L.A. Woman

by Cathy Yardley

  The Anais.com party was being held in this storefront-type place with tinted windows, somewhere out in Venice, by a bunch of warehouses. The line to get in had been ridiculous, and people without invitations were being turned away. Sarah had brought the usual crew with her—Martika, Taylor, Luis, Pink, and even Kit. Everyone but Kit was dressed to kill. Martika was wearing an iridescent halter top and a minuscule black skirt with her traditional platforms. Pink was wearing a sixties-inspired A-line and white go-go boots. Taylor was wearing a metallic blue tight T-shirt and black pants. Luis reversed the combo, wearing a tight black T and blue pants. Sarah herself had taken both Richard and Pink’s advice, and gone with a fragile baby-blue, baby-doll dress, and had clips in her hair and sparkles on, along with high stacked Mary Janes.

  Kit…well, Kit was wearing jeans and a white short-sleeved shirt. Sarah fervently hoped that there wasn’t a dress code.

  As it turned out, she didn’t have to worry about a dress code. From what she could see, people weren’t wearing much of anything. There were two makeshift “bars” set up on either side of the room, both mobbed. The bartenders, all male for the most part, were wearing DKNY tidy-whities that left little if nothing to the imagination. The party was sponsored by Bacardi, so everything they mixed was a brilliant, milky neon color, and the smell of rum was pervasive. There were women wandering around in G-strings, high heels and bikini tops. There were also men and women dancing, scantily clad, on raised platforms and in a few cages.

  “Hell of a party!” Taylor said, staring at a man who was wearing only a jockstrap, talking to a man looking disarmingly out of place in a three-piece suit…until you noticed that he’d opened his fly, and his penis was hanging out like an elephant’s trunk. Okay, a little elephant. “I think I saw…that’s Moby!”

  “This is one of the coolest parties I’ve ever been to,” Pink said, with awe. “Somebody just handed me a party pack, and it’s a compact with some Ecstasy in it.”

  Sarah blinked. She would pretend she didn’t hear that.

  “So…looking for a target, huh?” Martika said with a smile.

  Sarah let herself smile back just as devilishly. “You know, I think I’m ready.”

  “Ready for what?” Kit asked.

  Sarah frowned. “Private conversation, Kit.”

  He grinned. “Then you shouldn’t be yelling,” he hollered over the DJ’s frenetic mix.

  She rolled her eyes, and leaned her head toward Martika, deliberately ignoring Kit. “I think I’m going to take somebody home tonight,” she said, taking a deep breath.

  “That’s my girl!” Tika’s smile was broad. “Who?”

  “Haven’t decided yet,” Sarah said, scanning the crowd. “But I’ll let you know.”

  She “circulated” with Martika and Pink, while Taylor, Luis and Kit fought the crowd to get drinks. There were plenty of good-looking people in the crowd, although sexuality was frankly always a question. There were only what Martika would consider low-grade celebs here…that kid from a canceled sitcom, several B-list types. Pink thought she spotted some higher grade people, but they seemed to be in what worked as a “private” room. Even the hot parties had three degrees of separation, Sarah noted. Everyone who was left was either frantically trying to have sex with each other (in some cases literally…there was an interesting tableau going on in one of the cages) or staring to see if they knew anyone—or were being recognized by anyone.

  “I got hit on by a bartender,” Taylor announced with enthusiasm. “Here are your drinks. Sarah, I have to hand it to you—this is a coup, for our little group.”

  Sarah smiled self-deprecatingly as Martika rolled her eyes. “I just got the invite from my boss…that’s just knowing somebody, not doing anything.”

  “Girlie-girl, you’re going to discover you know quite a few people,” Taylor said expansively, almost spilling his drink on Martika. “And that’s going to come in damned handy one of these days, you mark my…oh my God.”

  Sarah noticed Martika’s mouth dropping open, and Sarah turned to see what had caught their attention. And felt her eyes widen. She didn’t want to blink and miss a fraction of a second of the vision before her.

  He was six-two, and wearing a snug tank top that accentuated rather than covered his well-chiseled torso. His skin was a dark tanned color, and somehow glistening. His hair was a deep brown-black, softly curling. His dark eyes could have pierced Kevlar.

