Betray the Lie

by Emily Kimelman

  I step into the dimly lit entrance hall. To describe it as anything but grand would be madness. The ceiling soars above me, arching into a domed skylight—like some fancy church in Rome or something. Not that I've seen that in person, but I've seen a lot in books...

  I smile at the maid and follow her, my ridiculously high heels clicking on the hard tile floor as we move past a staircase winding up the wall to the second floor. Grand. The brass railing sparkles, and thick carpeting in the same blue as the sky runs down the steps. Photographic stills from black and white films line the walls.

  We pass under an archway into a huge sitting room with multiple couches and chairs... lots of places for people to sit. My feet stop as my eyes catch the gold statues on the mantel. Oscar. Oh, sweet Oscar.

  The maid, whose name I don't know because I'm too nervous to ask, stops with me. She waits patiently. This can’t be the first time she's stood next to some starstruck newbie. Does she know how dry my throat is? Does she know how much I want that? There are four of them. Four!

  Best Director over three decades, and the man still has it. I take a stuttering breath, pulling my guts back into myself from where they've spilled all over the fancy carpet. It looks so soft!

  I glance over at the maid. "They're beautiful," I say. What a load of crap. They are powerful. They are everything.

  She nods. "Yes."

  She must clean them. Gets to touch them. I wonder if he'd let me if I asked. A giggle bubbles up in my chest, and I repress it. Asking to touch a man's Oscar. What would my grandmother say? Slut, whore, filthy woman. The anger and hate in the old woman's voice seems to grab me around the middle in a vice that squeezes all those guts I just stuffed back into myself—threatening to spill them out again.

  I swallow. "What's your name?” I ask as the maid starts to walk again. I follow, my legs leaden but loosening with each step as I get further away from those statues. It's as if they have some kind of aura around them—some kind of witchcraft spun into the gold.

  “Nancy,” she answers quietly. Almost like she doesn't want me to know.

  Somehow, it reminds me of something… but what? A lamb to the slaughter. An image of the sheep we raised on our small farm flashes across my mind—they are standing in the rain, the lambs close to their mothers, my father striding through the storm to do his duty.

  "My real name is Stacy," I admit boldly, strangely, out of the blue.

  Nancy turns to look over her shoulder, her brows conferencing in confusion. Why did I tell her that? She gives me a half smile. "I'm sure lots of actresses change their name. You're Angela now dear, as long as you want to be."

  I nod, blushing. I'm acting like an idiot. And that is so not new.

  But I got here, didn't I?

  Nancy reaches the sliding glass doors we've been walking toward and pulls one open, revealing the back patio. The view stops me again. I'm such a country freaking bumpkin.

  All of LA is spread before me. It's glittering. And there, oh, right there! The Hollywood sign is lit up, seeming so tiny surrounded by all of the sparkling city.

  Archie stirs from within the purse Mary gave me to carry him around in and pokes his head out looking at the view for a second before licking my hand. All he sees is a blurry screen of black and white.

  Maybe I really should have named him Toto…

  Jack steps forward, his movements as elegant as his pressed linen shirt and casual jeans. He's barefoot, and something about that sends a thrill through me. It's strangely intimate. Jack Axelrod, Oscar winning director, is smiling at me, holding out a hand... not wearing any shoes... all of LA behind him. Almost like he's offering it to me.

  But what is the price?

  Your soul, my grandmother's pinched voice pierces through me. A smile comes to my lips as I boldly walk through the door. My soul is safe. Because it does not exist. Neither does God or the Devil. It's just me and Jack here to talk about my starring role in his movie.

  I throw on my warmest, most intimate smile—the one that says: I’m totally fascinated by the person in front of me. And in this case, it's not acting.

  Jack pours me another glass of wine. My second and last, I note to myself as a warm flush is already moving up my neck.

  So far, it’s going well. My limbs are loose, my laugh genuine, and Archie is doing a good job of being a cutie pie.

  Jack has bright eyes—they look like sapphires and emeralds had the most beautiful baby. They remind me of the deepest waters of the Caribbean... I went there once. On a photo shoot. Was sick as a dog on the boat.

  But I got the shot.

  And I saw that water, I soaked in it.

  "Are you ready to eat?" Jack asks me.

  "Yes, please."

  He smiles and stands, offering me a hand. Gentlemanly. He's not coming onto me. Doesn't mean he won't. But I'm prepared. I'm not going to sleep with him. Not only is he old enough to be my father, he’s also my boss. I might be from Podunk, Kansas but I know that's a bad idea... lessons can be learned the easy way sometimes.

  The air is sweet and it plays with my hair, almost like a lover’s touch. This city loves me. I trip, falling forward a little. Jack catches me, his arm warm and tight on my waist. I'm drunker than I thought.

