by Cecilia Tan
“H’lo?”
“Dude, it’s almost noon. You still in bed with your heiress?”
“Still in bed. Heiress is on the patio doing yoga or Pilates or something. I have to literally tie her to the bed if I want morning sex.” He yawned. “What’s up?”
“You’ve been dating Ricki how long?”
“About a year,” he said. “Why?”
“How well do you know that redheaded hostess from their club?”
“Madison? Pretty well, I guess. I mean, not in the biblical sense. We’ve hung out a bunch. Nice gal. You guys put on quite a show last night.”
I guess we made an impression. “Tell me, though. Is she single? Married?” I kept wondering about the text she’d gotten. Was she worried I’d freak if she told me she had a boyfriend? I didn’t know what to think.
“Single,” Axel said, making me breathe a sigh of relief. “And, I would’ve put my money on her being more interested in women than men until you made her putty in your hands.” He chuckled.
“Yeah, well, maybe I’m special,” I bragged. “But you’re sure she’s single?”
“Hang on a sec.” I heard him get out of bed and then yell to Ricki. When he came back he said, “Yep, single. And you know how fanatical the family is about keeping the dungeon a secret. They did background checks on all the employees, her included. If there was a husband, or wife for that matter, we’d know.”
“Okay. I just…” I trailed off, trying to figure out what to tell Axel, and what not to tell him. “Just making sure everything’s cool. You know, that some spouse isn’t going to be pissed at me for the marks I left on her last night.”
“You mean it’s cool she’s available to be pursued, right?”
Damn Axel for twigging to my interest right away. “She’s a club employee.” I downplayed it as much as I could. “I don’t think she’s that into me. She helped me have a good time but I don’t think she really meant it.”
Axel chuckled. “That didn’t look like a woman just doing her job. Did she give you her number?”
“Well, yeah.” I didn’t tell him it was because she’d agreed to come house hunting with me.
“Then why do you sound so stressed about it? Talk to me, bro.”
Play it cool. Play it cool. “I’m not stressed. Just trying to get the lay of the land before I go trekking across it, you know? Neither of us was looking for anything but some kinky fun.”
I was expecting him to bust my balls over getting serious with a club girl and part of me felt almost superstitious, like talking about her was going to jinx my chances, but to my surprise Axel said, “I know. But you guys are good together.”
I hoped he was right but at that moment I felt like pushing back against his pat reassurances. “I’m sure she’ll be tired of my shtick soon enough,” I said. “Talk to you later, Ax.”
“Sure thing. See you at the listening party, if not sooner.”
“Right.” The next time the whole band would be together in one spot would be at a record company event after Mal got back to town. Until then I had nowhere I had to be, officially.
Which was why this was a good time to try to reach my mother. No distractions. It sometimes took a couple of days for her to respond and I never knew when she might.
But when I picked up the phone I found myself looking up Madison’s number instead.
* * *
MADISON
I dreamed that I was in some kind of Vegas revue, like Siegfried and Roy except instead of tigers the guy who was the star of the show had me and a few other girls on leashes, and we danced and pranced as he put us through our paces. When the show was over, instead of going to a dressing room he walked us back to holding pens, where the secret was that we were actually tigers in disguise.
He scratched me behind the ears and I purred.
When I woke up my ginger tabby Morris was kicking me in the head and purring as he tried to take over my pillow. Some tiger. The man in the dream had looked suspiciously like a certain drummer I knew, though. Ink-black hair, dark eyes…
I stretched in bed and felt the soreness of my glutes. Instead of being angry I’d let him do that to me, I felt strangely proud of myself. The memory of his hand gliding over my skin, the intense look on his face as he examined the marks, made me feel warm all over. And thinking of how he’d buried his tongue between my folds only cranked up the heat level. I had no regrets about getting down with Chino Garcia. None.
