More Stories from the Twilight Zone

by Carol Serling

  Alan straightened the gold chain around his neck and grabbed his diamond-encrusted white-gold Rolex Oyster off the floor where he had flung it during the evening’s festivities.

  “Darling, there’s no question—I’m leaving her. I won’t live another day without you.”

  “I want you to stay with her, darling. I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

  Like hell she didn’t. However, she would not attain the stature of a global sex-goddess by seducing one megalomaniacal producer.

  Alan’s BlackBerry buzzed and he grabbed it off the nightstand. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, “if that hermaphrodite assistant of mine schedules one more morning meeting for me, I’m gonna rip out every tooth in his queer head.” He slipped into his new James Bond Brioni power suit—this one an $11,000 Pure Escorial Jet Black—and kissed her roughly. “Relax! Order breakfast, lay by the pool!” he ordered, rushing out the door.

  Just as Livia lay back in bed, basking in luxury, her purple cell phone rang. Snapping it open, she knew who it was.

  “Jenny! I have so much to tell you!”

  “Liv?” The voice was deep and growling. “This is Malachi Chung.”

  “Malachi!” she whispered breathily, rolling onto her stomach. “Where have you been all my life?”

  “Pining away for you. Alan says you’re Cleopatra, and I need to discuss our vision of her with you. I’m only shooting inserts. Meet me on the lot in an hour.”

  “I can’t wait, darling.”

  She clicked the purple phone shut.

  “Make her bleed!”

  Hearing Malachi’s voice, she lingered in the shadows by the doorway of the set where no one could see her. A buxom Latina actress lay naked in a bathtub on a small bathroom stage. She talked and laughed to someone offstage.

  “Ready, Rosita?” Malachi called. The girl nodded and let her head fall to one side. “Roll sound . . . roll camera . . . action!”

  Suddenly, a burly redheaded man burst on the stage with a baseball bat. He ran to the bathtub and beat the woman with it over and over. She bellowed lusty, B-movie ululations worthy of Beverly Garland, the legendary horror-flick scream queen. As her arms and legs spasmed, the screams pumped out of her repeatedly. Hidden in the shadows, Livia reminded herself to breathe.

  “You like that, bitch?” the man thundered.

  “Cut!” Malachi yelled. He stepped onstage. “Yes, yes, yes! Insanely hot.” He wiped sweat off his forehead and peered in Livia’s direction. She took a tentative step out from the shadows. “That’s a wrap!” he yelled, eyes on her.

  As the cast and crew chatted and milled about, he strode toward her. “Did you see that? How sexy was that?”

  “So hot,” she answered, even as she wondered if anyone really bought into his savage-sexy bullshit.

  “That scene is brilliant. Seminal. Merging brutality and beauty—that’s true art. But you—well, you’re a sensation all on your own.” His gaze was so carnivorous she felt violated—not that she minded. “Where did you come from?”

  “Your imagination, of course. I was made to fulfill your secret desires and your most prurient passions.”

  “And to service my masterpiece! The ultimate cocktail of gore, insanity, psychopathy, sado-erotica and Shakespeare! Do you have any idea how delicious this film will be?” His eyes lost focus for a moment, and she shuddered, thinking what sordid stuff he was determined to put her through in her film debut. “Come with me. There’s an empty stage where I can take a few shots of you.”

  “I didn’t know I would be on camera today . . .” She gestured to her simple blue cotton dress.

  “Never fear, my Devil with a Blue Dress On. Everything becomes you, and the camera will love you.”

  And it did. To her amazement, the lens lusted after her almost as hungrily as Malachi.

  “Incredible,” he marveled later, staring at the digital-assist footage when he wasn’t darting around adjusting lights and camera settings. “It’s impossible to make you look anything less than desirable and divine.”

  Livia arched her back and tousled her hair. “I exist solely for your work and your happiness.”

  Malachi peered through a camera. “Because of you,” he said, “this film will be the most stunning artwork I shall ever conceive, write, and direct.”

  “I would be nothing without your genius,” she pandered, as if Shakespeare would have nothing to do with the production.

