Craving Midnight

by A. M. Hargrove

  “Good to know.” Admittedly, Danny’s calmed me down about Holt. We finish dinner and he invites me to go for a drink. I’m more than a little leery about this.

  “Midnight, I’m not into sleeping with my actors, if that’s what’s holding you back. I don’t believe in that shit. It spoils a good working relationship.”

  “I did hear that about you.” I checked him out before I agreed to take this role. After you’ve worked in the porn industry, you think everyone’s out for one thing.

  “So?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  We hop into a taxi and go to a really cool club. Danny grew up in Manhattan so I’m comfortable with him leading the way. We dance, have a couple more drinks, and I excuse myself to use the restroom.

  When I return, I can’t find Danny. Then I spy him out on the dance floor with someone. I’m alone at the bar when a nice-looking guy approaches and asks me to dance. We weave our way through the throng and claim a piece of the real estate. He’s not bad, but I know how to move. I used to imitate my mom, who was a stripper, so my exotic-dancer skills are pretty damn good.

  Not wanting him to get the wrong impression of me, I tone it down and move like everyone else does, swaying my hips to the beat.

  A few songs later, we walk back to the bar and he leaves. Danny returns with his new friend and introduces us. She recognizes my name from some TV work I did. She gets excited and we chat. Then he leans in and asks if I mind taking a taxi back to the hotel alone. I’m cool with that. I guess he got himself a hookup for the night.

  The guy I danced with, who says his name is John, returns.

  “How about I buy you a drink?”

  One more can’t hurt. I’m only slightly buzzed. “Sure, why not?”

  “So, what’s your poison?”

  “I’ll have a vodka tonic with extra lime.” I figure after this one, I’ll have the guy out front grab me a cab. As I wait for my drink, I take in the scenery. John hands me the glass and I sip the tasty concoction. We chat a bit, but then halfway through, I’m not feeling so hot. The room tilts and I get dizzier by the second. I begin to sweat and feel sick.

  “Hey, are you okay?” he asks.

  “No. I think I need to leave.” But I’m not sure I can make it to the door.

  He takes my arm and says, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” He quickly ushers me outside as I slur the words, “The Plaza,” and my mind goes blank after that.

  The next thing I know, I wake up—sort of. I’m on a bed, and everything is fuzzy. When I try to get up, I can’t move. My limbs are weighed down, as if I’m stuck in concrete. I hear voices, only my brain is so foggy I can’t tell what they’re saying or who is speaking. What the hell is going on? Focus, Midnight. Focus.

  Blinking to clear my vision makes things worse. The room spins, so I keep my eyes closed. Maybe waiting will help. The mattress depresses next to me—someone climbs on the bed. Am I back in Phoenix? What’s going on?

  “She’s waking up.” It’s a man’s voice, but whose? Is it the guy from the bar? I swallow and my throat burns.

  “Good. Now we can move to stage two. This is getting old.”

  What’s getting old? I want to talk, to ask questions, but my mouth won’t work.

  “I’m freezing. Can I get dressed?” A woman is talking now.

  “No, you can’t get dressed. You still have work to do.” Another man speaks, a different one this time. His voice sounds deeper and harsher than the other one’s. I open my eyes again and the blurred images are a bit more distinct. My mouth and throat are dry, so dry. I lick my lips and they see it.

  One of them slaps my cheek. “Hey, wake up. You need to get in the game, lover girl.”

  “Get her some water,” someone says.

  The bed moves and then I feel a bottle pressed against my mouth. I drink greedily.

  “Slow down, Nelly, or you’ll throw it all up.”

  He’s right. I’m suddenly sick to my stomach as it churns with the unwelcome liquid. It soon passes and I ask for more. This time I sip.

  I open my eyes again but someone blindfolds me. “What’s going on? Where am I?” My voice is hoarse and I can barely speak.

  “No questions. You only get to play.”

  “Play? John, is that you?”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he says, “Start the camera again.”

