“You know I didn't kill her,” he protested. “It was an accident. She wanted to be choked out, but she didn't tell me she was on pills at the time. Even the coroners report showed that she didn't die of asphyxiation.”
“Fuck you! Never mind that she was my friend,” Samantha cried, her voice dripping with indignation. “You told me you were committed to me, that we were going to make it work. I quit doing side work because of you. I deleted all of our text messages so no one would find out. You told me you weren't seeing her anymore and the next thing I know I wake up and you're all over the news. I've been watching the trial, you know. I saw you crying and telling everyone you're in love with her. What am I supposed to think?”
“That was the lawyer's idea,” Joshua cooed, trying to calm her down. “She told me I needed to look sympathetic to the jury. Look—we're freaks, baby. You go to work and fuck other people every single day. I never judged you for it. We're just built differently than other people. You know damn well that normal people aren't going to understand our lifestyle. I've got the NFL all over me right now as well. I'm acting, just like you do when you do a scene for Brazzers or Digital Playground. It's no different.”
“That doesn't explain why you took her to the Marmonte in the first place, does it?”
“I didn't,” he yelled. “She was at the hotel bar. She told me she was staying there. I didn't ask why. We were drinking and reminiscing and I don't know, one thing led to another.”
“They said you were high on painkillers too, you know,” Samantha cut him off. “I read all about it on TMZ.”
“I wasn't on painkillers,” he said pleadingly. “Just the stuff my sports therapist prescribed me for my pulled hamstring.”
“So why did you take her up to your room? Why didn't you go to hers if she was staying there? You should have known people would be watching you. Fuck, if you love me so much why did you wanna fuck her again anyway?”
“You weren't talking to me at the time,” he shot back. “Remember? You were mad that I missed your birthday party when we got snowed in after the game in Buffalo.”
“No. I was mad because you were acting like we were still a secret,” she fired back. “Now I have to read about how you never meant to hurt Jenna and how you two were getting back together and she was the love of your life every time I turn on the news? Jesus! You're such a pig. You know that?”
“Fuck me. I'm not perfect, Sam,” he sighed, sounding tired for the first time, “but I'm also not a fucking murderer, so would you cut me some fucking slack.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I just want you to hear my side of the story before you convict me like the media did. They're handing down the verdict later today. I'm being moved back to the courthouse in the next hour. I'll be out by the end of the day. You are the first person I wanna see, baby.”
“You're assuming a whole lot,” Samantha informed him. “And what if they find you guilty?”
“They won't,” he said, the cocky attitude he normally had returning to his voice with full force. “I've got the best lawyer money can buy and if she says I'm gonna walk, I believe her. I've gotta go. Guards are coming. Call you later.”
He hung up without warning. Samantha quickly dressed and slipped out of the room, making sure not to leave a trace of herself. She was in the elevator heading back towards valet parking when the phone rang again. It was Benjamin.
“How did it go?”
“Surprisingly well,” she admitted. “I'm just headed home now to clean up and get some...”
“Cancel that,” he ordered, abruptly cutting her off. “I just booked you on a feature. I need you to head to set right away.”
“I've been up half the night,” she protested. “Besides, with traffic this time of day it would take me two hours to get back to the Valley.”
“They're not shooting in the Valley,” Benjamin assured her. “David Lord had a last minute cancellation on his big show. Turns out you were his first choice for the part anyway. They're shooting near the 3rd street bridge on Figueroa.”
Samantha didn't have to ask who the shoot was for. She knew all about it. David Lord was filming Raw Blue for Hive Mind. It was all anybody could talk about for months. The company was new, but they paid well and got lots of attention for their online stunts, like offering celebrities millions to perform in sex tapes. They'd come up by stealing other people's content and using it to drive unprecedented amounts of traffic to their tube sites featuring the free porn, making a killing in ad revenue in the process. When a lawyer for one of the adult companies would file a complaint, they'd simply take down the clip and put it back up under another fake user name, forcing the lawyers to start the process all over again. Between them and the torrent sites, the industry had been devastated. The only companies capable of surviving had big money cable distribution deals in place, or their own mail order catalog, or at the very least owned stores they could directly place new product in. Many of the smaller companies vanished overnight. Soon there was less and less quality new movie clips to use for their sites, which ended up causing a loss in traffic. Hive Mind had become a victim of its own evil success. That's when the owners got the brilliant idea to simply buy up the bigger named companies they'd helped to destroy. Porn company owners were so happy to have a way out they sold their once profitable empires for pennies on the dollar.
