Shooters

by Lankford, Terrill Lee; Raphael, Lev; Parker, T. Jefferson

  I was already raw to the bone, but I picked up the pace like a good stud. She was freaking out.

  "Fuck me, Nick! Fuck me. . . . I hate you . . . I hate you . . . motherfucker!"

  I was really banging away now, pulling her ass upwards against my groin with both hands. Passion turned to hate, hate turned to lust, lust turned to some sort of existential agony that neither of us could comprehend. Nothing was going to completely satisfy us now unless we could actually molecularly bond and become one animal, one engine that would continue fucking itself into the next century.

  Candice strained at her bonds, shaking my bed to the point it almost broke apart. Tears streamed down her face.

  "Fuck me, fuck me harder, you bastard!" she screamed.

  I reached under Candice and manipulated her clitoris with my right hand, occasionally delving up into her steaming vagina. She was soaking wet.

  "Yes . . . yes . . . I'm coming!" she screamed. "Come with me! Come with me, baby! Tear me up!"

  Candice pushed her hips up against me as hard as she could with the bonds restraining her. I pounded away until we both stiffened up and spasmed in the most intense shared orgasm I've ever experienced. Hot fluids poured out of her as I pinched and stroked her rigid clitoris. It twitched under my touch. I didn't think I could come again, but I did. She drained every last drop of semen from my body.

  I collapsed on top of Candice's back, totally exhausted. I was breathing hard now, blood pressure 220 over 165. I was definitely done for the night. Maybe for the rest of my life. Candice was another matter altogether.

  "Don't stop now, Nick," she said. "We're so close. . . ."

  I was shocked. "You still didn't come?"

  "Sure I did, but we could go further, tonight. We could go all the way."

  What the hell did that mean?

  "I can't do any more," I said.

  "Yes you can. I'll help you."

  She shook her hair out of her face, looked over her shoulder, and said, "Put it in my mouth, Nick."

  I lifted up off of her, amazed. She hadn't lied about her sex drive. She was insatiable and she would do anything. I stared at her hungry, waiting mouth for a moment, then slid out of her and started to move forward.

  PART V

  "You should get laid more often."

  —Lou Collins

  1

  Sunlight streamed through the Venetian blinds into the bedroom. I could feel the sun, but I still couldn't fully wake up. I had suffered a workout that would last awhile and the drugs and booze had not helped matters.

  The phone rang. I jolted upright for a moment, then collapsed back into bed. I looked around the room. It was spinning slowly, rotating, lifting at the corners over and over again as if the whole place was going to capsize. Candice was gone, but the silk ties still dangled from the metal bedposts, mute testament to the debauchery that had occurred only hours earlier.

  I hung my head over the side of the bed. It was going to be a rough day in Hangover City. I slowly slid off the bed onto the floor and lay there, staring up at the ceiling. The phone continued to ring, an impossible six feet away, high up on the nightstand. I reached out, grabbed the telephone cord, and pulled the phone off the nightstand just in time to keep the answering machine from picking up. I dragged the thing toward me and put the receiver to my ear.

  "Yeah?"

  It was Lou. "Nick, where the fuck are you?"

  I looked around the room, thinking about the stupidity of the question.

  "Here," I said.

  "Yeah, well, you're supposed to be here, partner. We got six models lined up collecting paychecks."

  "What time is it?"

  "Ten-twenty-six exactly. . . . You're late. Way late. Again!"

  I felt like hanging up on him—let him shoot his own fucking pictures—but I resisted the impulse.

  "Shit. . . . I'll be right in," I groaned.

  "You're fucked up, aren't you?" Lou was a master of understatement.

  "Don't worry about it. I'll be fine."

  "I'll send a driver over."

  "Forget it, I said I'm fine."

  "You don't sound fine. Get a shower and be ready in half an hour."

  I acquiesced. "Yeah," I coughed into the receiver before hanging up.

  I struggled into a crawling position, slithered over to the bedroom window and climbed up the wall until I was on my feet.