  “You were designed for me, my Cleopatra. You tantalize my eyes and inflame my desire. But that is not enough. I want more.”

  “Take it all.”

  She gasped as he swooped her into a low dip, kissed her voluptuously, vehemently, then yanked her back up. His cheek to hers, he whispered:

  “Lascivious Liv, you intoxicate me.” Holding her hand, he spun her away, then whipped her back in to him. “I’m a man who knows what he wants. My scripts, my sets, my actors, my cameras, my lights—I control them all. And what I want is you, Liv Lux.” He grabbed the back of her neck firmly, fingers massaging her skull. “I want to rip you apart.” His hot breath tickled her face.

  “Is that who I think it is?” Overhead lights illuminated the stage, exposing their lovers’ embrace. Alan Hakim approached them in a red shirt, a tan vest and matching jodhpurs, black riding boots polished to a mirror-gloss and heeled with gleaming steel rowels. He strode toward them with short, determined steps, a black riding crop under his armpit. He stopped five feet from them, legs apart, cracking the crop on his right boot-top.

  “My director with my newest star? What are you doing, Malachi? Purloining my property?”

  “Malachi was just screen-testing me,” Livia said, pulling from the director’s grip. She faced Alan, hands clasped behind her back.

  “She’s stunning on camera,” Malachi told him.

  “Of course she is,” Alan said, eyeing them suspiciously. He took Livia’s hand and kissed it. “But preproduction doesn’t start for three weeks. Don’t put her to work before then.” He put his arm around her. “Princess, let’s go for lunch.”

  Malachi grabbed her hand and pulled her from Alan. “Actually,” he said, “I need to have lunch with her. We need to discuss her character.”

  Alan bristled and stepped closer so that Livia was sandwiched between them.

  “I’m sorry, boys,” Livia said, “but you’re both out of luck. I’ve promised the rest of the day to my best girlfriend—we have an awful lot to catch up on.”

  The two men stared at her downcast, but each seemed satisfied that she wouldn’t be with the other.

  “Go play with your girlfriend then, doll,” Alan said, squeezing her arms and kissing her on the cheek.

  Malachi pulled her into a long, tight embrace. “Can I see you tonight?” he whispered.

  Alan cleared his throat pointedly.

  “Booked through the night.” She pulled away and put a hand on each of their shoulders. “You boys play nice while I’m gone.” She looked back just once as she left. The bigwigs slavered in her wake like lovesick, dreamy-eyed puppies.

  Two men subjugated in less than two days.

  Not bad, for an aspiring goddess.

  Jenny’s bookstore was a rare haven for intellects nestled between the trashy apparel shops and flavor-of-the-week nightclubs on Hollywood Boulevard. Jenny told Livia that it had been there since the 1950s, before the neighborhood’s glamour decayed into seediness.

  Outside the glass storefront window, Livia kicked a few French fries off Tippi Hedren’s star in the sidewalk. Even when Hollywood gave her the cold shoulder, she faithfully defended its glitz and tinsel.

  She sauntered into the store, pulling off her sunglasses and planting them on top of her head.

  “Jenny!” she yelled.

  The shop was usually empty but always charming. Amber light shone from antique green lamps onto cherrywood bookshelves and plush chocolate-colored chairs adorned with thick ribs of corduroy. Livia fell into one sideways, her high-heeled tawny boots dangling ov
er the side. “Jenny!!”

  “You’re impertinent, you know that?” Jenny called from the stockroom.

  “But you love me!”

  Jenny emerged and sat in a chair facing her. “How’re you holding up? Feeling any better since the other night?”

  Livia grinned like a six-year-old showing off a new front tooth. “You wouldn’t believe how much better!”

  She recounted her sudden power in new sex appeal, her triumphant intrusion into the audition room, and her seductions of both Alan Hakim and Malachi Chung. Nothing was omitted except the deal she had made with Isis.

  “And the best part is, I’m only just getting started,” she said.

  Jenny pursed her lips in disapproval. Getting up, she strode to a bookshelf.

  “I know what your books say,” Livia whined. “ ‘No good will come of any of this.’ But those books were written by bitter people who never really lived. They’re stories.”

