“I’m coming!” Dominique hollered back. She came stumbling out of the bathroom, her eyes vacant.
“Let’ s get this show on the road . . . Mikey is waiting,” Jordan said eagerly.
Dominique and Casey moved around each other stiffly, like robots. They were doing scenes for their movie debut and the first scene was going to be of them . . . together.
“Denver, lay back and turn your face toward camera A,” Mikey instructed. “Diamond, I want your head between her legs. Stick your tongue out and put it up against her clit,” Mikey continued.
Dominique gulped hard. She had never even considered lesbian sex before. With money on her mind, Dominique closed her eyes and buried her face between Casey’s legs, licking her clitoris like she’d done it a hundred times before. Dominique felt like she’d suffocate, taking in the scent of Casey’s natural musk and the strong perfume she’d doused herself with.
“Casey, I need sound, motion. You love this, act like it,” Mikey called out. Casey began to moan on cue, gyrating her hips slightly. Casey closed her eyes, her body violating her as her vagina became soaking wet against her will. Dominique s knees began to burn from being on them too long. She could feel the heat of the camera on her ass cheeks, then the hands of some of Mikey’s assistants on either side, spreading her flesh apart. They were filming her ass too. Dominique put her feelings of degradation aside. She mentally put herself at Mama Grady’s table, the only place she could think of that offered her comfort.
Jordan roved the set like a lion protecting his pride. His dick was as hard as a roll of quarters. He didn’t really think this would turn him on. Watching Dominique’s cocoa skin up against Casey’s pale skin had sent heated sparks down Jordan’s legs. He wanted to reach into his pants and just jerk off right there.
Casey and Dominique did several more takes before Mikey had enough footage for the movie. Back in the changing room, Dominique and Casey did not speak or make eye contact.
Within two months, Casey and Dominique had made four more movies together. All of them were a hit in the industry. They were blowing up on the porn scene. There had even been a one-page article in Penthouse magazine describing them as “the new ebony and ivory sensation.” Neither of them needed to turn tricks any longer.
“Diamond! Cas!” Jordan called out. Casey came out of the bedroom rubbing her eyes and Dominique was locked up in the bathroom as usual.
“Yo, I just found out the new movie is a bigger hit! They love that chocolate and vanilla girl-on-girl shit,” Jordan said excitedly.
“Yay!” Casey said, giggling like she did when she was high.
Dominique finally came out of her new hiding spot, her pupils dilated and sweat sprinkled over her forehead. “What’s good?” she asked.
Jordan looked at her strangely.
“The movie is blowing up. They want us to come to L.A. to meet a new producer . . . an even bigger name,” Jordan told her.
“Awww,” Dominique belted out, clapping her hands together. “Show me the money!” she sang.
Jordan had yet to give either of them their real share of the money. He had made himself their “agent” so he had cashed all the checks.
“When I get paid, you’ll get paid,” Jordan promised. In the meantime, he gave them just enough to keep them quiet and to feed their growing habits.
They headed to L.A. with big dreams on their minds. Mikey had referred them to one of his West Coast affiliates who were looking for raw, clean talent like Casey. He hadn’t mentioned anything about Dominique.
Chapter Eleven
Doing the Right Thing
“There is now a forty thousand–dollar reward offered for any information regarding Ciara Simpson–the missing sister of heroic NYPD detective Brice Simpson. Detective Simpson spoke to reporters earlier today: “My sister is not a runaway. She is a good student and a good girl. I am asking whoever has her to release her. We are not looking to harm you. All we want is for Ciara to come home.” Here is a picture of Ciara Simpson. She was last seen wearing blue jeans, blue and white Nike sneakers and a black hooded jacket. Detective Simpson and the NYPD have launched a massive search for the girl who never returned from school a week ago. They are asking anyone with information to call 1-800-CRIMESTOPPERS. You can remain anonymous.”