  I stood with one hand on either side of the window holding myself steady, trying not to throw up. I looked around the room and had a vague memory of the girl who was there a few hours earlier. I was glad she was gone. Better yet, I was glad to still be alive. My bones ached and my head felt like it was going to burst. My groin looked like it had bounced off a land mine, but I was still breathing.

  I stared out through the window into the sunlit street below. Cars zoomed by on the Pacific Coast Highway. A grizzled-looking homeless guy strolled along the street with his shopping cart looking for valuable Malibu discards. The PC crowd insists we call these people "homeless" or "disenfranchised" or "dislocated." It gives all concerned a feeling of respect, but the fact was this guy was just a plain, old- fashioned bum. A character who felt more at home sleeping on the beach than confined within the four walls of society's norm. As I stared at the man I realized that he bore more than a passing resemblance to me. We could be cousins if not brothers. I stared down at the bum, then felt my own unshaven face. There but for the grace of whatever. And then again, maybe not.

  I looked over at the bed, then around the room. A battlefield without honor. I shook my head slowly, took one more look out the window at the bum, then staggered to the bathroom to try to prepare for the day.

  2

  After showering and dressing, I looked out my window at the street below. A long, dark limo sat in front of my house. Steve, the limo driver, sat behind the wheel reading a Penthouse magazine. The limo service sent Steve whenever they could. He had the proper temperament to tolerate my lifestyle.

  The bum was still working the neighborhood. He was very methodical. He was now rummaging through one of two large green Dumpsters between my house and my neighbor's place.

  I exited the house, carrying some gear. I looked better. Not good, just better. I still felt like shit. I had eaten some Tylenol and a few vitamins when I first went into the bathroom, but I puked them up in the middle of my shower.

  Steve dropped his magazine, jumped out of the car, and ran around to the other side to open my door for me. This was a move that always embarrassed me.

  "How many times have I told you not to do that, Steve?"

  "Sorry, Mr. Gardner. It's instinct."

  "Call me Nick."

  "Yes, sir."

  I stared at him for a moment, irritated that he didn't get it, then said, "I'll ride in front with you."

  I opened the front passenger side door and climbed in. Steve walked around to his side of the car and got in, tossing the Penthouse in my direction.

  The bum was up in the Dumpster now, prodding the trash with a bent metal pole, looking for valuables. The pole struck something deep within the Dumpster. He fished around and pulled up some new treasure with the homemade divining rod. It was a green plastic trash bag dripping some kind of dark fluid, oil, maybe blood. It looked like someone had thrown away some bad meat. I almost vomited again thinking about it. Luckily Steve pulled away and the sight was replaced by a bright sunny day at the beach.

  We drove to the studio in total silence. I wasn't up to any form of conversation. At one point I picked up the Penthouse magazine, then quickly dropped it back on the seat. Even the vision of beautiful naked women nauseated me.

  I wanted sunshine and caffeine. I got plenty of sunshine on the drive into town. The caffeine could wait until my stomach quit boiling.

  3

  The set was a continuation of the Collision design from the day before, only now one of the cars was upside down on top of the other car. It was Salvatore's idea, of course, and it looked great. Luckily the car
bodies we had rented were only shells, so with the proper rigging little, if any, damage was done. The same models from the previous day's shoot were back. They were lounging around off to the side awaiting my arrival. They had a lot in common with the cars. All look, not a lot happening under the hood. I came in quietly through the back door and scanned the scene to see how tense the situation had become.

  Jennifer was standing near the phones, talking with Lou. They didn't notice my arrival.

  "Fucking guy," Lou said. "I hope he's not going to go through another one of his 'difficult' periods."

  "I saw what he went home with last night," Jennifer snapped. "He may be sore for a few days, but I think he'll get over it."

  "Good." Lou was always the pragmatist.

  I stepped out of the shadows and they both looked guilty. How much did he hear?

  "Finally," Lou said, trying to cover for himself.