  Jenny triumphantly pulled out a volume of Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra.

  “Remember what happened to Cleopatra?” She tossed the thick book to Livia. “And your other idol, Marilyn Monroe?” She walked to another shelf, pulled out Double Cross, and tossed that to her, too. “Whacked by the mob. Remember how they treated you the other day? Alan Hakim is a bigoted, married mogul who’s famous for his temper! And Malachi Chung is a heroin addict—”

  “Former heroin addict!”

  “—who’s built a career wreaking violence on women!” She kneeled in front of Livia. “Olive, I’m serious. I’m happy for you—believe me, I am. But you’ve got to be careful.”

  A chill flashed through Livia like a cold black wind—but it passed.

  “Don’t be so uptight,” Livia said. “Look, I appreciate your concern. I really, really do. But this is my chance—this is what I’ve been dreaming about my whole life! Besides”—she grabbed Jenny’s hands—”don’t forget who my co-star is.”

  Livia had her. Jenny couldn’t suppress a sly smile. She knew Jenny’s fantasy lover. Livia had seen his poster in her bedroom, his shining countenance facing the head of her bed. Lucas Bright was Jenny’s objet d’amour.

  “I’m bound to get to know him at some point—we’ll be on set together for six months,” Livia said. “And once I do, I just might have to introduce him to a very special someone.”

  Jenny groaned. “But wait—doesn’t he have a girlfriend? The singer from the Wind-up Dolls, right?”

  “That was ages ago. Supposedly he’s dating the girl from that new lawyer show.”

  “The female partner?”

  “No, her daughter. But that’s probably just for publicity.”

  Livia felt something in her purse: the little purple phone buzzing with an unknown caller once again. Livia raised a knowing eyebrow at Jenny.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Lucas,” the caller said. “How’s it going?”

  Livia pressed the button to put it on speaker phone. “I’m all right. How about yourself, big boy?”

  “Cool, cool. So I was thinking, since we’re gonna be working together, we should have a drink. Get to know each other.”

  “Sounds good. But I already had plans to hang out with my friend Jenny.”

  “So bring her! I’m down with threesomes.”

  Livia nodded knowingly at Jenny, who blushed. “We’ll meet you at the bar at Chateau Marmont at eight?”

  “Nice. See you girls there.”

  “Ciao!”

  She snapped the phone closed. “I prefer the term ‘Fairy Godmother,’ ” she instructed.

  Jenny jumped up and danced around the store, giggling, more animated than Livia had seen her in years.

  “Can I borrow your lucky bracelet?”

  Every person in the posh bar, male or female, gaped at Lucas Bright.

  But he only had eyes only for Livia.

  Jenny had regarded the night as a test and prepared accordingly: She had rehearsed in her mind all the bon mots and scintillating conversation she would bestow on that handsome hunk of Hollywood manhood.

  Oblivious, Lucas ignored her chatter—and ogled Livia.

  “What was it like, growing up in Louisville?” Jenny asked, scooting closer to him in the booth.

  “We didn’t have Liv.”

  “Why did you take up acting?”

  “To meet beautiful women like Liv.”

  “Who’s your favorite co-star?”

  “Liv.”

  “Who did you vote for in the last election?”

  “If Liv was on the ballot . . .”

  Livia’s phone rang, but quickly she silenced it. Malachi, the caller ID said. She sighed and returned it to her purse.

  “But don’t you miss the south, Kentucky bluegrass, sweet tea, and all that?”

  “Not when I’m with Liv.”

  Lucas brushed his chin-length dark blond hair back behind his ears and took a long swig of Blue Moon.

  A rough hand grazed Livia’s bare knee—definitely not Jenny’s.

  “What was it like working with Marla Marsden on your last film? Isn’t she brilliant?” Jenny wouldn’t let up.

  “I don’t know,” Lucas said with shrug. “She wasn’t Liv.”

  He gestured the waitress over and ordered two shots of whiskey.

  “But she’s one of the most talented female directors of our time!”

  “No hard feelings, but I changed my mind about a threesome,” he said, unable to take his eyes off the actress. “I just want Liv.”

  His hand traveled slightly up the inside of Livia’s thigh.