Casey was about to throw her last few things into her suitcase when the story on the news caught her attention. She dropped her bottle of perfume, sending it crashing to the floor when the picture of the missing girl flashed on the screen. “Oh my God,” Casey gasped. She scrambled out of her bedroom and ran over to her dining room table. She began frantically sifting through the piles of junk mail she had let accumulate since she’d been home from the hospital. “Dammit!” she cursed when she couldn’t find the Polaroid test shots Jordan had left behind.
Casey sat at the table and rummaged through the piles of papers, shaking each piece of mail out. Finally, something fell to the floor. Casey exhaled. Casey lifted up the photograph to examine it, her heart hammering against her sternum. With her hands trembling, she raced over to get her cell phone. After her hospital stay, Casey had a new telephone number added to her contacts list. Casey frantically scrolled through her list and located the number of the only person who always knew the answers–her best friend, Diamond.
“Oh, Alton. Yes, Alton,” Dominique panted out, pretending to love it. She stared up at the ceiling, praying this torture would be over soon. She bit into her lip to deal with the surges of pain–her ribs still ached from being only partially healed, and her vagina was desert dry so the friction from each movement felt like acid burns. Alton pumped on top of her like a horny dog. He had his face buried in the skin of her neck as he panted with labored breaths, sweat beads dripping onto her chest. Lately, his sex drive had been in overdrive and Dominique knew that if she didn’t submit there would be consequences.
When he was done, he did his usual routine. He jumped up and raced into their master bathroom. He turned the spigot in the shower as hot as it could go and then scrubbed himself for the next half hour. Alton had made her feel like she was a dirty disease each time they had made love. It bothered her at first, but after almost a year of marriage, she had learned to ignore it.
Dominique had not been able to concentrate on much since the visit from the detective. Although she had treated him horribly, he had stuck his card in the door before he left. Dominique had picked it up several times, but it wasn’t because she wanted to give him any history about Jordan or agree to help his cause. She rubbed her fingers over his embossed name and pictured his face. She wondered if he were her husband, what life would be like. Dominique felt ashamed that she could remember in vivid detail his smooth caramel skin, his sleepy light brown eyes and his soothing, even baritone.
Dominique regretted that she hadn’t been able to give him the information he was seeking. She had been honest with him when she said she did not know where Jordan was right now. Dominique had only seen him the one time at the hospital in the last year. She had not been ready to tell the detective anything about herself, for fear that it might become public knowledge. After all the program had taught her, it still was not enough to keep her past in the past.
Dominique turned over on her side and noticed from across the room that the light on her cell phone was flashing. She had purposely switched it to silent mode. Given her recent contact with the detective, Casey and even that bastard Jordan, Dominique couldn’t take a chance with them calling while Alton was home. Dominique threw her legs over the side of the bed and pulled on her sweat pants. She still had on her T-shirt and bra; Alton never let her get fully naked when they made love. Dominique padded over to her dresser and picked up the phone. The missed calls screen was full. Dominique scrolled through the calls and they were all from Casey. Maybe she is calling to tell me she won’t tell everything in her tellall interview. Dominique certainly hoped that was the case. Dominique quickly threw her cell phone into her underwear drawer as the shower spigot turn
ed off. She would call Casey back when she got a chance. If she got a chance.
“Did you take the pills that I gave you, baby girl?” Jordan asked. The girl giggled and shook her head. “Good girl,” Jordan said, stroking her beautiful, long hair.
“Well, I guess this is as good a payback as it could be. I would rather have white but a black girl for a kiddie porn flick will do,” Mikey said as he walked over to Jordan and his new prospect. The little girl was butt naked–her body resembling that of a woman with thirty-six C-cup breasts; round hips; and her butt so round and perfect Jordan had named it “the cherry.”
“You stooped to a new low, Jordan Bleu, but I like it,” Mikey said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. The set was low budget–a bed, a few lights and one camera. Kiddie porn perverts didn’t need any frills; they got off just knowing there was a child involved in a lewd act.
“You say she is barely sixteen? These perv hounds are gonna love her,” he continued.