  Oh, fuck. As the hazy edges of my brain fade, things begin to click. Someone shoves something cold between my legs. I try to close them, but I can’t because my ankles are attached to something that won’t allow it. I’m so exposed and it brings back terrible memories from long ago.

  “No, please don’t,” I beg.

  “Gag her.”

  Something is shoved in my mouth and there’s no way I can scream for help now. The scene progresses and I’m lost in a sea of hopelessness and terror. But then something stings my arm. Did they just drug me? When the rush hits, I have my answer. What the hell did they give me?

  Then I’m instantly aware, floating on a cushion of tranquility, but I don’t really care. They remove the gag and do all sorts of things to me. It’s three-on-one and more sex than even I’ve experienced. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know it’s wrong, but this feels so damn good. I hear myself telling them, “More, more. Harder, yessss.” Even in my drugged state, the questions are in bold italics. Who is doing this? Who are these people? And why? What do they want? And though it’s horrific, I don’t really give a fuck. All I want is for it to keep going.

  “Ahhh, yesss, don’t stop,” I say. I whimper when something ends, but am happy when they start something else. Every part of my body is attended to and I hear one of them say, “We need to get her to do this again.” I’m in the throes of an orgasm so I can’t answer him.

  The drugs make me lose track of time. I float above an abyss, emotionless and uncaring that people are raping me on video. My mind is present, but not. All I feel is a sense of being cradled in a cozy blanket and someone rocking me. No hallucinations, no magic, I just am. And it’s the most wonderful sensation I’ve ever had.

  I’m not even sure when all the sex ends because I’m high and don’t really give a shit. The high is smooth, magnificent. All I want is for it to go on and on. Unfortunately, it doesn’t. Reality gut punches me so hard. When I figure out that I’m free of my bonds, I take off my blindfold and crumble into a heaping pile of ragged tears.

  I’m weak, shaking, and lying on a bed next to a pile of sex paraphernalia. They are not your normal, everyday toys. I never even used some of this stuff in the porn industry. A spreader bar, which was why I couldn’t move my ankles, butt plug, nipple clamps, ball gag—everything imaginable. Fuck, there’s even a flogger. Did they whip me? When I try to move, my limbs are so fucking sore, I can barely budge.

  And then to my utter horror, my phone sits next to me. It can’t be. But it is. On top of it sits a sticky note with two words: Have fun, followed with a smiley face. Grabbing my phone, the first thing I notice when I pick it up is a text message.

  I don’t waste time reading it as panic explodes in my chest. My eyes dart about the room erratically, in search of my clothing. Initially, I can’t find my pants or sweater, but then I see them peeking from underneath the duvet heaped on the floor. Feeling like a drunken crab by the way my sluggish arms and legs move, I grope my way off the bed. My cute black sweater is torn in places, but my pants are okay. Luckily my coat will hide the damaged sweater.

  I quickly dress and then check the room for some indication of where I am. It’s a hotel in Midtown, not far from the club I went to with Danny.

  Without a backward glance, I’m out of the room in search of the closest exit. It leads to a stairwell, which I’m leery of, but I rush to get out of here. I’m on the second floor, and I stumble down the steps and out of the hotel where I hail a cab back to The Plaza.

  Once I’m safe in my room, I look at my phone. When I open the text message, bile rushes up my throat. It contains three vi
deo attachments. I hit the play button on the first one and throw up before I can finish watching. They recorded everything. I shake so badly, my finger can’t hit the play button to resume watching. My heart fills with dread as I realize my career is ruined.

  I place a call to my agent, Rita Clayton, because I don’t know what else to do. Calling Danny isn’t an option. What would I tell him? That I have three nice videos to show him? He’d fire me on the spot. When word gets out, my short-lived career with Alta is history.

  “Hey, Midnight, what’s going on?” my agent asks.

  I can’t even talk because I’m sobbing and hyperventilating.

  “What’s happening? You have to stop crying so I can understand you.” Instead, my shaking hands send her the first video.

  “I ... I was drugged and w-woke up in a hotel room.”

  She’s quiet for a minute. “What do you mean?”

  “I ... I just sent you a video.” I try to explain the rest, only I’m sobbing too hard to go on.

