICION

  PEARL

  AFTER MY NIGHTMARE, Alexandre brought me breakfast in bed the next morning. He set down the tray and poured me coffee, adding steaming hot milk—a change from just the usual black caffeine fix that I always drank at work. He believed the calcium was good for me. He knew just how I liked it, and it was always more delicious when he made it than when I did it for myself. In every way he was the most sensitive man to my needs and desires, except in one aspect:

  Sophie.

  She was like the cliché Italian mother-in-law who wanted to protect her son from the wicked influence of his wife or girlfriend. He was the eternal baby. Forever suspicious, she would always be jealous, no matter what you did or how you proved yourself. Sophie was just his sister, but because this sibling duo were so embroiled in HookedUp together, this was a tough battle. She was a sister who was unfortunately embedded in my life, whether I liked it or not. I was doing all I could not to nag. I had to be smart about this. My long game plan was to get her out of our lives.

  “Alexandre,” I began, wondering how to broach the subject. “No, never mind.”

  “You want to tell me about these bad dreams you’ve been having, my darling?” he asked, sitting beside me on the bed. He was already dressed, ready for work.

  I looked at my watch and saw I’d overslept. That nightmare had turned me upside down. “Actually,” I ventured, “I wanted to ask you if you noticed how . . . how spiky Sophie was being when we had her over for dinner. I mean, she covered it up well with smiles but her intention was to make me look small.”

  He held my hand. “Yes, I did notice. But the best thing to do with Sophie is ignore her when she’s being like that. She wants to get a rise out of you—if you react it’ll just feed her desire to overrun you even more. It’s her way of getting your attention. Be flattered she’s investing so much of her energy in you.”

  “Flattered? I’d like you to stop her behaving that way.”

  Alexandre shook his head. “I can’t stop her.”

  “Alexandre, why do you weaken when it comes to Sophie? If she’s going to be like that, I don’t want to see her. Period.”

  “Look, Sophie loves you.”

  “What?” I said, incredulous. “Are you serious? She hates everything about me!”

  “She was saying only yesterday how good you are for me. Singing your praises. That you’re beautiful and have the face of an angel. She thinks your eyes are . . . what was the word she used? Yes, that’s right . . . ‘soulful.’ She loves you, Pearl. Believe me, if Sophie didn’t like you, you’d soon realize. It’s just her manner. Plus her English comes out a bit strange sometimes—the translation goes a bit awry, and things sound critical or odd but she doesn’t mean it that way.”

  “She’s playing us both, Alexandre.” I sighed, exasperated. We were going nowhere with this conversation. “I wish I’d never agreed to the wedding gown gift.”

  But he just kissed me on the forehead as if I was his little daughter who hadn’t had her rest and was cranky from lack of sleep. “She adores you, Pearl. Now, I’ve got meetings all day so I’ll see you later this evening. I’m taking you to the opera tonight.”

  “Wonderful,” I mumbled grumpily, but then realized how spoiled that sounded so I asked with more energy, “What are we going to see?”

  “Surprise.”

  I walked to work with Rex and decided to spend the day with Natalie. For some reason I thought that working on feature films would be more exciting, but I was beginning to find I missed the detail of documentaries. There was something satisfying about delving into a world you would never normally encounter and unveiling truths and horrors that the normal public would never find out about. Sharing real life stories rather than selling fantasies; that was fulfilling.

  Natalie’s latest venture was into the dark cavern of modern slavery and human trafficking. It was something she felt passionate about because her ancestors were African slaves shipped to America. She was horrified that with all our education, this travesty was still happening all over the globe; the difference being that it was undercover and illegal, but nevertheless rife. I agreed with her and thought our project crucial.

  I FOUND NATALIE in the editing room. The light was low and I studied her concentrated hazel eyes set amidst her smooth café-au-lait-toned face. She was staring at the screen in the semi-darkness.