Mikey wasn’t investing any more big dollars in Jordan until he recouped what he had lost from the Denver Peaks Fuck Fest fiasco. Mikey had to admit to himself, Jordan came through rather quickly with a solution. If he hadn’t, Mikey had been ready to send his mafia goon friends after Jordan.
“I’m cold,” the girl said, laughing again, the drugs surging through her system.
“You’re going to be hot in a minute,” Jordan said. He pulled his shirt over his head and began taking off his jeans. Jordan had decided that he was going to be the star of this show. When the movie sold on the underground, he would be the one reaping all of the benefits.
“Get on your knees and put your head right here baby girl,” Jordan said, pointing and positioning her in front of his waist. He pulled a black ski mask over his face so only his eyes were clear to the camera. Mikey smiled wickedly and clicked on his camera while his assistant started snapping photos.
Once Brice learned about Jordan’s real history, he took to the media and to the streets. He wasn’t waiting around for the NYPD missing persons squad to do shit for him. Brice knew how they operated, especially when they figured a girl was just a sixteen-year-old runaway.
“She’ s my fucking sister!” Brice screamed, banging the desk in front of where he stood.
“I don’t give a fuck! You don’t go to the media unless you have clearance from the department!” Sergeant Curruthers barked, his pale face turning bright pink.
“Sarg, I have investigated these fucking runaway cases for years and I never went to the media. I mean, what makes this case so special? I understand she’s a cop’ s sister, but they run away, too,” D’Guilio interjected.
Brice didn’t know what the fuck he was even doing in the meeting. “What, muthafucka? She is not a fuckin’ runaway! She is a missing fuckin’ person! Somebody took her off the street!” Brice barked, the vein in his neck pulsing fiercely against his skin.
“Simpson . . . there are ways to handle this. It’s a conflict of interest for you to be involved. You are too emotional. Missing persons is handling it,” Sergeant Curruthers said. Brice bit down into his jaw.
“Do you have an answer for me to give my mother? Huh? She wants to know why her fuckin’ son is a hero cop but can’t find his own goddamned sister!” Brice said, rocking on his heels. Sergeant Curruthers exhaled wearily.
“I want the fuckin’ commissioner himself to tell me I can’t help with the search for my sister. I want you bastards to put yourself in my shoes. If it were one of your precious daughters that was missing . . .” Brice continued, pointing a finger in Sergeant Curruthers’ face. He was not backing down.
“I’ve had enough of this sideshow bullshit. A runaway is a fucking runaway any way you slice it,” D’Guilio said, a slick smile on his face.
Suddenly, Brice felt like the walls were closing in on him. The corners of his eyes grew black, and he couldn’t see anything in his peripheral vision. Brice whirled around, an unknown force moving him, and punched D’Guilio in his nose. Blood spurted onto Brice’s suit. D’Guilio fell to the floor.
Brice jumped on top of D’Guilio and began hammering him in the head and face with his fists. Sergeant Curruthers scrambled from behind his desk and grabbed the back of Brice’s suit jacket in an attempt to pull Brice off of D’Guilio. Sergeant Curruthers was no match for Brice’s brute strength. Brice bucked like the Incredible Hulk, sending Sergeant Curruthers stumbling backward.
“Help in here!” Sergeant Curruthers screamed out.
The door to the sergeant’s office suddenly burst open and several detectives swarmed in and descended on the heap of tangled arms and legs. They were able to pull Brice upright, but D’Guilio was already unconscious. Brice’s chest heaved in and out with fury. His knuckles were a scraped, bloody mess. His clothes were stained with sweat and blood and the back of this jacket was ripped. With wide, wild eyes, he looked into the faces of his fellow detectives, all staring at him like he was a mad man. “Get a bus right now!” someone yelled from the group. One of the detectives ran to the phone to call in an ambulance for D’Guilio.
“Detective Simpson, you are suspended indefinitely. Hand over your gun and shield and get the fuck out of my precinct!” Sergeant Curruthers ordered, flexing his jaw so hard his head hurt.
