by Maggie Marr
Zymar lifted her and Lydia straddled him, grasping him around the neck as they moved toward the bed. Her heart beat wildly within her chest—this wasn’t just lust and movie-making and convenience. She wanted Zymar with a deeper passion—a more pressing desire.
Zymar flipped her onto all fours as he dropped her onto the comforter. He unsnapped her pants, pulled them over her ass, and then reached around and with two fingers and gently massaged her clit.
Zymar leaned forward over Lydia’s back. “I want to fuck you,” his husky voice rasped in Lydia’s ear.
“Then fuck me,” she hissed, taking a deep breath.
He spread her legs with his knee and gave her a sharp slap on the ass just as he thrust his cock into her. Lydia moaned. She was going to come fast; she loved it rough.
Four weeks later, the thought of that night still made Lydia wet. She tried to get Zymar out of her thoughts, but it was impossible. He was loud, obnoxious, oversexed Eurotrash, but God, he was fun. That damn accent. That accent and his blue eyes. This, their ongoing fling, was good, bordering on fantastic. She hadn’t experienced such good sex with such an interesting and entertaining man in almost ten years. Weston was Lydia’s last phenomenal affair, but that was the first time around.
She heard her BlackBerry give a soft beep. She picked it up and clicked on the phone. “Hello, Lydia Albright.”
“Ms. Albright, this is Madeline Darmides.”
“Uh-huh, yes.” Who? “How can I help you?”
“I’m trying to contact Zymar.”
“Oh, yes, Zymar. He’s directing my film. He should be here soon, in about an hour.”
“Okay. Well, this is his wife, and I just wanted to tell him that his daughter, Christina, is on her way to L.A.”
Lydia closed her eyes and inhaled. Relax. “Really?” she said. “I didn’t know he had a daughter.”
She’s my ex-wife,” Zymar leaned against Lydia’s kitchen sink. “E-X, ex. She’s Greek Orthodox, it’s hard for her to say the word. In her mind we’ll always be married. But we are divorced.”
“In what country?” Lydia sat at the table in her lavish, never-once-used kitchen. She didn’t see the humor. Sure, she and Zymar weren’t engaged, or even really living together, and it had only been four weeks. But still. You’d think if a man was truly interested, he might have mentioned an ex-wife and a kid.
“How old is Christina?”
“Twenty-one.”
“What were you, twelve when you had her?”
“That was part of the reason for the marriage. Christina’s mother was sixteen.”
“And you?”
“Eighteen.”
“That’s legal in Greece?”
“Marriage seemed like a much better option at the time than jail.”
Lydia glanced over her cup of ginseng tea. Finally, some of the much-delayed details.
“I was traveling abroad. Me grandfather on my mum’s side lived in Greece. I spent the summer there. And like a lot of eighteen-year-olds, I met a girl. And well, there you have it.”
“How long were you married?”
“Four years. Neither of us was very happy.”
“And Christina?”
“She always lived with her mum in Greece. Smart girl. She’s at Oxford. Studying business or some such thing. She’ll graduate next spring.”
“Did you see her much while she was growing up?”
“As much as I could. Her mum remarried twice and I did—”
“And she still tells people that she’s your wife?”
“Well, she’s widowed now so I suppose it’s back to me now that both of them are dead, and I’m the only one alive.”
“Got it.”
“So I saw Christina some. Holidays. In between films and commercials. She came to a lot of my sets. Seemed to have fun.”
Lydia nodded.
“Did you get the info for when she gets in, then?”
“Uh-huh. Wrote it all down. It’s on the refrigerator.”
“Thanks, Lyd. What time?”
“Couple of hours.”
“I better snap to if I’m going to make it to LAX.”
Lydia blew on her tea. “I sent a car and a driver.”
“What?”
“I thought it’d be helpful. I can call them back, I just …I didn’t know for sure and …”
“Lyd, it’s fine. She’ll probably love it. Think it’s very L.A. or something.”
“You need to call them and tell them where to drop her off,” Lydia said, eyeing Zymar.
