Say You Love Her

by Z. L. Arkadie

  I lie down, close my eyes, and remember how good she felt in my arms yesterday. I lotion up, grab my dick, and rub it. I visualize her ass and her tits. My lips and tongue remember her hard nipples and the soft flesh around it. My hand is nothing like her wet pussy, but it will have to do. Her back is arched. Her tits are bouncing. I’m rolling my tongue around her clit, looking up so I can see her suck air and moan. She’s trying to free herself from my eager tongue, but I won’t let her get away. I’m gripping her ass cheeks. She screams my name. Louder. “Charlie!” she screams again.

  I grunt. Warm liquid drips down my hand. “Shit.” I hop up off the bed and go into the bathroom to wash up. I go back to the bed, and seconds later, I’m out cold.

  The room is dark when my eyes open halfway. I drag myself drowsily to the bathroom to take a piss. I fall right back to sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. I open my eyes again, and it’s daylight but I’m still too tired to do anything about it. The atmosphere is purple when I’m finally able to keep my eyes open. The clock on the nightstand reads 7:15 p.m.

  My feet slap the hardwood floor as I walk to the living room to retrieve my cell phone off the coffee table. I have twenty-three messages. Most of them are from Pearl. Monroe called twice. She wants me to ping her back. Jack called too. He didn’t know I was “involved” with Angelina and wants to sit down and talk to me about it. I sniff disdainfully and delete his message. I didn’t have a “sit down” with him after he asked Daisy to marry him without even knowing her for a full week. The gall of that guy.

  One message is from Maggie, and she’s chewing me out for breaking Monroe’s heart. “She’s not showing it, but she’s hurting, Charlie. What the hell! I thought you liked her. She said you haven’t been on-set for the last two days. Are you on a binge? Call me? Put me out of my worry?” I delete her message too.

  I want to shout every curse word ever invented. I’m fucking twenty-eight years old! Granted, I’ve made a very immature mistake, but I can give myself credit for being a cultured, well-traveled, and intellectual man. I don’t need to check in with my goddamn cousin.

  Anxieties and shit are running through me. Something has to change. I sit on the sofa shaking my leg nervously as I look out over the beach. The movie is something I have to decrease my involvement in. I’ve mostly stuck with it to avoid giving Jack and Maggie the privilege of saying “I told you so.” And so—I make an on-the-spot decision, going with my gut. But first, I listen to all the messages, hoping Angelina is missing me just as much as I miss her.

  There are seven more messages. There’s one from Hayden, a friend of mine, who asked if I want to join a pick-up game at the courts on Venice. There’s one from that chick Fiona. She wanted to know if I changed my mind. Shit, I can’t believe I gave her my number. There’s one from Scott, a buddy of mine who lives in San Francisco. He’s in town. His band had a gig last night and his bass player caught the stomach flu. “Ping me back if you can strap-up.” Shit. I hate that I missed that. There are three from people I don’t know but who are affiliated with the production. I should never have allowed Pearl to put my name on that goddamn call sheet. The callers want to know if I’ll be on set and if so they’ll reserve parking for me. I move on to the last message.

  “Hey, music man, this is Jacques.” I stop shaking my leg. “I’m working on a project, and I wonder if you’re free to join us. I could use someone like you on this.”

  “Yes!” I shout. I jump high off the ground. Did my ship just come in? The call is almost as satisfying as having Angelina in my bed ready to fuck. I don’t know what to do with myself. I go from the refrigerator to the cabinets and then back to the refrigerator as though I’m stuck in a pinball machine. I’m hungry as hell, but first I must separate myself from the “making” process of filmmaking.

  I make that phone call.

  “Hey, Pearl,” I say.

  “You’re ready to get back to work? We’ve changed some shooting locations, and I need you to sign off on…”

  “You do it,” I say.

  “Sign off?”

  “That’s right.”

  “All right then. I also need you to allocate towards the deliverables budget. I thought we could talk about pulling from...”

  “You do it. You do everything because from this point forward I’m just an investor. I’m trusting you to see my investment all the way to the finish line.”