  She clicked her fingers. “Cut right there,” she instructed her assistant, John. “And then pick it up again at the voodoo dance bit.” She looked at me out of the corner of her eye, “Hi, Pearl. We have so much footage I don’t know how to squeeze it all in, in under just one hour.”

  “Make it ninety minutes, then.”

  “Can we get away with that?”

  “Why not? I think people will be riveted by this story. We can do a special on it. I mean . . . this is world news. Most people think slavery finished with Abraham Lincoln—they need to know what’s going on right here in New York City. Also, in London, and Rome, and in so many of the ‘civilized’ cities of the Western world.”

  Natalie wiped a tear from her cheek. “It breaks my heart.”

  Just as she said those words, Rex came wagging up to her.

  I laughed at his adorable dolphin face. Dogs can smile. “Mention the word ‘heart,’ ” I told her, “and Rex will be at your side. He has an uncanny instinct when it comes to emotions. He can feel it when people are sad.”

  Natalie held Rex’s wide head in both hands and kissed him. “You sweet boy, just what the doctor ordered.”

  “By the way, sorry to change the subject but while it’s on my mind, Dad called.”

  Natalie raised an eyebrow. “Did he now.”

  “He misses you and wonders why you won’t return his calls.”

  “Men,” she said, and then sighed.

  “I think he loves you, Natalie.”

  “Think being the operative word.”

  “No, really, I’m sure of it. Every time Dad and I speak he wants to talk about you.”

  “Look, your dad is gorgeous. Very sexy, very attractive, but as a human being he has a lot of failings. A lot. One of them being that he clams shut when it comes to his emotions. I’m sorry, Pearl, but I need a man who is more demonstrative.”

  “Well, I’m just passing this information on. Feel free to consider giving him another chance. You know, he is just a guy.”

  We laughed simultaneously.

  “What about co-living with Alexandre? Any better with psycho sis?”

  I told her about my Zang Toi visit, my wedding gown, and Sophie’s snarky comments about my ring.

  Natalie responded, “Clever woman. She has you over a barrel. Buying you with an amazing gown—now she feels she has control over you.”

  “You make it sound as if I had a choice in the matter.”

  “We always have a choice, Pearl.”

  “I wish I could be more assertive like you, Natalie. You think I should cancel the gown, then?”

  “It’s a little late for that now. But don’t have her over to your home anymore. Meet her at a restaurant, if need be . . . keep her at arm’s length.”

  “I can assure you, there’s no ‘need be’ –I’d be delighted if I never set eyes on her again.”

  We both fixed our gaze on John for a moment as he prepared to show us more footage, and then Natalie said, “So pleased about Alessandra Demarr, and that you came out on top getting a female lead.”

 
; “Girl power,” I joked.

  “You may laugh but it’s true—we women need to look out for each other. When are you going to meet her?”

  “It looks like Alexandre and I are going to Los Angeles in a few days. He’s just waiting to hear back on something.”

  “Well, watch out for her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She has a reputation, Pearl. She’s a seductress.”

  “I have confidence in Alexandre—I trust him.”

  Natalie chuckled. “Not him, dummy. You. Be careful you don’t fall for her charms.”

  THE OPERA WAS awe-inspiring. A new soprano (with a name nobody could pronounce) had everyone enthralled with her angelic voice. Afterwards, Alexandre and I went for a late supper and came home well after midnight.

  I lay in bed, unable to sleep. Not even sex had been able to calm my nerves; in fact, it made things worse. Natalie’s film played over and over in my mind. All I could think about was how men control so many parts of the world and women are their victims. Poor innocent girls, some as young as thirteen being sold by their husbands or families in Nigeria—lured away for a “better life” in Europe, or the States, being promised lucrative jobs or an education but ending up working for the sex industry. An “industry” . . . with no thought for their feelings or their wellbeing—like cattle being herded in droves.

