I’d been intrigued by the psychology behind celebrity culture my whole life but to be honest, I wanted to study the underground artists. Those that didn’t get as much attention as the mainstream fame du jour; they drove me to complete a thesis that would be worthy of a good grade and secure my Summa Cum Laude status when I graduated in a couple of weeks.
That didn’t mean I wasn’t aware of what I was about to do or the dangerous world I would be exposing myself to—all in the name of research. There were genuine rumors and mumblings about Blaine, aka Baise, actually being a snuff director. For the masses, it meant nothing but for those of us who studied film, it was a huge deal. Not many people could actually even admit to meeting an actual director of movies where someone died.
There was a lot of talk about the whole industry being a sort of urban legend, fueled by films like Eight Millimeter that actually addressed the issue itself. There was bullshit and then there was truth. I was one of the people who truly believed life was stranger than fiction. If people were sick enough to gun innocents down and then claim their “second amendment rights” then I wasn’t foolish enough to think there were people willing to own a one of a kind film where they could watch someone get their life snuffed out over and over again.
And not on eight millimeter film either.
No, nowadays, there was Blu-Ray and high definition.
I couldn’t help myself at this point though; I’d passed the point of no return. Yes, I was playing with fire and I could severely be burned in the process but to me it was worth it.
Every twisted, agonizing, sickening second.
“Are you sure this is something you truly want to do? You begged me for a spot and now you are willing to give it up because my son has promised you fame and fortune?”
I felt awful; well and truly sorry for the decision I’d made but I was willing to pay the consequences.
Professor Baasch glared at me as if I’d lost my mind; perhaps I had but I wasn’t ready to acknowledge that fact yet.
“This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. I may never get it again.” I paused and twisted a loose wave of hair with my finger. “I know I sound like I’ve lost my mind but I can’t pass this up. Chances are I will end up here, working under your tutelage and I’m more than willing to make the sacrifice just to explore my one true passion.”
Professor Baasch possessed “Elizabeth Taylor” eyes. Violet-blue orbs that captivated and sparkled in spite of the bright lights from the lab. Only one of his sons had managed to receive his eye color—Zed. The most perfect specimen if ever one existed but he was harder to get to than the President of the United States.
For some reason, Blaine and Xavier were extremely protective over him and although he was famed to be as brilliant as his brothers, some said it had more to do with his gentle disposition than anything else. He simply wasn’t a people person and found it hard to step outside of the box. He didn’t crave to make new friends and his privacy was thus fiercely guarded.
“I don’t know, Vie.” Professor Baasch set a chart down on the lab table and crossed his arms against his chest. “Blaine isn’t . . . well, he has issues. I’m worried about your safety with him. His mother and I—brilliant and famed psychiatrists the world over managed to raise three men who have more problems than you can possibly imagine. It is quite sad to be honest.”
My heart beat faster with anticipation. “I’m sorry . . . I truly don’t understand what you mean.”
The professor met my eyes with a look of contrition and regret. “Blaine is bi-polar; Zed suffers from severe agoraphobia and Xavier is sociopathic with psychotic tendencies. All our sons take various pharmaceutical medications for their issues but the drugs only work as well as the patient responsible for taking them.”
I cocked my head to the side. “Are they a danger to society?”
“No, of course not. Otherwise they would be institutionalized but they aren’t . . . how shall I say? Well, I suppose they are an acquired taste. There’s a reason none of them are married you know.”
“I’m willing to take my chances,” I responded before I bit my bottom lip. “I’m not some innocent—I’ve studied psychiatry my whole academic career. I believe I’m up to the challenge but I don’t want to leave you in a lurch either.”
He shook his head. “There’s no lurch you’re going to leave me in—there is a wait list for students who would kill to get that spot I reserved specifically for you. I will allow you to pursue this but . . . please be careful. You understand better than anyone that diseases of the mind are always more dangerous and opportunistic than diseases of the body.”
“I’m well aware of that. I had some very, very good professors while I’ve studied here at Stanford,” I replied in a gracious manner.
“Some of the best. And don’t you ever forget it.”
“I couldn’t—not even if I tried.”
“Especially around them.” Professor Baasch’s brows furrowed together. “You may have been one of my most prized and gifted students but they are my sons. If anyone knows the game of mind-fuckery, my sons excel at it. Remember, they also learned from the best too.”
“Believe me, professor, I won’t. That I can promise you.” I smiled once again as I hoisted my laptop bag onto my shoulder and left the lab for the last and final time.
I wasn’t sure when I would see him again but I knew better than to question anything Baasch had told me. I knew his only concern was for my well being but an inner voice warned me that if I didn’t take heed, I would end up over my head.
Sooner rather than later.
Blaine met me at San Francisco International Airport.
It'd been approximately two weeks since I’d graduated from my program and was now the proud holder of a Masters of Science in Abnormal and Clinical Psychology degree. It was quite the honor and achievement yet my parents were far from proud.