  “Oh, shit. Hang on.” She’s quiet but finally says, “This is twenty minutes long.”

  “Rita, th-there are three of them.”

  “Where are you now?”

  A giant sob bursts out of me. “Back at The Plaza.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “No! I ran. I was afraid whoever did this would come back.”

  “Hang on. I know someone who can help. I’ll call you right back.”

  I’m pacing when my phone rings. Rita says, “Someone will be there to clean up this mess.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone who’s going to help fix this shit, Midnight. Just hang tight.”

  Chapter 2

  Harrison

  As soon as the phone rings, I’m wide awake, pulled out of the coma-like sleep.

  “Kirkland,” I answer, heading toward the bathroom. Any time I get a call at three thirty in the morning, it means I’m going to work.

  “Harrison, it’s Leland. We have an issue.”

  “Who is it this time?”

  “Midnight Drake. You know, the sultry actor who recently signed a multimillion-dollar contract with Alta Pictures.”

  “Hmm. What happened?”

  “Pack a bag, boss. We’re flying to New York. Wheels up in one hour.”

  “Fuck. That bad?” I ask around my toothbrush.

  “Yep. The team will be joining us. I’ll give you all the details when we’re together.”

  I’m a cleanup guy. Fixing things has always been my passion. It began when I was a kid and my dog suddenly became sick and died. We came home from the vet after he couldn’t be saved, and watching my dog die at such a young age broke a piece of me. He wasn’t fixable, but that didn’t mean other things weren’t. That’s when my need to become a fixer took root and grew. Broken toys, things around the house, stuff I found on the street, you name it. I’d bring them home and do my best to restore them, and if I couldn’t do it, I’d recruit my dad to help. I’d even bring injured animals home, and Mom would take them away—to the vet, she’d say—and I’d be thankful they weren’t suffering anymore.

  As I grew older, the fixer in me expanded to people. When I went to school, I’d find kids who were in trouble and needed friends. At Crestview Academy I met Prescott Beckham. He was in the worst shape of anyone I’d ever met. A kid from a dysfunctional family, he didn’t know which way to turn. So what did I do? I brought him home, just like I used to do with those injured animals. He’s still somewhat fucked up. But at least he’s back on track.

  The following year at Crestview, Weston Wyndham showed up. I called Dad and told him to buy a couple of cases of superglue because that’s what this guy needed. Dad laughed. He knew I’d show up at home with Prescott and Weston in tow. Weston had a black eye because Prescott and I had beaten the shit out of him to teach him a lesson. He’d been picking fights and needed a good ass kicking. When he figured out we only wanted to help, the three of us became inseparable. He definitely needed that glue, though. I thought Prescott’s situation was bad—Weston’s brand of dysfunction made me rethink what the word meant.

  I’m still fixing things and people, which is how I ended up in my current profession. Since I’m so good at it, why not make some bank doing what I do best?

  In less than thirty minutes, I’m on my way to the airport from my Malibu home. At this hour, traffic poses no problem. When I arrive, I drive straight to the entrance for private jets and follow the road around after going through the designated security checkpoints. I park, and Leland is there, along with the pilot. The team is boarding the jet.

  “Good morning, everyone. Pete,” I say, greeting our pilot. “Is the coffee on?”

  Our flight attendant pops his head out from the back and says, “It’ll be ready in a moment, along with breakfast.”

  “Oh, hi, Mike. Didn’t see you back there.”

  “Morning, Mr. Kirkland.”

  Everyone takes a seat and Leland begins.

  “Midnight Drake woke up in a hotel room a few hours ago, naked and alone with three fresh videos on her phone. Apparently, while she was pumped full of what we assume to be heroin, a shitload of kinky fuckery went down, without her consent, and the videos shot of the evening have gone zooming across the internet. Her agent called—it’s a freak show.”

  “She was raped?” I ask.

  “Yes. I’m hitting you with the videos now. Be prepared. They’re pretty graphic. Let’s just say unfortunately, Midnight was on full display.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Exactly,” Leland says. “Alta is already claiming they’re dumping her because she violated her contract.”