  How could there be so many monsters in this world? The image of Sula, one of the children in the film, who was later lucky enough to have been saved, was turning over in my thoughts. Her large, doe-like eyes, her long elegant neck; a sweet child, who was abused by hundreds of men out for a cheap thrill. Cheap. As if she were worthless; just two holes—orifices for them to abuse. It made me sick.

  Finally, I drifted off to a worrying sleep . . .

  I LAY DOWN on the futon, in just my bra and panties. The room was dimly lit, with just a flickering candle. I felt nervous but excited. This was a first. I could hear them mumbling between themselves, discussing me. It was exhilarating to be the center of attention. I lay back, the tequila whooshing through my veins. I told them my name was Jane. Jane Doe. They were from another college, I’d probably never see them again but still, I didn’t want to get a bad reputation—didn’t want to be gossiped about. This was going to be a one-time thing, a secret. I wouldn’t even tell Julia.

  Jane Doe. I smiled to myself, wondering if these boys believed my silly fib.

  A firm hand touched my ankle, stroking me gently. Then, a different hand, a little rougher, on my other calf. “Fuck, she’s got a body on her,” one said.

  I looked at them hazily and saw the blond one had his shirt off. He too had a body on him. A football player. They both were athletic. I was in for a treat, I thought. My boyfriend Brad’s body was different from these two; he was lithe and slim. He hated sports—he was too intellectual for that. These guys were hot. Dumb, from the basic way they spoke and the things they’d been saying all evening like, “stoked” and “dude” –their vocabulary was limited, but they were hot, nevertheless.

  One hand trailed up my leg and lingered on my thigh. I felt myself clench inside and I gasped.

  “Turn over,” the blond one said.

  I turned on my stomach. He unclasped my bra and I felt some warm oil being rubbed on my back. Four hands were massaging me and it felt incredible, the knots in my shoulders being kneaded away. One set of hands was working on my upper body and the other traced down to my ass, cupping it, squeezing it; the fingers brushing past my crack. I moaned. This felt amazing. The same hand parted the cleft in my butt and trailed an index finger along it, resting at my opening. I could sense dampness gather, my clit tingling with pleasure. The hands moved down my thighs, and then up again, pressing against my panties, exploring me.

  “She’s as wet as a wetback, dude,” one said, and they both laughed.

  Blood rushed to my head for a second, riled by the racist comment—normally something I would have jumped at—but I felt so good, so relaxed, the liquor coursing through my body, throbbing in my groin.

  The other pair of hands moved underneath me, caressing my belly, then cupping my whole mound, the base of his palm pushing in just the perfect spot. I groaned and took his hand, thrusting it against my clit and I lifted my stomach upwards off the futon and pressed hard back down on it again. I felt so aroused.

  “Jesus, her pussy’s wet,” this one said. He opened my legs apart and slipped his fingers inside me with one hand and peeled my panties off with the other.

  “Turn back over,” the other one said. “I want to suck those hot tits.” He pushed my body so it rolled like a heavy stone. He pulled off my bra. I felt woozy. I was now on my back, my eyes closed. I could smell some patchouli incense coiling in the air, rich and thick. My head was propped up by cushions.

  The blond one edged farther down the bed and pried my thighs apart with his hands. “Gotta chow down on this pussy,” he told me with a sexy groan. His tongue darted out at my clit, and I could feel my body, almost as if it didn’t belong to me, writhing with desire. He pressed his entire mouth over my folds and began to lash his tongue up and down my cleft then circle my clit with his flipping tongue. I arched my back up high, and moaned, pressing myself against his mouth.

  The other guy was sucking my nipples. Nibbling on them, gently tugging with his teeth. “Christ, this feels incredible,” I whimpered, the alcohol drumming through my veins.

  I flexed my hips even closer to the blond one’s mouth. I could feel the need building, the need to be penetrated as the guy working on my torso, flicking his tongue again on my hard nipple, making it pucker. He then kneeled up and I saw his erection press towards my face.

  “Suck my dick,” he commanded.

  I felt the other guy’s finger slide inside me. “Gotta fuck this pussy,” he said.