  "Sorry," I said, not meaning it for a second.

  "How you feeling?" Lou asked, putting on his best fatherly voice.

  Jennifer stared flame at me. I returned a blank gaze at her as I answered Lou, "Fine. Let's do it."

  I walked the set for a few minutes, gave instructions to the crew, then sat down in my tall director's chair. My legs were like spaghetti. Whitney brought me three extra strength Tylenol and some bottled water.

  "A little Kate Bush today, boss?" Whitney asked. Kate Bush was de rigueur around here when I had a hangover. Her music and voice were hot enough to get everyone's juices flowing without making me scream. There was something soothing about her primordial wails that usually gave me reason to live before the day was over.

  "Let her loose," I said to Whitney. He scurried off to the sound system.

  I gave simple instructions to the models and then the music came. It was one of my favorites, "Rocket's Tail." I smiled and said, "Places everyone."

  I had Jennifer decked out in her sultry cop outfit, doing suggestive things to the two "driver" models with her handcuffs, nightstick, and pistol while three of the atmosphere models played sexy shocked bystanders in the background. I shot furiously. I was getting great stuff. Jennifer was very angry at me and it was showing through in just the way I wanted. She looked like she could snap at any moment and actually start opening fire with her weapon.

  _____

  "Anyone can squeeze you into a negli-nothing and slap some makeup on you and get a look, but Nicky will capture your hidden kinks, your darkest desires."

  —Jennifer Joyner

  _____

  Lou and a handful of ad agency goofs stood off to the side near the crew, watching the action. After the previous day's fiasco I guess confidence in my work had slipped a notch or two. Lou seemed pleased with the way things were going now.

  We went three straight, hot hours without a break. I wanted to get as much of it as I could while it was working. We were all about to drop by the time I clicked off my last series of shots. The models were soaked with sweat.

  "That's it," I said. "We're done."

  Everyone relaxed on the set. Collapsed would be a better word. I dropped my arms to my sides and stared at the models for a few moments.

  The crew and the ad agency guys suddenly burst into applause, led by Lou, who was quite jubilant. He stepped onto the set and slapped me on the back. Then he led me off to the side.

  "You should get laid more often," he said. "That was fucking great. I don't know what you said to Jennifer, but she was hot! The Collision people are very impressed." Lou pointed at the ad guys. A pack of horny dogs who were now moving in on the models.

  I was very tired. Not just because of the night before or even what we had just done. I was tired of the whole scene. Even of Lou. It was all getting very stale.

  "We're gonna get a lot of action off this campaign," Lou bubbled, irritating me even more.

  "Yeah," I muttered.

  "You must be beat," Lou said. "Want to do a couple of lines in my office?"

  "You know me better than that. I'm going home."

  "Okay. Get some rest. We've got that lipstick thing to do on Monday."

  "Right."

  Lou slapped me on the back again. "Rare form today, buddy. Rare form."

  Lou moved off, targeting in on one of the female atmosphere models. He connected with her like a heat-seeking missile. I watched them talk for a moment before Jennifer got to me.

  "So, how was it?" she asked, wiping sweat from her face with a towel.

  "You were great," I said.

  "I meant last night."

  I didn't feel like putting up with any badgering.

  "That was great too. How was it for you?"

  "You bastard. You don't give an inch, do you?"

  "Problem with you, Jenn, someone gives you an inch, you want ten more."

  Jennifer hit me in the face with her towel and spit, "Fuck you!" at me in her most hostile hiss. Then she turned and stormed off toward the dressing rooms.

  I felt the red area that the towel left on my face and I smiled.

  _____

  "Settle down with Nick? No way. He'd just as soon fuck the maid of honor as cut the cake. He'd bang the entire catering staff while they were making hors d'oeuvres. He's a satyr, pure and simple. A great fuck, but a shitty lover. Love is forbidden in his world. Me, I believe in love. I just don't believe it exists within the L.A. county line."