  “What is she saying?” I ask.

  “She was drugged and raped.”

  “Clearly.”

  “She says she remembers nothing.”

  “Did you watch the videos?” I ask.

  “Yeah, and she was totally out of it. Completely unresponsive in the first one. Then in the second, she came around a little. The third, she was so fucked up, she wouldn’t have cared if someone cut off her head. I shit you not.”

  “Sounds like someone roofied her drink. Has our New York team found her playmates? And have you pulled the videos?”

  “The videos have been pulled and we’re working on the playmates. Everything was uploaded from a cell phone.”

  “Track the fuckers. You know what to do. Where is Midnight now?”

  “At The Plaza waiting for you with one of our reps. She’s totally freaked.”

  “Right. Wouldn’t you be?”

  Leland nods. “I’d be getting the fuck out of town.”

  Those fucking asswipes taking advantage of people like that. They’re like computer hackers, out to destroy lives, and for what purpose? Because they don’t have anything better to do? “Leland, did she call the police?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm. Did she say why?”

  “Nothing other than she’s waiting for you.”

  This is odd, but I’ll get to the bottom of it when I speak to her. “Okay. What about money? Did those scumbags make any demands?”

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  I slam my hand down on the table in front of me. “Let’s get on this, people. I don’t care what it takes. We need to clean this shit up.”

  That gets the attention of everyone sitting close. Bodies stiffen and eyes open wider. They know when I mean business, and this just hit me the wrong fucking way.

  Pete’s voice comes to us over the intercom to tell us we’re ready to taxi. We should be cleared for takeoff momentarily.

  “Buckle up, buttercups. We’ve got serious work ahead of us, which equates to a long day. I know I ask a lot of you and I’m sorry for the early hour, but you’ll be given a bonus if we nail these fuckers. As usual, this one stays under the radar.”

  The jet taxis toward the runway and we’re soon taking off into the dark sky. It won’t be long before we fly into the sun. The team starts making calls. I hav
e one man in particular I want to contact so I make the call myself.

  “Mr. Kirkland. Are you in New York already?”

  “Not yet, Rashid, but I’m on the way. I need you to do something for me.” I explain the situation and tell him exactly what I need.

  “I’ve already handled the videos. But it may take a day for me to locate the phones. It’ll take some extra work, you know.”

  My tension lessens somewhat. “Thanks, Rashid. I’m glad Leland got in touch with you. We’ll be staying at The Plaza if you can’t get in touch with me by phone. But I want those people found.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Kirkland.”

  Rashid benefited from my cleaning up a while ago. He was in deep shit with his hacking skills. I took care of things for him. Now he owes me and is at my disposal one hundred percent of the time. He stays in New York because honestly, he’s connected to everything. He probably has every bank and investment account number at his fingertips. But the dude knows I have him by the balls. All it would take is for me to make a phone call to the right people and he’d be back where he started.

  As soon as Pete says we’ve cleared ten thousand feet, Mike shows up with coffee and breakfast. Emily, another team member, smiles gratefully. So do I. When she’s hungry, she’s a grouch and her brain isn’t worth a shit. I can’t have that. I need her mad skills right now.

  Everyone has secrets. Even me. Granted, I’m vanilla compared to most, but when I see a broken individual, I’m a magnet for them. Emily was shattered. Her Dom threw her onto the streets, cast her aside after a few years, with no explanation. I stumbled upon her one night in a bar, drinking herself into oblivion. She told me all her dirty secrets and said she wanted to kill herself. I couldn’t sit by and do nothing. She didn’t want to involve her family, and who could blame her? What person wants to divulge that kind of lifestyle to Mom and Dad? So, I brought her to my place where she could sober up and we could create a plan.

  Emily was an events planner for one of the movie studios, and had done a variety of things from handling the press to dealing with caterers. She could mobilize a team of five hundred and get them from point A to B in a snap. I needed those skills on my team. But she needed to get her shit straightened out first, and her issues were way beyond my fixing capabilities.