  “Fuck me, that’s Raoul,” Taylor muttered to them. They had all leaned together, staring like schoolgirls.

  “Raoul the underwear model?” Martika said, her gaze never swerving from his chest.

  “Wow. I’m guessing he’s famous.”

  “Are you kidding?” Martika said, giving Sarah a quick half-hug. “The more important thing is, how can I get him to marry me and support me in the life I’d like to become accustomed to?”

  Sarah looked at her. Martika actually looked nervous. Satan was putting on a sweater as they spoke, she felt sure. “So, go over and talk to him,” Sarah encouraged, surprised at this little role reversal.

  “I might.” Martika looked around. “After another drink.”

  “After several drinks,” Taylor corrected. “Come swim upstream with me for a minute.”

  “And get me a bottled water if they have any,” Sarah called after them. Pink was busy dancing with a girl dressed up as a Fem-bot. Luis was sulking and making his way for the door. She didn’t know where Kit was—and frankly, while looking at Raoul, she couldn’t care less.

  The guy looked absolutely godlike. He was the personification of a hot-fudge sundae and a sex junket in Cancún. Sinfully good-looking. She wondered what he tasted like.

  This isn’t like me!

  She dragged herself out of her thoughts as she saw him, staring at her. He smiled. She felt her stomach twist in a nervous knot.

  So. What was she supposed to do next?

  He made it easier for her by slowly making his way across the floor, which made the knot of nervousness inside her tighten with each step that bridged the gap between them. Finally, he was just a few yards away.

  Talk to him. Say something witty.

  She forced her muscles to push herself away from the wall. She stood for a second, gathering her courage, and took one step forward.

  “Hi!” she heard a voice say brightly, and suddenly the man with the piercing eyes was flanked by the dynamic duo of Taylor and Martika. “You must be Raoul.” Tika shot him her best come-fuck-me smile. Taylor was running a close second—she wondered which Raoul would be susceptible to. Possibly both, she thought, dismayed. She ought to just sit her baby-doll butt right down on a nearby couch and pretend she’d just gotten up to stretch.

  He was involved in conversation with them. Martika was doing a lot of smiling, and Taylor was doing more touching and leaning than was absolutely necessary…then she turned to Sarah and winked confidently.

  Sarah frowned at herself. Why should she go run away? Sure, she wanted to get laid tonight…but it wasn’t like she had to with the first guy she talked to. If, as she suspected, Tika wound up taking Raoul back to the apartment later, she’d simply have said hi and could possibly have polite conversation with him tomorrow morning over her grapefruit. Why not?

  She walked over to him purposely. She put out a hand, and smiled. “Hi. I’m Sarah.”

  He leaned toward her ear. “Sorry?”

  “Sarah,” she said in his ear. “My name is Sarah.”

  He smiled, and it seemed to be just for her. “Sarah. That’s nice. Homey.” His accent made the words sound like drizzled honey. “My name is Raoul.”

  “So I’ve heard.” She had to fight her natural instinct to do something ridiculous—kiss him, say, or swoon.

  “Great party, isn’t it?” he asked. His teeth were white enough to be dazzling, she noted. She wondered if he did toothpaste ads as well.

  “Fantastic,” she heard Martika say. “So how do you know Anais.com?”

  Sara
h frowned. Martika was gushing. Martika, to her knowledge, never gushed.

  He shrugged. “They had me on the cover once. And a nude spread. No big deal.”

  Martika looked ready to drool on him. Sarah suspected Taylor already had.

  “We know Richard Peerson,” Sarah said. “He did a guest article.”

  “I’d have come to the party even if I didn’t have a connection with them,” Raoul said blandly. Okay, was he just staring at her, or was Sarah crazy? The way Martika was frowning suggested that she wasn’t. How to handle this?

  “Can we get you a drink?” Martika said, starting to steer him toward the crowded bar.

  Taylor pulled away. “Have you seen Luis? I’d love him to meet Raoul!”

  “I think he was headed for the door,” Sarah volunteered.

  “Great.” Taylor frowned. “I sense drama. Dammit.” And he vanished toward the exit.