  —Jennifer Joyner

  _____

  PART VI

  That's a new one, huh?

  —Edgar Thompson

  1

  Steve had read his Penthouse cover to cover by the time I got out of the studio. I sat in the front seat of the limo again, watching the traffic. It was a lot easier to take when you weren't behind the wheel. I was feeling a little better. My internal organs were finally settling into their proper places. We hit PCH just as the sun was beginning to set. I looked at Steve and wondered why he was a limo driver. He seemed smart and physically capable. There were plenty of other jobs he could be doing that would pay better and offer more job satisfaction. I fired up a cigarette and rolled the window down so I wouldn't smoke him out.

  "Ever think of doing anything else?" I asked.

  "You mean instead of driving?"

  I nodded.

  "Not for a few years now. When I first came to L.A. I wanted to be a movie director. Graduated USC, even spent a year at the American Film Institute."

  "So, what happened?"

  "I drive limos now."

  I stared at him for a moment. That answer said it all; another L.A. casualty settling for the grim reality of paying the bills over the dream that had brought him out to the West Coast. It was amazing how many stayed in Los Angeles long after the dream was over. The city is like a terrible drug. Addictive in the worst way. Everyone hates it, yet most of them stay no matter what the cost. Some manage to leave, only to return a year or so later. Very few have the intestinal fortitude to kick the insanity for good and live elsewhere. The dream is always there, a brass ring only inches outside their reach. Can't get the ring if you're not on the ride.

  I turned my attention back to the road to keep from embarrassing Steve any further. I could see my house up ahead. An ambulance and a number of police cars, marked and unmarked, were parked around the strip of houses surrounding mine and a small crowd of onlookers had gathered behind barricades. Reporters were everywhere, like a swarm of hungry insects.

  "Looks like trouble," Steve said.

  "My neighbor has probably been beating his wife again. Don't ever live next door to actors."

  Steve laughed. "I know what you mean," he said. "When I first got to L.A. I lived under one of the Baldwin's. . . . I never got any sleep."

  Steve pulled up as close to my driveway as he could get without breaking a barricade. He opened the door and ran around to my side. I got out before he could get there.

  "It's okay, Steve. I've got it."

  I looked over at my house. Police were walking in and out of my front door.


  "They're in your house, Mr. Gardner."

  "I can see that." I slipped Steve a twenty, patted him on the shoulder, and started walking toward the house.

  "You want me to stick around?" Steve asked.

  "No. Go on. I'll be fine."

  I walked up the stairs and entered the front door, which was standing open. A patrolman stopped me at the doorway. "I'm sorry, you can't come in here," he said politely, yet sternly.

  "This is my house."

  The patrolman was suddenly very excited. "Are you Nick Gardner?"

  "Yes."

  "Come with me, sir."

  I followed the patrolman up the stairs to the second floor. A complete forensic team was at work in the master bedroom. The activity was rotating around two men; a short, prematurely gray man who was dressed like he was ready to go to a wedding, and a much taller, handsome man in his early thirties who looked quite a bit more casual. The short man was obviously in charge of whatever was going on and the younger, taller man was his flunky. Business was revolving around the short man's instructions, which were brisk and calm. He had a quiet air of authority, like the whole affair, whatever it was, had already been figured out and he was just mopping up, doing the paperwork. The patrolman accompanying me seemed almost afraid to interrupt him.

  "Lieutenant Di Bacco," he said from across the room.

  The two men turned and saw us. The short man motioned for the taller man to approach us while he finished what he was working on. The tall man strode over, already putting a name to my face.

  "Nick Gardner?" the tall man asked firmly.

  "Yes," I said. "What's this all about?"

  The tall man looked over at the short man and nodded. Then he turned back to me and said, "Just a moment, please."

  The short man came over and faced me. He had beady eyes, more suited to a criminal than a cop. Sometimes it's just a flip of the coin.

  "Nick Gardner?" His voice was deep and rough, like some cop on prime time television.