  I can feel the elation in her pause. “Are you sure?”

  “Very.” And just like that, I’m finally free.

  Chapter 14

  Man-Eaters

  Jacques Blanchard was glad to hear I was onboard. He asked me to go to an address in Hancock Park, an affluent suburb in the center of the city. I drive down a street lined with palm trees and classic Tudor and Victorian houses. I park in front of one of those homes and ring the doorbell. About a minute goes by before Jacques opens the door.

  “You made it,” he says.

  “Wouldn’t miss it!” I kick myself for sounding overenthusiastic. Jacques Blanchard is the kind of guy who makes you feel it if you don’t appear as cool as he always seems to be.

  “That’s what I like to hear. Take your shoes off.”

  I do as I’m told and follow him inside, under arched columns and through a step-down living room. The furniture is red and leather. The floor is marble. Portraits of musicians hang on the walls. There are ivory statues, Mediterranean rugs, and black onyx tables. This place doesn’t feel like a home.

  “Do you live here?” I ask Jacques.

  “No. This is where I work. We’re downstairs in the basement.”

  “Are we starting?” a girl asks as she sashays down the spiral staircase as though she’s the lady of the manor. She’s about five-foot-one with killer curves, raven hair, and creamy skin. Her short, tight dress looks like something a girl would wear to bed, and she’s studying me intensely.

  “Yes, darling, in the studio,” Jacques says.

  She flashes me a smile as she sweeps past us.

  “That’s Mita Capelli,” Jacques says after briefly admiring her physique. “She’s a cellist.”

  “Ah.” I nod.

  “Some of the musicians who come in from out of town lodge here. There’s a room for you if you want it. I know you live in L.A., but it can be better to sleep here instead of getting in the car and driving home.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, reflecting back on how Mita just looked at me. She’s the aggressive type. Jacques is Angelina’s father. I’m in the doghouse. I plan to stay as far away from Mita as possible, and that means sleeping in my bed in Malibu.

  “The studio is this way.” Jacques thumbs over his shoulder. “The kitchen is around there, bathrooms are everywhere. There are six of them in the house and two in the basement. There’s a swimming pool and hot tub out back. Feel free to use them whenever you can because we’re going to be working our asses off. Day and night. But it’s going to be better than pussy.”

  I flash back to ramming Angelina the last time we were together. What could be better than that? “From your lips,” I say.

  I follow Jacques down another spiraling stairway. He points out two empty bedrooms down the hall then opens a soundproof glass door and leads me into a state-of-the-art music studio that spans the length and width of the entire house.

  Bolts of enthusiasm are running through me. When I spoke to Jacques yesterday, he asked if I wanted to work with him on scoring a new animated film. I’ve never been part of the process, and I’m caught off guard by the sight of a full orchestra warming up in the pit. I’m talking violins, French horns, cellos, trumpets, trombones, the bass section, drums, oboes, and flutes. About five engineers are working the boards in the control room. They’re the kind of guys who look as though they never get any sun because they’re always putting in long hours in dungeons like the one we’re in.

  “Do you read music?” Jacques asks.

  “Yeah.” I can barely concentrate on him.


  “Today we’re recording the orchestra sequences. They’re all trained technical junkies, which is why I want you to keep your ears open. You’re a pro at perfecting melodies.”

  “Hey, Ludlow,” Jacques calls. I recognize the guy who’s leaning over a girl working on a computer.

  Damn. I’m blinking, thinking I’m hearing things. Did Jacques Blanchard say I was good at perfecting melodies?

  Ludlow walks over and then holds his hand out for me to shake. “Are you Peter’s replacement?”

  “Yes, he is,” Jacques replies. He points at me. “Charlie Lord.” He points at Ludlow. “The director, Ludlow Dean. And I would’ve hired Charlie in the first goddamn place. He’s going to work with us on perfecting the quality, slicing it, and putting it back together again.” Jacques snickers as if he just had a thought, but he’s not sharing it.

  I know exactly who Ludlow Dean is. I’ve seen him on TV giving interviews before. He’s a director of animated films, and he’s put out some outstanding shit.