I pulled my vibrator out of the drawer beside my bed and clicked it on. Morris leapt down immediately; he didn’t like the humming noise it made or the way I sometimes shouted when I came.
I pressed the nub of the vibrator to my clit and squeezed my legs together, letting the memory of Chino’s hands, his voice, his skin against mine, play through my memory. Mm, yes, I still wanted him. No getting around that. A dildo wasn’t going to satisfy that craving. Not even close. Not after the gorgeous sight of him naked had been imprinted in my brain, and not after the incredible sensual touch he’d demonstrated. I wanted to feel that again, this time in complete privacy…
I came suddenly, bucking against the vibrator trapped between my legs, and I kept jerking my hips until two more orgasms had wracked me. Then I clicked the vibrator off but something was still buzzing.
My phone. Thinking it must be Chino about house hunting, I grabbed it from the side table, the orgasmic aftershocks still ricocheting through my body. “Hello?”
“Maddie. Been trying to get through to you. It’s Price Lawson. Remember me?”
As if I could have forgotten that Lawson was the former editor of the arts and entertainment section of LA Newsday, a man I’d tried several times to get a writing gig with. The closest I’d gotten was the time he’d asked me to come to a business lunch. That morning he’d called back and said something had come up and would I mind changing it to dinner?
Ladies, let me tell you something. If a businessman ever changes a lunch date to dinner, it’s because he wants to hit on you. At least I didn’t feel the slightest bit bad about sticking him and/or Newsday with a very expensive food and beverage bill, but he definitely had no intention of offering me a job.
I confess I had cheered a little when I’d read the announcement earlier this week that he’d been let go from Newsday. I’d assumed his call last night was a booty call and had ignored it.
And here I was talking to him. “Yes, Price, I remember you.” I used his first name on purpose, to make a point. If I was being overly familiar, it was his own fault for forcing that familiarity in the first place. “How could I forget?”
“Now, Madison, don’t be like that. You’re an attractive woman. Surely you can’t blame a man for trying.”
I was in no mood to be polite. “For trying to get into the pants of a prospective employee while you were in marriage counseling trying to salvage things with your wife? If I can’t blame you for that, who should I blame?”
He didn’t rise to the bait, his voice staying jocular and light. “Now now, that counseling stuff was just a hoop we had to jump through before we could finalize the divorce. But funny you should bring that up when a sex scandal is just what I want to talk to you about.”
“I’m—”
“What you don’t know is they didn’t fire me from Newsday. I left because I’m starting a new, edgy publication, a website with a multimedia smartphone magazine app and a premium newsstand edition, a mix of arts and politics the way the old Village Voice and classic Rolling Stone used to be. It’s called Pop-litico.”
I don’t care if it’s called “Pop Goes the Weasel,” I thought, but I was starting to wonder why he was telling me this. It didn’t sound much like a new ploy to get into my pants. “Congratulations,” I said neutrally.
“It’s going to be better than both the gossip rags and the pundit blogs. It’ll be groundbreakingly investigative.”
And he’d said he wanted to talk about a sex scandal. The hairs prickled on the back of my neck and I sat
up. “Price. You’d better be calling me because you want to hire me to be the next Woodward and Bernstein.” I hoped I was getting the names of the Watergate guys right.
“Well, funny you should say that. Have you heard of Conrad Schmitt?”
He obviously wasn’t asking me just by sheer coincidence about someone from the Governor’s Club, but I couldn’t very well admit that, could I? “And what if I have?”
“He’s a big-time shareholder in CTC, senior partner in a top entertainment law firm, and one of the richest men in SoCal. Also, as it turns out, one of the biggest donors to ultraconservative political causes and candidates.”
I can’t say I was surprised about that. A lot of rich guys were conservatives at heart, even the kinky ones. I tried to keep my poker face. “You don’t say.”
“I don’t just mean Republicans. I mean the serious nutjobs who want to criminalize birth control, outlaw extramarital sex, and kill gays. Four so-called Purity Values candidates could be vying in the upcoming gubernatorial race here in California.”