Instead of shunning them for nearly demolishing the adult entertainment industry, those who remained in the business wholeheartedly embraced their new overlords. The fact that they paid much higher rates than the guys who used to run production didn't hurt. They could afford it. Raw Blue was going to be their first million-dollar movie. They were shooting both an adult version and a less explicit mainstream style for release on premium cable, Blu-ray, and streaming download. After the success of Pirates, by Digital Playground, catapulted their contract stars into mainstream roles on HBO and Showtime practically every girl that fucked on camera for a living had been dreaming of the day another company would take the risk to make another crossover movie. Considering the sharp nosedive things in smut production had taken economically over the previous years, it was starting to look like the glory days were long gone. Raw Blue was set to change all of that.
The plot was a direct knockoff of the movie “Training Day,” with the older cop being played by seasoned male porn performer Stephen St. Thomas, and the young rookie being played by Hive Mind's newest contract star, Jezzabella. Virtually every other big name girl currently working in the business was starring in it—if not as a main character like Bonnie Rotten, cast to play the bad girl in the barrio, then as a stripper in the orgy finale. Somehow Cherry Haze hadn't made the list. At first she thought Benjamin was teasing her, but her playful laughter soon turned to shrill anger as he did his best to convince her that it was no mistake.
“I don't know what to tell you, love,” Benjamin offered. “You must have pissed off someone in their production department.”
“That's fucking ridiculous,” Samantha roared, but in the back of her mind she knew it wasn't, not at all. Hive Mind had wanted to sign her but she'd turned them down, being used to having her independence and being able to work with whichever directors she wanted. Being a contract girl wasn't what it used to be back when girls got paid big money and called their own shots. These days, companies treated you like they owned you—like you were their property. They wanted way too many scenes for not nearly enough money and girls didn't have a say over the actors they worked with, much less who was directing. Then they wanted you to do store signings as part of your monthly fee, and events, and sometimes meet with distributors and go out on dates. She'd even heard Hive Mind was interested in taking over girls’ websites, trademarking their names and owning their social media sites as well.
No one is going to tell me who I fuck, she thought. Ever.
Despite the general public's opinion of the industry, there were tons of great people in it—
including several amazing male performers she'd gotten close to in the last year, guys like Mickey. By contrast there were only a handful of bad apples, sickos, and psychos, guys who got off hurting girls and thought nothing of slapping them around—both in and out of the bedroom. The trouble was, it seemed like the bad guys got a lot more attention than the good ones. Worse still, there were some male performers who saw nothing wrong with secretly moonlighting as gay escorts between scenes, or barebacking with shemales in their personal lives, or shooting junk and sharing needles with their scummy friends.
Not to mention I'd never give anyone that much control again, she thought. If I could go back and do it all again I'd never even have signed with Benjamin.
She'd made her opinion of their offer clear. When Benjamin told her they weren't casting her in Raw Blue she just assumed it was karma coming back to bite her in the ass in the most predictable way. Her curiosity was getting the better of her and she had to know why.
“What's the job?” she asked, stepping out of the elevator and getting her ticket ready for the valet.
“You'll be taking over for Jezzabella,” he informed her. “They're paying your full rate. I moved a couple of jobs on your schedule already since they'll be shooting over two weeks.”
“Who are my guys? Who would I be working with?”
“St. Thomas,” Benjamin said. “He's already cast. The other is open. David said he'd let you pick. He's partial to using Derrick Pierce or Tommy Gunn. I told him you like working with both.”
“What happened to Jezzabella?”