  “You’re that good?” Ludlow asks me, grinning.

  “He’s that good,” Jacques says.

  Moments later, Jacques calls the orchestra into position. I’m on bass. The cellist girl faces in my direction and she’s looking. I notice her at the start, but once we get going it’s easy to ignore her. The hours dwindle. Jacques composes with precision. He’s building the soundtrack one increment at a time. The harmony and notes constantly change. We create ambient sounds and what Jacques calls the cues, which are songs timed to begin and end at certain scenes in the film. Jacques calls the day to a close at midnight. I see what Jacques means about sleeping in the house. I decide to claim one of the rooms in the basement. Six hours of sleep later, we return to the studio not fully rested.

  I get the hang of things by the end of the week. It’s been six days since my last shower, so I bite the bullet and drive home, freshen up, pack a bag, and head back. This simple chore takes two hours in L.A. even on the weekend. During the next three days, I mostly watch and learn as Jacques and Ludlow sharpen the sound effects and lay them down to film.

  The days run into each other. I’ve been awake more than I’ve been asleep. It’s the orchestra’s last day, and Jacques has just wrapped with them. They celebrate by hitting the swimming pool before hitting the road.

  Ludlow tells the rest of us to be back in the studio in six hours. I go out back to join the party. Everyone is in or around the pool. This isn’t a far-out Hollywood-type party. It’s merely a bunch of exhausted people finally taking some time to swim, waddle in the water, catch some rays, and over-indulge themselves at the open bar.

  I close my eyes and stretch out on a lounge chair to catch some rays. It’s about eighty-five degrees today. Perfect. Almost. I hadn’t had time to miss Angelina until now. It would be nice to be sitting here with her. The lounge chair beside me squeezes. I couldn’t have gotten that lucky. I turn, and it’s the raven-haired cellist, Mita. She smiles back as she rubs sunscreen on her arms.

  “Is this your first gig?” she asks.

  “Yes, it is,” I say and close my eyes again. The trick is not to engage her.

  “I ask because I haven’t seen you around before, but you’re really good,” she says.

  “Thanks.”

  “We’ve never formerly introduced ourselves. I’m Mita.”

  I look at her with one eye open. “I already figured that out.”

  She chuckles and then lifts one leg on the chair and rubs suntan lotion all the way from her ankle up to her crotch. I wouldn’t think anything of it if she weren’t massaging herself suggestively.

  “I’ve been looking for you after we wrap. Are you sleeping in the house?” she asks.

  “Usually I stick around after everyone leaves the studio.”

  “But do you sleep here at night?”

  I was trying to evade the question the first time she asked it. If I say yes then she may take it as an invitation. If I say no, then that would mean that I’m lying because I don’t trust myself around her. “Yeah, I sleep here.”

  “Where?” Her voice is high with curiosity.

  “In one of the rooms in the basement.”

  “Oh…” She smirks and actually slips her fingers in her pussy as she lotions her thighs.

  I don’t need the temptation right now, so I get up. “Have a good swim,” I say.

  “You’re leaving.”

  “Yeah, I’m going back in the studio pretty soon.”

  “Where are you going now?”

  I pretend I didn’t hear her and walk away. It’s been too damn long since I’ve banged a chick. This is the longest I’ve ever gone without sex. I’m being faithful to someone who doesn’t want to see me right now. But shit, I still can’t cheat on Angelina. Since our parting is my fault, I owe her loyalty until she decides what to do with me.

  The days merge into one long period of time. Another guy named Lee and I are the only two musicians left at this point. Whenever Jacques needs us to replay something, Lee takes care of the horns and I’m strings and percussions. I’m in the studio more than out of it. I’ve become addicted to the process. Plus it helps control my urges. At this juncture, I simply want to fuck Angelina. Get it out of my system and then she can continue ignoring me until the next time we fuck. It’s been almost two months. She might have moved on.

  But now I’m faced with a new problem. Jacques had to call Mita Capelli back to revise some of the cello parts. She’s taken that other room on the basement floor. It’s been three days, and I’m playing with fire. She walks by my room a lot, most of the time nearly naked.