“Price, why are you telling me this?”
“Because I know you met Schmitt last night at the Hamilton estate.”
I sat in stunned silence, stunned because I couldn’t believe he’d come right out and said it, silent because I was racking my brain for something to say that wouldn’t be incriminating. “Bullshit,” I finally said.
“Nice bluff, Maddie, but I have proof. I didn’t call you today to accuse you of philandering, though. I know you’re not into married men because you told me so yourself in no uncertain terms.”
“How nice of you to remember.”
“I’m going to ignore the bitter, sarcastic tone in your voice, Maddie, because even though you don’t know it, I have a lot of respect for you. That’s the real reason I’m calling. You proved when you turned me down that you are a woman of integrity and principles. I fully admit it was my mistake for thinking big boobs and a liberal attitude about sex meant you’d be easy. I apologize.”
I kept silent. What universe was I living in right now?
“And I’ve thought of you fondly and respectfully since then. The thing is, if you’re involved with Schmitt—who’s married in addition to being a secret Purity Values supporter—I figure it’s probably not because he’s good in the sack. I figure you’re either being blackmailed into it, or paid off, or something that’s probably not in line with your principles, and if so you might be looking for a way out.”
He must have tailed or tracked Schmitt somehow. Maybe they had photos of license plates entering the Hamilton gates? “What do you mean, a way out?”
“Now now, Maddie, play nice. I can’t give you everything without you giving me a little something back.”
“Let’s just say I might have a certain amount of access to Mr. Conrad Schmitt. What exactly are you trying to pin on him?”
“Don’t you think it would do some damage to the Purity Values Party if one of their top donors was revealed to be an adulterer? And I know you’re not a fan of theirs. That website you used to write sex articles for: Didn’t they get it shut down? Think about this, Maddie. You write the Schmitt exposé, you have the byline, we back it up with our fact-finding, we blow the lid off this creep with your help. I’m talking Pulitzer material. You finally get the journalism career you always wanted, I launch my new venture with a bang, and we nail a political scumbag who I strongly suspect is taking advantage of you, all in one swoop.”
I have to admit, Price Lawson was a pretty good salesman. If it had been the pitch for a screenplay I bet he would have got the film produced in no time. But one problem was that, well, I wasn’t having an affair with Conrad Schmitt. I was an employee of a secret BDSM club that Schmitt had been a part of for fifty years and which I had sworn not to betray. Even if I’d wanted to take Lawson’s offer, there was no way I could.
I didn’t particularly trust Lawson, either. I had to try to play for more time, to try to figure this out. If he sniffed around much more, he was bound to find out about the club, I was likely to be implicated, and not only did I not want to betray the Hamiltons, Schmitt could be downright scary. People said if you crossed him you might as well leave LA because you’d never work again. I’d always assumed that only meant in the entertainment business, but if he was heavily politically connected, who knows. There were stories about politicians who would send a SWAT team to terrorize an opponent’s family, change their records so their cars would be repossessed, and worse.
I shook my head. None of those things were happening right now. I needed to focus. “You have proof of Schmitt’s political contributions?”
“Yes. If it’ll help convince you, I’ll show you the proof. In person.”
I had to bust his balls. Had to. “I dunno, Price. Last time I agreed to an in-person meeting with you, it didn’t work out so well…”
“I’ve learned my lesson. Maddie, we can help each other. Tell me you’ll meet me today. How about for coffee, in public. You pick the place, even.”
I needed time to think this over. “Five o’clock,” I said, figuring that would give me all day. “There’s a drive-through Starbucks off Highland at Willoughby.” It was one of half a dozen within a mile of my house. By that time the place wouldn’t be busy.
He repeated the location to me with pauses as if he were writing it down. “Starbucks, drive-through, Highland, Willoughby. Got it. See you at five, Maddie. You won’t regret it.”