“I see.”
“Well, I didn’t know. I didn’t know for sure that you weren’t still married to Christina’s mother until just five minutes ago.”
“Right. We’ll just stay at the hotel, then.”
“Oh…”
“Unless you want us to stay here?”
“I’d love that.”
“Really? Lyd, I don’t know how long Christina will be here. It could be till the end of the shoot.”
“I don’t mind.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. If you don’t mind.”
“Good by me,” Zymar said, making his way across the kitchen and wrapping his arms around Lydia.
“What about Christina?” Lydia asked.
“Hmm. Now, that’s a fair question. I haven’t really brought home anyone to the daughter before.” Zymar nuzzled his lips against Lydia’s neck. “Nothing quite so serious in a long time.”
“Really? Serious, huh.” Lydia whispered, letting her hand run down the bulge in Zymar’s pants.
“Pretty serious.”
“Well, I guess she ought to know, then.”
“Well, I guess so,” Zymar said, and leaned in and kissed Lydia.
Yeah. It was phenomenal.
*
The woman standing in Lydia’s living room was breathtaking: black hair, dark brown eyes, and olive skin. Wearing Stella McCartney pumps and a matching bag. You’d never know that Christina Darmides had spent the last nine hours on a plane. Lydia noticed a faint resemblance to Zymar around her eyes. She couldn’t help but wonder how beautiful Christina’s mother must be.
“You’re Lydia,” Christina said, giving Lydia a disarming smile. “Dad’s disappeared with my bags.”
“So nice to meet you,” Lydia said. “Can I get you anything? How was your flight?”
“Good. A little bumpy on the landing, though. Thank you for the car—Dad mentioned you sent it.”
“My pleasure.”
“Dad says that the film is going quite well. You know, I read the script on the flight over. I’m not familiar with the writer, but it’s quite good. And Bradford Madison is starring?”
“Yes.” Lydia motioned for Christina to sit and then sat in one of the chairs opposite the couch. Christina’s knowledge about the details of Seven Minutes Past Midnight surprised her. “Do you read a lot of scripts?”
“Actually, I do. I’m quite keen on USC’s Stark School for producers once I’m finished with Oxford. I’m meeting with the director while I’m here. I try to read everything.”
“That’s a great start,” Lydia said, knowing that the best producers, agents, and executives were the ones who read every script in town. “Stark is a great program.” The program was fantastic, but it didn’t accelerate the path for producers or studio execs. They were still destined to be overeducated assistants for a minimum of two years, perhaps longer, upon graduation. Unless, of course, they found a great script, got some independent financing, and made a film that got a good buzz around town. The holy trinity.
“I’m hoping to spend most of my time in L.A. on set with Dad—that is, if it’s okay with the producer.” Christina gave Lydia a tentative smile.
“I think that would be great,” Lydia said. “We need all the help we can get.”
“You’ve met, then,” Zymar said, entering the living room.
Lydia watched Christina look at her father with admiration. Despite the distance a
nd odd work schedule, Christina seemed to adore him.
“I think I’m off to bed.” Lydia rose to leave. She wanted to give Christina and Zymar some time alone together. She’d have time to get to know the girl.
“Well, then.” Zymar leaned forward and gave Lydia an awkward peck on the cheek.
Lydia smiled. Zymar seemed flummoxed by having both Lydia and Christina in the same room. It was adorable.
“Good night, Lydia,” Christina called as Lydia made her way up the stairs. “And thank you.”
With or without the Stark program, just by virtue of being Zymar’s daughter Christina could easily become a producer. In fact, Lydia thought the graduate program might be a waste of Christina’s time. If she asked, Lydia would tell her to skip it and start looking for the perfect script. Lydia was sure that if Christina truly wanted to produce, between Jessica, Zymar, Cici, and herself, they could get her started. I am a control freak, Lydia thought.
As she slipped into bed, Lydia listened to the sounds of animated chatter and Zymar’s infectious chuckle drifting up from downstairs. She loved the noise.