They didn’t understand why I was wasting my whole summer on some throwaway ambition like studying the psychology of celebrity. Blaine and I were flying to L.A. where we would spend most of the summer along with a couple of trips planned back east.
The Pascal-Baasch family not only owned a home in the Southampton but also a getaway estate in Martha’s Vineyard. The trips would serve not only the purpose of my project but Blaine’s as well.
He had two films back-to-back he planned to make that summer. He could work as much—or as little—as he wanted to since his movies weren’t exactly the type one enjoyed in a theater with a large tub of buttery popcorn and a watered down drink. He worked by commission only.
The people who paid him to make these movies weren’t just your ordinary, run-of-the-mill rich people with too much time and money on their hands. Many ran tech companies in Silicon Valley, Fortune 500 companies and owned studios themselves.
His target audience ranged from the techno geek billionaire to one of the most wealthy and successful Bollywood directors in the history of the industry. They might have made their money in a certain way that society approved of but the type of movies they enjoyed were far from family friendly.
Blaine and I sat next to one another in the Business class section while the rest of the proles had to shuffle inside and take their crowded seats in coach. I knew how that felt—I used to be one of them.
Yes, I’d grown up with a certain amount of wealth and privilege but my parents were also frugal to the point of ridiculousness. Neither believed in spending excessive amounts of money therefore I flew coach when I needed to take flights. When I visited Europe, I stayed with my friends or family, and I was taught to account for every bit of money I’d spent.
All the sudden going from a world where cleanliness and financial prudence were next to Godliness to a land of luxury, opulence and an overabundance of waste of money felt strange. My head was still spinning from the whole experience and we hadn’t taken off yet.
He leaned toward me as he handed me a fluted glass of champagne. I couldn’t deny how sexy and o
verwhelmingly attractive this guy was. Between those gorgeous cerulean eyes, creamy skin, and structured face with a straight Roman nose, luscious pink lips and overall sexual maleness, Blaine was more than just easy on the eyes.
Although tall and lean, it was obvious he worked out, from his firm pecs to his rock-hard abs, strong thighs and biceps meant to be touched. He also had that delicious V I’d spotted as he stood and grabbed his iPad before he sat down again next to me.
“One hundred dollars for your thoughts,” he murmured in that whiskey and honey-soaked timbre that held a slight accent I couldn’t quite place.
Although he and his brothers were born and bred Californians—same as I was—it was obvious he spoke more than one language fluently and often enough that some of his words were pronounced too precisely. There wasn’t that lazy, lackadaisical way of speaking so many native English speakers had that came from years of being bombarded by slang and a genuine lack of not giving a damn. Why use words at all? Wasn’t that the reason why “LMAO,” “FML,” “ROTFL,” “YOLO,” et al had been invented in the first place?
I smiled though it came off as a bit too flirtatious when I desperately wanted it to seem more laid back—more like my personality and me. “I don’t need a hundred dollars. It’s just . . . odd. I’m not used to traveling like this.”
“Traveling like this? I’m not sure I understand what you mean.” Blaine stared at me as if I’d grown a second head. “How are you used to traveling if I may ask? It’s not like you grew up in a family of limited means.”
How would he know that?
Suddenly I felt like I was on display. Had he done research on me? For someone who I barely knew, he seemed to push all the right buttons with me.
Overly aggressive alpha male.
Take charge, no bullshit attitude.
Not patronizing but quick to call me out on my crap when I acted below what he considered intelligent with well thought out answers and questions from me.
Right now, he was definitely plunging the third button with gusto.
Then again, his parents were two of the most prestigious professors in the world. Of course he knew people and could get a sense of their attitude right from the start. I might not have exactly been an open book but I wasn’t exactly overly guarded or cautious about my emotions or my feelings towards certain subjects.
“Well, my parents were very tight with money . . . let’s just put it that way. I grew up in a ‘waste not, want not’ household. I guess that comes from having family that has been well off for several generations. They almost act like . . . I don’t know—British aristocracy or something. I would swear my dad must be secretly related to Queen Elizabeth and my mom can’t be too far behind. She’s just so damned . . . concerned with having enough. The only splurging they did was on my education and they didn’t do a lot there, mostly because I always qualified for scholarships, and worked my way through school. Usually internships.”
Blaine smirked though his expression almost verged on a smile. “Must have been hard. It’s not like you chose general psychology. Abnormal psychology is difficult. My parents wanted me to get an advanced degree but I stopped after I received my Bachelors. They weren’t exactly pleased I only graduated Magna Cum Laude. After all, I grew up surrounded by the science my whole life. I’ve always been brilliant in math too.”
I sipped from my champagne and grimaced at the taste. I’d always hated it and preferred an aged Pinot Gris to the carbonated crap that left me with raging headaches and feeling slightly out of body.
“Then why didn’t you graduate with the highest honors?”
“I simply didn’t care.” Blaine finished his champagne, grabbed my flute and downed mine too. “I’ll let the flight attendant know you prefer Pinot Gris to champagne.”