“She quit,” Benjamin said.
“What?” The valet brought her car up and she slipped in, handing him a rolled up twenty dollar bill. She shut the door and activated the Bluetooth, slipping her cell into the center console. “Why would she quit this gig?”
“Look I don't have all day to gossip with you,” Benjamin said testily. “I have to call them back and tell them yes or no. A million dollar budget is riding on this. Are you in?”
“I've got a bag of clothes in my trunk from last month's shoots,” she said. “I'm willing to drive there right now and shower on set if you tell me honestly why Jezzabella isn't doing this. Deal?”
“You cannot repeat this…,” Benjamin started. Samantha grinned ear to ear.
There's nothing I love more in the whole wide world than getting my way, she thought.
“Deal.”
“She got spooked by the HIV crisis,” he confided.
“But she wasn't even on the quarantine list,” Samantha exclaimed, pulling into traffic. “Or was she?”
“She wasn't,” he said flatly. “She spent the last few days reading porn gossip sites and freaking herself out. She quit the business and moved back to her parents’ house in Oregon. She left the model house this morning.”
“Wow,” Samantha hooted, her voice curling into a silky laugh. “What an idiot. Tell them I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Will do. Call me back when you get on set.”
He hung up before she could respond. Samantha no longer had to fight back her elation. She burst into a laughing fit so intense that tears of joy spilled down both sides of her face. She'd hated Jezzabella long before she got cast in the biggest role the porn business had to offer in the last decade. People kept telling Jezza that she was the new Cherry Haze, that she was the clear contender for Best New Starlet. Every year during the AVN Awards show, the previous years’ starlet would pass the crown to the new winner. Samantha would rather swallow glass than give that arrogant bitch her tiara. Now she knew she wouldn't have to anymore. In the entire history of the trade magazine, they'd always leaned towards rewarding girls who promoted the image of the industry in positive ways, brought in mainstream attention, and were generally reliable—no small list of accomplishments in the jizz biz. Even if Jezzabella made a complete one-eighty and came back with a hundred fresh scenes, she'd never live this down.
Traffic came to a halt as several police cars with their lights still flashing blocked the road ahead. Two cops in uniform were arresting a homeless man, while several people filmed the incident with their cellphones. One cop had his knee on the vagrant’s head, while the other twisted his arm at an unnatural angle up and behind him. The homeless man thrashed wildly in an attempt to free himself, as if he couldn't feel his limbs any more.
“Great,” Samantha moaned, veering off onto a side street in search of a clear path to Figueroa. “All I wanted to do was cut across to Alameda, not take a tour of fucking tent city.”
The road up ahead was completely blocked by homeless people pushing shopping carts and wandering in the street. They seemed totally oblivious to her as she laid on the horn and revved her engine, threatening to run them down.
So this is Skid Row, she thought. It's a different world down here, tucked away in the shadows—a place the wretched and useless and addicted losers came to be forgotten.
Samantha realized the feeling growing inside her wasn't fear, but contempt. She'd literally sold her ass to survive, and didn't have patience for anyone who wasn't willing to do the same. She spied a dark alley that led to the next street over and gunned her new Mercedes into it. Darkness swallowed up her white luxury vehicle as she barreled like a bullet down the narrow corridor towards the light at the other side. She was more than halfway there when she saw him—a sad old man missing half his teeth, bundled in dirty rags and staggering in her direction. His blood-smeared face flashed past her vision for a single, blurry moment as he turned towards her, his unshaven face, droopy raccoon eyes ringed purple, with the alcoholics telltale-red bulbous Rudolph nose, hands raised, eyes wide and solid white. Samantha jerked the wheel to the right and heard the sound of metal scraping on brick as she collided with the side of the alley, sheering off her passenger side mirror in the process. Her reaction had been instinct more than anything, but she realized as she slammed on the brakes that she had hit the homeless man despite swerving into the wall, clipping his left leg and sending him flying up and over her car with a series of loud thuds before he came crashing face down in a puddle-filled pothole behind a Chinese restaurant. Fear gave way to rage as she realized the damage she'd done to her new car.