Casey anxiously awaited Dominique’s call. She kept looking at the pictures from the envelope that had been on her dining room table and then looking at the telephone. She did this incessantly for two hours until she built up the nerve to call CrimeStoppers. The representative on the phone made Casey feel as if she were lying about the information she provided. Casey grew frustrated with the twenty questions and slammed down the receiver. She needed some pills in her system if she was going to make it through the day. “Would she call? Oh, God, if you love me, let her call,” Casey prayed, sharp pains ripping through her stomach. That always happened when her need kicked in. She had been trying to stay clean since her hospital stay, but it was a struggle every day. Today was the worst of all.
Anxiously pacing, Casey was jolted by the vibrating phone on the coffee table. Casey looked down at the screen and a feeling of relief washed over her. Casey remembered the detective’s name from the news report and through Google had learned that he was promoted to the Brooklyn North Task Force.
Casey called a car service and headed to the address. Dominique had agreed to meet her there. Casey rocked her legs back and forth as the cab inched across the Brooklyn Bridge in traffic. She looked down at the pictures in her lap and hoped to God it was the right girl. Casey knew that Jordan was certainly capable of it. Besides that, she was feeling a bit vengeful.
At the precinct, Casey paid the car service driver and raced inside. She didn’t know who to ask for help and she did not see Dominique. Finally, she spotted a sign that read 1-2-4 Room.
“Excuse me,” Casey spoke to a middle-aged black woman behind an old rickety desk talking on the phone.
“If you came to file a complaint, sit down right there until I get off the phone,” the woman said dryly.
“Um . . . no, I need to see–” Casey started, but was cut off.
“I’m on the phone,” the woman chastised. Casey waited about twenty minutes before she realized the rude employee wasn’t going to help her. She walked out into the main area and saw a fat man in uniform sitting behind a huge desk.
“Excuse me,” Casey tried once more.
“Who let you over here?” the man barked.
“I just walked over,” Casey explained, furrowing her eyebrows and not understanding what the big deal was. The man stood up and looked around.
“Officer Stackhouse, help this lady,” the man directed.
“Okay, Sarg,” the officer agreed, looking at Casey like she was out of place. “Ma’am, how can I help you?” the officer asked unenthusiastically.
“I’m looking for Detective Brice Simpson,” Casey said. The officer’s eyes opened a few inches wider.
“He is no longer here. Let me get someone else who can help you,”
he said, motioning Casey to follow him up a staircase. They came to a door that read detectives. Casey followed him inside.
“Hey, Detective Page, this lady says she needs to see Detective Simpson. Can you help her?” Detective Page took one look at Casey and knew right away who she was. Just then, Dominique stood up from a chair next to Detective Page’s desk. She and Casey locked eyes. Casey stretched her thin lips into a smile.
“Sure can. Anything she needed from Simpson, she can get from me,” Page said, walking over to Casey. He walked Casey over to where Dominique stood. “Have a seat,” he offered.
Before Casey sat down, she grabbed Dominique’s hand. The heat of their hands together sent an almost electric current to Casey’s heart. “I have information about that missing girl from the TV,” Casey said, already holding on to the pictures.
“So I understand both of you want to help,” Detective Page said, examining the photos. He jumped up and ran over to a phone. He dialed a number. “Simp . . . I got some very important people you might want to meet,” Detective Page whispered, his eyes darting around the room. “There are two of them and they think they can help you find your sister–alive,” he continued, lowering his voice even more. Detective Page and Brice were old friends. They had completed the academy together. Detective Page didn’t want to chance any of the other detectives getting wind of him giving Brice information.
Dominique and Casey did not speak a word. They just held onto to each other for dear life. They would do just what Brice had said–save another girl’s life–with the hope that neither ended up dead.
Chapter Tweleve
Price of Fame
Los Angeles, California
The media lights flashed, temporarily blinding Dominique as she stood in Casey’s shadow. She had a fake smile plastered to her heavily made-up face as the paparazzi and the most notable porn industry executives yelled questions. Casey stood at the podium, waving and smiling.
Price of Fame Page 13