  It’s two o’clock in the morning, and she just walked past again on her way back from the bathroom. She gave me a crooked smile, and I let my eyes venture down to her tight shorts and up to the tiny white towel she’s using to cover her tits.

  As soon as she’s gone I get up to close the door. It’s time to bring this game of peek-a-boo to an end. I stretch out across the bed and punch the pillow to soften it before I rest my head on it. I’m due back in the studio in six hours. Before I can close my eyes, I hear soft rapping on the door.

  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who’s knocking. I stay still, thinking maybe she’ll go away. She knocks again and calls, “Charlie, are you sleep?”

  “Shit,” I mutter as I remember the way she looked walking past my door a few minutes ago. Fucking her would be a great start to getting back in the game, and I have thought about it.

  “Charlie?” she says as she cracks the door open.

  I prop myself up onto my elbows. “Yeah?” It comes out a croak.

  “You want some company?”

  I remember that I didn’t bring any goddamn condoms. Shit, her tits are exposed, and she’s wearing skimpy white-lace panties. She’s definitely ready to bone.

  “I don’t need any company,” I say, but it’s a strain.

  “It doesn’t look like it.” Her eyes are pointing at my raised dick.

  Here she comes. She seems possessed by the fact that my dick wants her. I can’t do it without a condom. I scoot over as she stretches out beside me. Her hand massages my dick.

  “You’re so hard,” she whispers.

  I lay back and close my eyes. “What are you doing?” I whisper.

  “I’m doing what you want me to do.”

  The fact that I’ve never gone this long without fucking and her rubbing me is making me want to blast one off. Then she straddles me and rubs my dick against the crotch of her panties. It’s hot and damp.

  “Knock, knock, who’s there? Charlie’s thick, hard, long bludgeoning dick,” she sings. “You want to come in?”

  She’s stopped rubbing me, and I’ve lost the sensation. She’s waiting for an answer. This chick is a talker. Do I want to go in? I don’t know. I thought I did. Then she puts her mouth on mine. Our tongues meet. She’s rubbing my dick again as we kiss. The taste of her tongue, her ass in my hands, her nipples against my chest, none of it feels r
ight.

  “Mita, listen,” I say, pushing her away. “I’m tired. Had a long day.”

  Suddenly the walls of her pussy swallow my dick. “Shit.”

  “Ah!” she moans and rides my dick as if she’s on a mechanical bull. Damn it, I’m going to blow. I take her by the arms and roll her over onto the bed. She murmurs something about how good it feels and jabs me with her hips to thrust me deeper inside of her. I can close my eyes, keep going, and pull out when it’s time to come, but I’m sick to my fucking stomach. That’s why I pull out of her now, and she whimpers as she squeezes her tits. The sight of her doing that should turn me on, but it doesn’t.

  “Fucking Angelina!” I shout and flop onto my back.

  “Who? Wait.” She pants while pausing to think. “Are you talking about Angelina Blanchard?”

  “Shit!” I leap to my feet, and she scrambles to sit up on her knees. “You know Angelina?”

  “She’s Jacques’s daughter. So yeah, I know Angelina.” She snorts cynically. “That explains why we’re just now fucking.”

  “We’re not fucking. That was a lapse of judgment on my part.” I tuck my now-limp dick back into my boxer briefs.

  “She has a reputation,” Mita spits.

  “What kind of reputation?”

  “She’s a man-eater, and you must be her dinner,” she snarls.

  “I wish,” I mutter. I really do. Mita’s pussy has done nothing but make me want Angelina even more.

  “So you really want to stop?”

  “I really do.” I’m positive about that.

  She snickers bitterly as she stands. “Email me when you’re over Angelina because she’s done with you already, and it seems you haven’t gotten the memo.”

  She slams the door on the way out. Maybe Angelina is done with me, but I’m not like the other guys she has supposedly “eaten up.” I’m family. I’ll see her again. I’ll take solace in that fact until I figure out how to get over her.