Chapter 15
Jessica and Her Dior Mary Janes
The wind whipped through Jessica’s hair. She didn’t like riding in convertibles. Take that back—she didn’t like riding in Phil’s convertible when Phil drove. He was a shitty driver. Accelerate and brake, accelerate and brake (very similar to when they fucked). Her stomach felt as if the seared ahi tuna she’d eaten for lunch in Carmel might reappear.
This weekend was meant to be a combo getaway-slash-work weekend for Phil. He was working on new GPS software, and he’d brought his laptop so he could plot their trip-progress data and cross-reference their position with the software. It was the only way Phil could expense part of the trip to the company and write the other part off on his taxes. It wasn’t as if they couldn’t afford the trip or that he couldn’t take the time off; it was that Phil was as disciplined (cheap) with cash and tax deductions as he was organized.
Usually their weekends were spent at Jess’s house in L.A. Except for Saturday night. Saturday night they always went to Morton’s (thousands of restaurants in L.A., but the only one Phil would go to). But this weekend was their Pacific Coast Highway weekend. So at exactly 6:05 A.M. Saturday morning (per Phil’s itinerary), they climbed into Phil’s Z4 and headed up the coast, making their scheduled stops.
They had planned this little coastal getaway for the last two months. Or at least Phil had planned it, down to every detail. Every minute. Every break. God forbid spontaneity. Phil loathed it (which spoke volumes about their sex life). Phil had even provided Jessica with a laminated itinerary, in a waterproof travel folder (according to Phil, you never knew when there might be spills in the car). He had also e-mailed a copy of their schedule to Jessica’s three assistants so they could put it in her BlackBerry.
They had stayed in a bed-and-breakfast last night. But of course, as it was the second Saturday of the month and not their “Sex Saturday,” as Phil liked to call it, he slumbered peacefully, while Jessica quietly masturbated facedown in her pillow. They weren’t even married and already she felt like a desperate housewife, frustrated by her soon-to-be husband’s lack of desire.
She needed a man to fuck her. Really fuck her. Grab her, bend her over a table, and make her feel. But the men Jessica knew acted as if she had taken a bowie knife and sliced off their balls. She spent all day, every day, walking around a fraternity (that’s all a talent agency was), and every person with a penis inside CTA was terrified of her, she could tell. Jessica beat the men at everything at every turn, and she did it in Ferragamo heels. And her fiancé didn’t want her (except for a dutiful fuck the first and third Saturday of every month).
“Most women don’t even like sex,” Phil said when she’d pushed him on it.
“Most women don’t work eighty hours a week and pull down three million a year.”
“Jess, that’s so crass.”
“Fine. It relaxes me.”
“Do more yoga,” Phil said.
“You’re actually trying to get out of sex two times a month? Some men would die for a woman with my sex drive,” Jessica said.
“Our drives have always been different.”
“I’ve emasculated you.”
“How? I make more money than you do,” Phil said.
“Then you just don’t want me.”
“That’s not it.”
No therapy, no counseling. Just sex twice a month, her vibrator, and her right hand. She could take a lover, but when? Who had time? Jessica tried to remember the last time she’d been fucked. Really, really fucked, the kind that when you thought about the sex days later, the memory made your toes curl. Of course—it was Mike Fox. With so much practice (he’d put his dick in every pussy in New York and Los Angeles), no wonder he was her best lay.
Eight months after Mike and Jessica’s torrid affair ended, Jess had met Phil. They were at Rage in West Hollywood; Jessica’s very gay hairdresser and his lover were trying to pull her out of her funk. Jessica wasn’t sure how a gay club would make her feel better or improve her chances of meeting a man, but she’d agreed to go. Phil had been there celebrating his roommate Len’s decision to get married to his longtime lover.
That was one of the things that Jess had always been impressed by—what great friends Phil and Len were; best buddies since junior high. Phil was pretty much Len’s only straight friend. They both grew up in Orange County (the most conservative place in all of California) and then attended Stanford. They’d shared a dorm room there, and even after Stanford, Phil and Len had continued to live as roommates. As uptight and prudish as Phil was, Len’s being gay never seemed to bother him.