  Disgusted by his obvious under-the-table grope and Livia’s patent refusal to stop it, Jenny was dispirited and distressed. Not with Lucas so much. He was what he was: a scumbag in a drool-worthy package. Her best friend, however, disappointed her. She wasn’t the old Livia—loyal, principled, true to the core. This Livia had the face of an angel, the heart of a whore, and the soul of a chiming cash register. Finishing the last of her blackberry martini, Jenny excused herself to go to the restroom.

  Lucas rose to let her slide out, but instead of returning to his seat, he joined Livia on the opposite side.

  “Move,” he ordered.

  “Manners, little boy,” she chided—but she shifted to give him room.

  He grabbed her face roughly. “I don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, “but you’re driving me crazy.”

  “Must be the old Caesar and Cleopatra thing,” she said lightly.

  She tried to ignore his smoldering eyes, wide jaw, and strong arms. He was a million times more attractive up close.

  “I want you, Liv. I’ve wanted you since you kissed me in that audition.”

  She tried to breathe evenly. “Look, Jenny will be back soon—get back over there and behave.”

  “Who?”

  The waitress brought the shots of whiskey. He downed one and handed Livia the other. “I’m having more fun without her.” His sex appeal was overpowering. Finally she understood how she made men feel. She took the shot obediently. “Good girl,” he said, caressing her shoulder.

  Her cell phone rang again. She cursed it as she hunted for it in her purse. Alan, the caller ID read. She silenced it and put it away.

  “Alan Hakim?” Lucas said, staring over her shoulder. “Why is he calling you at nine thirty at night?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Are you lying to me?”

  “Did I answer it? I’m here with you, Lucas.” She ran a finger lightly down the inside of his forearm. “Here is where I want to be.”

  “Good.” He pulled her face close to his. “You’re my Cleopatra, no one else’s.” He kissed her, setting her body on fire. A few moments passed before she opened her eyes—and saw Jenny standing at the table’s edge, arms crossed.

  “Fairy godmother, my ass,” Jenny snapped. She threw the borrowed bracelet on the table and stormed away.

  “Jenny, wait!” She tried to climb out of the booth, but Lucas blocked her. “L
et me out!” she insisted. “She’s my friend!”

  “Your friend?” he scoffed. “I’ve never seen a friend act so jealous. She wasn’t having any fun. Let her go—you’ll make up tomorrow.”

  Watching Jenny push through the bustling restaurant made Livia uneasy. Neither had ever abandoned the other in a time of stress. But a group of three supermodel types making eyes at Lucas quickly distracted her. She’d be crazy to pass up a date with the hottest actor in the world. Jenny had been her friend forever—she’d come to her senses and forgive her in the morning. And after all, this was for her career. She’d never be famous if she didn’t think of herself first.

  They left the bar two hours later, both of them blitzed. The ravenous paparazzi waiting outside caught them sneaking out holding hands. To their delight, Lucas brazenly kissed her for them.

  “Cleopatra,” he whispered, kissing her hard in the backseat of the Lincoln that picked them up, “don’t leave me tonight.”

  “Your place?”

  Tugging her hair, he shook his head with a grin. “Your place is closer. And anyway, I want to see where a princess lives.”

  She felt like Goldilocks again—Baby Werewolf-Bear was just right.

  The elevator worked for once, and their ardor gained steam through their ascent to the third floor. But when the elevator doors opened, the enchanted spell was abruptly broken. Like a tiger awaiting its prey, Malachi stood by the front door with a bouquet of bloodred roses.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Lucas demanded.

  “Meeting my girlfriend, you piece of shit!” Malachi slammed the bouquet down, sending roses tumbling down the flight of stairs.

  Livia shushed them both. “We had a late meeting to discuss our characters!” she insisted to Malachi. And to Lucas: “I don’t know why he’s here!” Fearing another reprimand from the landlord, she shepherded both men into her apartment.

  “You bitch!” Malachi spat. “I’ll make you pay for this. I’ll make both of you pay.” He sucker-punched Lucas, knocking him to the floor—not a difficult feat, considering Lucas’s intoxicated state.