  The other one shoved his penis in my face. I held my breath—the reality of what I had got myself into suddenly hit me.

  I heard him say to his friend, “Wait up, dude, she’s gotta suck my dick first. I wanna come inside her mouth. I want her to lick her sweet tongue all over my cock and suck it till my hot, creamy cum jets out to the back of her throat. Then I’m gonna fuck her, fuck that tight, horny little cunt—fuck it till she’s begging me to stop.”

  “Dude, I’ve gotta bone her first—she’s got my dick so pumping and hard—gotta fuck that wet cunt—gonna make that cunt come all over my cement-hard dick.”

  I need air. I need space.

  “Wake up!”

  I don’t want to open my eyes. I don’t want to see.

  “Darling, wake up!”

  I dared to peel open my eyes and saw Alexandre’s concerned face staring at me. I let out the breath I’d been holding in . . . my lungs expired with relief.

  Alexandre shook his head. “There’s something wrong. I don’t understand. Why are you having these nightmares all of a sudden? Baby, what’s wrong?” He gripped me tight and covered my face with kisses.

  “Just a bad dream.”

  “You were moaning—muttering in your sleep. Everything seemed fine at first, your lips were even curved in a smile, but then you started thrashing about the bed and crying out. Tell me about your dream, Pearl, baby. Maybe if you speak about it, these nightmares will go away.

  “I can’t remember,” I lied. “I don’t remember. Please just hold me, Alexandre.”

  ALEXANDRE

  WHEN PEARL suggested we go to LA, I jumped at the chance. Her nightmares had gotten out of control, but she wouldn’t discuss them with me, just insisted she couldn’t remember what had happened each time. Yet I could sense her pulling away. Her desire for me was wavering like a flickering candle. Why all of a sudden? As if something had triggered the bad dreams, which in turn were making her jump when I touched her as she slept. What and why?

  I wondered if I was somehow responsible; if I’d been too sexual with her—too dominating, too insatiable. She was holding something back, but I had no idea what. So I put it down to
the documentary she and Natalie were making on child trafficking. The tales she told me of young girls being raped and beaten were pretty horrific. Selfishly, I was glad that Pearl wanted to take a break from making controversial documentaries and move into something less harrowing: feature films. Although, dealing with actors’ egos could also be pretty tough, but at least her day-to-day work would be somewhat more lighthearted.

  So LA would be a breath of fresh air, I thought. We’d go, take a vacation, and then I’d leave her there if she wanted to stay on as I had a business trip in Canada coming up. I hoped that it would calm her down a bit; a change of scenery would stop these nightmares. She could tinker with the Stone Trooper script with the scriptwriter, as Alessandra Demarr had insisted on changes. Being a Tony award-winning actress, Alessandra had some clout, and Sam Myers seemed to be bending over backwards to keep her sweet.

  As I was turning all this over in my thoughts, the dreaded phone call from Claudine came, buzzing like an irritating mosquito about to strike.

  I picked up my cell. “How did you get my number?” I asked Claudine. She hadn’t even spoken but I suspected it was Claudine because of the weighty silence that I knew I was expected to fill. Responsible as I was for her misery. Not.

  “Alexandre, I’m so down. My boyfriend and I—”

  “I know,” I cut in. “Sophie told me. I’m sorry it didn’t work out but don’t lose hope—there are plenty of other men out there who would be delighted to date you.” Delighted until enlightened . . . to the psycho side.

  “You’re the only man I’ve ever known who knows how to fuck me properly, Alex.”

  Uh, oh. “You’re being dramatic. Don’t be silly.”

  “I’ve been on a binge. I’ve fucked eight men in eight days and not a single one of them has gotten me even close to feeling turned on, let alone having an orgasm.”

  “Claudine, that’s not the way to go about things. Men usually don’t care if a woman comes or not. They’re in it for themselves. That’s why you need to develop a real relationship with someone. So he cares about your needs.”