  “I thought you were soooo sexy in that Luis Vuitton ad,” Martika gushed. “Hopefully, this line won’t be too long. What would you like?”

  “Actually, I’m fine.” In fact, Raoul looked somewhat overwhelmed. “Why don’t we sit down?” He looked at Sarah as he said this.

  Sarah started to follow them, then felt a brush at the small of her back, and spun. It was Kit.

  “Have you seen Taylor and Luis?”

  “I think they went outside,” she said.

  “What?”

  She stood next to him, leaning up close to his ear. “I said, I think they went outside!”

  “Damn. They’re my ride. I hope they’re not fighting.” He looked her over. “If they bail, is it all right if I get a ride with you?”

  She thought about her plan to bring someone home. “Um…I’m not sure. I mean, I don’t know what my plans are after this, you know?”

  He nudged her back, studying her face. For no good reason, she felt guilty. She jutted her chin up. Not that she had any reason to. She felt sure Kit wasn’t exactly a Boy Scout, either, and if some gorgeous supermodel was eyeing him, he’d be more than happy to get a ride home with her.

  “You be careful,” he said against her ear, his breath tickling her neck. “Okay?”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  He stared at her a minute longer, then turned and stalked off.

  Sarah went back to Martika and Raoul. Martika, she noticed, looked edgy, just this side of nervous—but she was trying for bored, Sarah could tell. Raoul was staring directly at Sarah.

  “Who’s that?” he said, and his eyes were like prison flood-lights, pointing straight at her. “Was that your boyfriend?”

  “God, no,” Sarah said, with a laugh. She saw Raoul motion to the couch next to him, where Taylor had been sitting. “Kit’s just a friend.”

  “Like I said, it’s a fantastic party.”

  He slung an arm casually over the couch back behind her shoulders. Now Tika looked aggressively bored, except for her eyes, which narrowed slightly.

  Uh, oh. This isn’t good.

  “So, Raoul…” Tika said, leaning forward and showing a good amount of cleavage. “What are you doing later?”

  Raoul took a glance, shrugged and turned back to Sarah. “Depends.”

  Sarah felt her cheeks warm, and smiled back at him, hoping the invitation was clear. This wasn’t really her area. But it’s going to be.

  He turned to Tika, and Sarah felt momentarily bereft. But just for a moment.

  “Would you excuse us?” he said to Tika, and turned back before he could see the look of shock on her face. He was too busy staring at her, Sarah. “Care to dance?”

  She didn’t see Tika’s face anymore, only the dark luxury of his eyes. “I’d love to.”

  Would you excuse us?

  Martika tossed back another Kamikaze. “One more for the floor,” she told Taylor. He rolled his eyes, then went off to do as she requested.

  The nerve. The fucking nerve.

  She’d raised that ungrateful little slut. She’d taken her from a Fairfield farm girl to a bona fide club fiend, and this was the thanks she got? Sarah knew that she was interested. How often did Martika have to say “I want that guy” to make it clear? And there was just a protocol for this sort of thing. If your friend has a crush of some sort, it’s poaching if you trounce her. Worse, it’s betrayal if you waltz off with the guy right in front of her.

  I taught her better than this!

  It was the indignity of it. Martika had taught Sarah everything she knew about being sexy, about L.A. nightlife. For her to pretend that this was her party, that these were her friends, and that she was somehow a better lay because she was younger and she had her goddamn hair frosted and was wearing clothes that Martika herself couldn’t fit into when she was that goddamn age anyway…

  Martika stopped herself, midtirade.

  Okay, that was scary.

  Was that what was really bothering her?

  Taylor walked up to her. “Have you seen Luis? I’ve been looking all over the damned place for him…”

  “I don’t give a shit,” Martika answered.

  “What’s gotten into everybody?” Taylor said. “Kit’s vanished, Luis is probably off pouting somewhere. Now, you’re at one of the best parties we’ve ever been to, and you’re sitting here looking like Joan Crawford meets the goddamn Grinch. What is going on with you?”

  “I’m…Sarah is pissing me off. I almost had Raoul, and she dragged him off to the dance floor.” Revisionist history, granted, but she didn’t feel like going into the whole dirty epiphany. She gunned back the lime-green shot he’d handed to her, putting the glass down on the table in front of her with a loud slap. “But that’s okay. I’ll make up for lost time later.”