I sighed in relief after he hung up. Not talking to him was so much preferable to talking to him. Even if he was “reformed” it was still draining to have to put up with him.
And now I had agreed to meet him. I had to figure out my story before then or it was going to be a disaster. I decided to brush my teeth and get dressed before I did anything else, though. Maybe it’d all seem more doable once I was prepared for the world.
I’d brushed my teeth but was still in my bathrobe when the phone rang again.
Chino this time. I considered sending it to voice mail, but my fingers had answered before I thought it all the way through. “Hey.”
“Good morning.”
I checked the clock. Just barely. A few minutes until noon. I needled him: “You sleep all right? Or did your bruises keep you up?”
He laughed, a genuine, full laugh. “You’re a piece of work, Maddie.”
“Yep. So are you.” I found myself smiling. We’d never talked on the phone before but I suddenly felt like I was talking to an old friend. “What are you doing today?”
“House hunting, remember? You still up for coming along?”
“Can’t. Something’s come up,” I said automatically, cursing Price Lawson and the trouble he was clearly bringing into my life.
“You sure? I really don’t want to go by myself.”
I clucked my tongue. “You don’t have some other woman friend you could call?”
“Well, I could, but I may as well confess, the house-hunting idea is one hundred percent just an excuse to spend some time with you,” he said. I could almost hear the boyish shrug I imagined him making. “You know.”
Charmed. When was the last time you were charmed, Madison? “You don’t have to make an excuse to see me,” I said quickly.
“Are you sure? Because it kinda sounded like you were making an excuse not to see me a minute ago.”
“I know. Something really did come up. Although I don’t have to be there until five o’clock…” I pressed my knees together, wondering if I had the guts to ask Chino to just come over and have sex. What was the point of being a sexually forthright “babe” if I couldn’t? But somehow I couldn’t. “Were you serious about what you said last night?”
“Which thing?”
I felt shy all of a sudden, which was not like me. Why was Chino suddenly the one guy who could make me blush? “About, um, helping me with my sex toy videos.”
“Totally serious. But that’s all the more reason you should help me with real estate. You help with the hous
es, I’ll help with the toys. We’ll just eyeball some places. I won’t keep you longer than your meeting,” he promised.
He made it easy to agree, like that logic was irrefutable. “All right. Come pick me up.”
I gave him my address and then sat down at my computer to take notes on the conversation I’d had with Price. I wanted to make as detailed a record as I could just to keep it all straight.
That took longer than I thought it would and the next thing I knew I was rushing around trying to throw on something that looked decent and that didn’t have any holes but that wasn’t too too square. What did rock stars wear to go house hunting, anyway?
As it turned out, Chino wore a variation of pretty much what I’d usually seen him in: black jeans, black engineer boots, and a gray tank top that showed off his ink when he took off his leather jacket and slung it over his shoulder. I had put on blue stretch denim jeans and a scoop neck cotton tunic. Laurel Canyon was a mix of celebrities and hippies so I hoped we’d fit right in.
If I’d been thinking that maybe I’d have one of those “what was I thinking?” moments when I laid eyes on him, nope, that was not the case. If anything my heart did a little skip when I realized he looked even better in the light of day than expected.
He held the car door open for me and I gave him a funny look. What did he mean by that? Was he just being polite because he was the driver, or was it my imagination that there was some old school protectiveness in the gesture? He ignored the raised eyebrow I gave him and got in the driver’s side, carefully backing out from where he’d parked behind my downstairs neighbor’s car. The driveway was flanked by high stone walls around the small courtyard patio in front.
“Nice place,” he said with a glance up at the Spanish-style building before he turned to look behind the car.
“Yeah, it’s a two-family. I own both units and rent out the first floor.”
“Even nicer,” he said with a nod and then a sidelong look at me, as if he were wondering how I could afford to own something so nice right in West Hollywood.