Currently, Len lived with his “husband” (aka domestic partner Brian) in San Francisco, where Phil and Jess were headed today. They’d spend the night and Jess would fly back to L.A. Monday morning while Phil stayed in San Francisco until the following weekend (as always).
“Time to stop!” Phil yelled out over the wind. Angry gray clouds rolled in from the ocean. “I need to put up the top and do a GPS input. And I bet after all that coffee you need to potty.” He pulled the Z4 into a gas station. “I’m filling the car here. That way I won’t need to do it in the city and we can go straight to Len’s.”
Jess hopped out and headed for the bathroom.
“Jess,” Phil called from the gas pump, “those new Diors make your legs look sexy. They’re adorable on you.”
Jessica looked down. The crocodile-and-leather Dior Mary Janes were a fabulous find; she knew they made her calves look good. Jess smiled. At least her man liked her shoes.
Jessica’s migraine began the minute they pulled into Len’s drive. Eight hours later, the pain started to subside. She glanced at her digital travel clock; it was two A.M., she was wide awake and alone. Phil had offered to sleep in Len’s den on the fold-out couch, since any light or noise made Jess vomit during her migraines. Her last migraine had been only two weeks ago. They usually came months apart, but for the last six months they’d been more frequent. Sometimes twice a week since Tolliver had entered her life. Better have Kim schedule another appointment with the neurologist.
Only three more hours until her alarm would sound—her flight to L.A. took off at seven. But the room and the bed were so big and lonely. She wanted Phil. Jessica slid out from under the goose-down comforter and slipped her feet onto the hardwood floor. She shivered; it was so much colder in San Francisco.
Jessica thought she could find her way to the den, although she’d only visited Len and Brian’s once before. Last March, she flew in to surprise Phil, but it was she who got the big surprise. His residential hotel room was empty. You’d think he would’ve told her the hotel was being remodeled. Brian was gone on business that week, too, but he seemed nice enough the few times she spoke to him over the phone. Jessica walked down the hall toward the stairs.
“Oh yeah,” she heard Len moan. “God, I missed you.” Jessica
stopped. Brian must be home. She knew she shouldn’t listen, but it was like a car wreck—you couldn’t help it. Guess Brian will finally introduce himself over pancakes tomorrow.
“Ooooh. Yes, baby. Please spank it.”
Jessica heard a hard smack against what sounded like a very tight ass. She covered her mouth, trying to stifle a giggle. She should turn around and go straight back to bed. But she wanted to cuddle with Phil. Shit. That meant she had to walk by Len and Brian’s room. And the door was only half closed. But she was a grown-up. She would stare at the ground and get by the bedroom door.
“Yes, baby. Please, oh, yes,” Len moaned.
Fast. She needed to get past that door and to the stairs. Jessica rushed toward the end of the hall as the noise from Brian and Len’s room escalated in speed and intensity.
“Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. Baby, yes, say my name, yes.”
Only three more steps. God, this hall is long, Jessica thought as she neared the door.
“Len, oh God. Len, oh God.”
Who?! Jessica gently pushed the half-open door away from her. “Phil?”
“Jess?” Phil said. A look of horror flashed on his face as he lay slumped over the back of his best friend.
Jessica shook her head.
No wonder he always liked her shoes.
*
Jess drank her coffee while Len poured blueberry pancake batter onto a griddle, a Tiffany-blue apron tied neatly around his waist. So far no Phil.
“He’s horrified,” Len said.
“He should be. I’ll give him five more minutes and then I’ve got to go. I can’t believe I didn’t figure this out.”
“You really are taking this well.” Len set a plate of pancakes in front of her.
“Look, if you were a woman, I might be in handcuffs downtown, but you’re a man. I don’t have the same equipment and never will. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me.”
“He wanted to. I swear to you, Jess, it didn’t start until after Brian moved out this year. Never once growing up or in college.