  She was feeling the buzz from the alcohol, so it took her a minute to realize that Taylor’s face looked sheepish—which, for Taylor, was downright wrong.

  “What? What?” She pinched him, making him wince. “Spill.”

  “Well, I think you’d better give up on the Raoul run tonight,” he said, making a big show of straightening the glasses that were accumulated in front of them. “Because I think he just went home with Sarah.”

  “He went home with Sarah?” She blinked. This didn’t compute. This totally didn’t fucking compute. “What do you mean? He’s driving her back or something?”

  Taylor coughed, delicately. “I don’t think they just had driving in mind.”

  She now blinked at him. Raoul, the underwear model was going home with Sarah, the farm girl.

  To have sex.

  “That cunt!”

  Taylor put a hand over her mouth, so the rest of her pithy sentence was muffled under his hand. Several people watched as she continued to curse and let out one final high-pitched wail.

  When she was silent, just huffing quiet breaths of rage between clenched teeth, he let her go. “Tika, you would have done the same thing.”

  “I had dibs!”

  He quirked an aristocratic eyebrow at her. “Oh. And your reputation will be ruined all over Sweet Valley High when school starts on Monday.” He shook his head. “Get a grip, girlie-girl. I, for one, am proud that our little girl has moved up the food chain from boot-licking for bottom-feeders to free-fucking underwear models. We’ve instilled in her a sense of class, don’t you think?”

  “No, I don’t think,” Tika muttered. “I thought friendship meant more than that.”

  He clucked his tongue. “Sure. And the fact that a gorgeous, twenty-something underwear model picked our young frosted friend over you has nothing to do with it.”

  She glared at him.

  “It’s still all about you, sugar,” he said and laughed.

  She saw Luis stalking toward them, and thought of warning Taylor, but was currently way too pissed at him to give him any sort of advantage.

  He turned just as Luis slapped him so hard he practically got whiplash. Some cruel part of Martika’s heart actually lit up at that one.

  “You slut!”

  “What? What! What
did I do?” Taylor said, yelling and protecting himself from the barrage of slaps that Luis was lighting on him.

  “You’ve been fucking that DJ!”

  Taylor looked up, scandalized. “No, I did not! I bought him a drink!”

  “I’m through with you, Taylor. Completely!” And he promptly started castigating Taylor in Spanish and walked away. Taylor followed after him, Martika’s problem obviously forgotten.

  Martika gritted her teeth. While she was glad that Taylor was going to be punished for even suggesting that she was jealous of her little Tinkerbell protégé, she still felt poison rushing through her veins. She needed to blow it off, mellow out. The buzz was running through her, and it made everything else seem possible.

  She needed a sports fuck the way junkies needed a fix. She wasn’t going to find it here, obviously. She went to the valet, got her car and headed to Probe. Her club. Her turf.

  She prowled out into the noisy, sweaty pulse of the first dance floor. People were moving frenetically, the trancelike pounding of the beat acting like a tribal aphrodisiac. She moved with it, feeling it through her, and she scanned the crowd for a likely candidate.

  She found him, perversely, in a suit and tie, looking horribly out of place and, from the expression on his face, feeling horribly out of place. And on the make…she could gauge it from the hungry uneasiness that made him scan the crowd, much as she was. He was about twenty-seven, she guessed. Not as young as she would have liked, but still, she didn’t need him for very long, and nobody really needed to know.

  She danced up to him, very conscious of what a well-trained body could do with a set of boobs. He was hypnotized by the time she was within three feet of him.

  She didn’t even need to ask him if he wanted to dance…she walked up and put her body on his, gently guiding him to mesh against hers in an erotic way. She also made sure to lead, keep him on the beat. The best way to see how a guy is in bed is to take him on the dance floor, she’d told Sarah ages ago. Sarah had apparently been a good student if a somewhat piss-poor friend. She’d show Sarah how it’s done.

  He was breathing more heavily, and she could feel his prick all hard like a rod against her thigh. Good. He had some freight behind this package, she thought, as the rod stretched a little lower down her thigh. Time to try him out.