I turned toward him, fascinated by how easily he changed the subject. However, the disconcerted feeling of my body somehow responding to the warmth of his as we brushed one another left me with my face overheated and blush suffusing my face, neck and chest.
“I don’t understand. Why didn’t you care? And how the hell do you know I like Pinot Gris as opposed to champagne?”
“I’ve been around it my whole life, Vie—may I call you that? My father told me that was the name you go by along with your favorite wine.” He stared at me intensely as he continued, “I don’t give a shit about why humans do what they do. We act and react to situations and circumstances around us. It’s as simple as that. Are there diseases of the mind that cause certain people to act and react differently? Of course. Can a traumatic experience change a person’s attitude beyond recognition? Obviously—it’s a no brainer.”
Blaine’s blue eyes bore into my own. “To be honest, dealing with manic depression when I was younger, and my parents telling everyone about it . . . it was weird. I mean, everyone expected me to be this odd person. It didn’t help me during high school when Six Feet Under was on television and everyone expected me to be just like Billy Chenowith. You know, one day I’m fine and then the next, off my meds and either crying like a fucking baby in the corner or flying through a manic episode where I wouldn’t sleep for days at a time.
“I don’t take the medication . . . well, except lithium. It does its job and the rest, well I deal with it homeopathically. I try to get plenty of rest and exercise and when I sense a swing in my mood coming on, I do a shit-load of breathing exercises. It’s worked so far and I can honestly say that I live as normal of a life as the next person—whatever the fuck normal is supposed to be.”
“Well, we all have our issues. I’m not perfect either.” I looked down at my clasped hands and away from his face. “My interest in psychology and psychiatry came about because I discovered at the age of sixteen I suffered from a severe form of genophobia.”
I could feel my face burn as I turned toward Blaine.
I expected him to burst out laughing or perhaps wear one of his famous smirks but he merely glanced at me for a long time before he replied, “It’s obvious. Not many people can get to your ripe age and not have experimented with sex. Is that why you’re interested in what I do?”
“Well, yes and no.” I swallowed before I continued, “Sex is a form of violence. Even the act itself—no matter how gentle or lovely it’s portrayed, a man or woman is inserting objects into a place with enough force for there to be pain afterwards. I thought perhaps I could learn more about myself because it’s the pain itself that turns me on—not the act of sex. I wanted to find out why infliction of pain would be something that I would find pleasurable yet the act of sex—where pain can be found and is often enjoyed—repulsed me.”
Blaine leaned closer to me as his fingers wrapped around a loose wave of hair caressing my face. “If you’re repulsed by sex then do you really suffer from genophobia? Isn’t that a fear of sex?”
“I suppose so but my condition has improved over the years. I can even masturbate now where three years ago, I couldn’t even touch myself for physical pleasure. It’s a process that gets better as I get older but it can make relationships very hard. My ex was coitophobic so we kind of fit together like peas and carrots. He didn’t want to have sex with me and I had zero desire to have sex with him. To be honest, it worked very well but Professor Baasch reminded me our situation was unhealthy and unsustainable. If I continued to seek out people who were similar to me then I would never make sufficient process in getting over my revulsion of sex in the first place.”
Our conversation was cut off prematurely as the head flight attendant began to explain the instructions listed in the brochure.
If Blaine had flown as much as I had—and I was under the assumption he’d flown many, many more times than me—it was just a rehash of what we already knew. However, we still had to be quiet and listen to the mundane instructions of what to do if the plane crashed or had to make an emergency landing.
Finally, she finished and the plane was cleared for takeoff. This was my least favorite part of flying. I could handle the
landing but the actual ascent into the air drove my nerves to pieces and it took almost everything in me not to have a panic attack.
As my hands gripped the leather console and I slowly counted in my head, Blaine placed his hand nearest to mine over the one closest to him.
“You’ll be fine, sweetie. Just remember, nothing could be as bad as the Spanish Inquisition.”
I laughed out loud, his play on a Monty Python routine and was surprised he knew it at all.
Mutual silence followed until we’d taken off and began to cruise at a comfortable altitude of somewhere between twenty-five and thirty thousand feet in the air.
“So, what do you think of this all? Is it still what you want?”
I turned toward him and looked into his crystal blue eyes. “I couldn’t want anything more. It’s a joy—a dream—to watch you do what you do best.”
Blaine chuckled though there was little mirth in his laughter. “Listen, you’re a gorgeous, intelligent young woman. I have absolutely no doubt you will be bored one week into our little excursion. Therefore, to please your parents and make them understand your Stanford education wasn’t completely wasted, I have a project for you but only if you want it.”
His words intrigued me deeply but I wasn’t foolish enough to think anything in this world came without a price. He would want something from me but the answer to that question was what exactly?
“Well, it will take a while for me to observe what it is you do. I hardly doubt I’m in a position to do anything . . . I mean, I’ve been in academia for so long, what could I possibly be qualified for?” My hand slowly separated from his as I clasped them together and began to wring them in a form of desperation.
“You’d be surprised what you could learn over the next few months, min beskidte lille engel.”
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