If he's not dead he's gonna wish he was, Samantha thought as she threw open her door and charged out to confront the obviously dope-addled bum.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she demanded as she stormed over to him. The man was making low groaning sounds like an animal, as he attempted to push himself back up on his feet. Samantha was no doctor, but she could easily see that his left leg was broken in several places with the bone sticking through his ragged torn slacks. “You could have killed both of us!”
The man shook his head and screamed in rage, causing her to flinch reflexively. Samantha's heart raced as she looked around. There was no one watching. No witnesses.
If I leave now maybe no one will ever know, she thought. Besides, he's just a homeless person. Who the hell cares what happens to him?
A stab of guilt shot through her at how callous she'd become. There was a time when she cared more about other people, but after living in Los Angeles and selling herself for money she'd grown coldhearted.
What's wrong with me? When did I become such a bitch?
“All right asshole, consider this your lucky day,” she said, walking over to him. “I'm late for set but I'm not gonna leave you here. I'll drop you off at the hospital, but after that you're on your own. Considering you probably just cost me a few grand in repairs, you should be grateful. Come on, let's go.”
She reached down to help him up when the smell hit her. It was like rotting meat left out in the sun mixed with sewer water. The man turned his face towards her, his white eyes foaming with wriggling maggots. Samantha let out a scream of pure terror at the sight of him. He lunged towards her mouth first, closing the short gap between them in an instant, and sinking his rotten teeth into her wrist just above her hand. Samantha shrieked as he chomped down, breaking the s
kin and grinding bone on bone. She jerked her hand back in horror, bright red streaks of blood drooling over her pale white skin. She fell hard on her ass, feeling the gross wetness of the dirty street seep into her designer jeans.
“You motherfucker!”
The man crawled towards her, scarlet dribbling over his cracked lips, a low unearthly moan coming from his awful mouth, and Samantha found herself crab walking backward as fast as she could, the loose gravel on the wet asphalt tearing into her delicate palms as she scrambled to escape her attacker.
“Get away from me, you fucking freak!”
He tried to stand, but his damaged leg made a loud cracking sound and he tumbled back to the dirty street. Samantha didn't waste any time. She bolted back to her car and locked herself in. The phone rang and she saw that Benjamin was calling her, but she couldn't bring herself to answer it. She fumbled with her keys, blood running in sticky rivulets down her forearm. At last the car started. She threw it into gear and gunned it the rest of the way down the alley, shooting out into traffic on busy Alameda and nearly sideswiping a truck full of landscaping equipment. Her thoughts raced as she wove in and out of cars, desperately wanting to put as much distance between her and that thing as possible.
Should I call the cops? Do I report it? What if they don't believe me? What if they put me in jail for hitting him and taking off? But my life was in danger; at least I think it was. Plus if I call it in there is no way I will be able to make it to set. I'm not going to fuck up my one chance to crossover and be like Sasha Grey.
The phone rang and rang as she drove, but she didn't seem to hear it anymore. There was a dull throb behind her temples threatening to blossom into a full-blown migraine.
***
Benjamin jammed on his brakes and swerved to the left without looking, narrowly avoiding slamming into the back of an older red Toyota Corolla that had cut him off with no warning, and dropping his cellphone in the process. He'd been distracted, reading a series of panic texts one of his clients was sending him about buying out their contract, not wanting to shoot any more scenes for fear of catching AIDS. He'd received several emails and texts like it over the last few days before the crisis had died down. United Testing Services had revealed just that morning that the spread was contained to three performers, one of which was a gay male actor, and that the quarantine was officially lifted, ending the production moratorium. Over the last few days the media had jumped in with both feet, plastering headlines about porn being brought to a standstill as an “outbreak” of HIV “brought the industry to its knees” on every newspaper and website, not to mention the hourly updates on nightly news. He'd gotten calls from the Huffington Post, the Los Angeles Times, and the LA Weekly every hour as well; all desperate for updates to keep the story going.
Undead L.A. (Book 2) Page 11