  "Sorry," I say, my speech slurring enough that a flicker of concern tightens my gut. I only had one glass. This is three whiskey drunk Stacy. Not one glass of fine Sancerre drunk Angela.

  Jack's eyes are close, so glittering... like the city.

  Will he hurt me? What a strange thought. I shake my head, trying to clear the fuzziness. "Do you need to lie down," he asks, his voice filled with concern. He's a good actor too. Started out in front of the screen back in the 60's. He was a real hottie then. Still is. But I don't want him to touch me. There is an edge to that glittering gaze, the sharp edge of hard stone.

  He does not care about me.

  You're a slut. My grandmother's sharp tongue in my ear sends a wave of nausea through me.

  "I think… I’m not sure what's happening," I admit, bringing a hand to my forehead. It's clammy. I'm clammy. Archie pokes his head out of the bag again, licking my forearm.

  "Here," Jack says, "there is a couch in my office, you can lay down and take a rest. We can eat later."

  He's moving me into the house, my feet are numb, I'm tipping side to side, the only thing keeping me moving is Jack’s hold around my waist. I wince; God, he's holding me tight. It's like the pain is the only thing holding me here. I'm on the verge of drifting away. I'm on the verge of losing something...

  He drugged me.

  A shock of cold water, the same icy splash as falling through a frozen pond, engulfs me.

  I stop... or I try. My legs are not working right. Archie gives an alarmed bark as his bag swings wide with my unsteady movement.

  "Wait," I say... or at least I try to say. Blackness is edging my vision. The icy pond is sucking me under, the weight of my clothing dragging me down.

  Swim! Something inside me screams. It's not my voice. It's not Gramma's. It's not any voice I've ever heard before.

  I spin away, the martial arts classes I've been taking pulling muscle memory from deep inside me. Jack's hold breaks and I flail widely, my arms pin wheeling, Archie's bag drops onto the floor. He squeaks with alarm. I keep moving, my vision a swirling mix of colors.

  Impact, hard and crashing, comes to my side. Air oofs out of me. A lamp tips, the crack of a lightbulb dips us into almost darkness.

  My eyes are not working.

  I grasp onto the table that stopped me, holding onto my mind, to what's left of my vision.

  "Dammit," Jack curses. "What are you doing? You drunk bitch, that was a very expensive lamp."

  He's grabbing me again; pain, a burning dangerous pain, lights in my bicep at his touch. "Let go of me," I slur.

  "Shut up," he commands.

  My hand searches across the surface of the table I'm holding. My fingers find something, something big... a bowl maybe. I grip it. Hot
breath hits my cheek. "You need to lie down," Jack’s voice has gone soft again.

  "I'm not drunk, you put something in my drink," I think I say, but it comes out all distorted. Distorted like my vision, like the room. Shit, the whole kaleidoscope is spinning. Am I moving?

  He's dragging me.

  Then Jack picks me up and everything tilts.

  I find a small pool of my strength and, closing my eyes put a spark under it, breathe onto it, and get that fire to glow. The same way I did when I built the courage to come out here from Kansas.

  This is how I hunted down those bruises left by my grandma and covered them with makeup. This fire gave me the power to march into Mary's office and tell her she would regret not taking me on as a client.

  I'm in the darkness, just me and the fire under that pot of strength—a recipe I had to write myself because there was no one to hand it down to me.

  The light from the blaze brightens.

  Physical sensation returns; my back is moving. Rough fabric burns my skin.

  Archie is barking far away. There is hot breath on my face…the huff of desire, of sexual satisfaction. Fabric tears, the sound sharp. Air hits between my legs. My breasts are exposed—cold.

  Sharp teeth bite a nipple, and the pain throws gasoline onto the flames of the fire I’m tending.

  My eyes pry apart. That's when I feel him at my entrance. Oh no—fuck no.

  Rolling, turning with all my strength I knock him away.

  Sharp fingers in my hair pull me back. Jack’s eyes are right above mine. They are no longer those Caribbean depths, now they are the shallow, dangerous shores of the Pacific, roiled and dark, with flecks of white swirling.

  His lips crush onto mine stealing my breath, but not my strength. His tongue invades me as he tries to position himself again.

  My hands are empty. I lost whatever I was holding. But I still have my nails.

  I bring them up—these long, fake, plastic artifices of femininity. My weapons. I rake them down Jack’s cheeks, cutting through his rough stubble, and digging into that famous, talented face.

  Warm blood follows the force of my dragging fingers. The scent of it—that irony tang of life force invades me, stoking my fire. You'd think liquid would quell flame, but that's not what happens here.

  I want more. I want to unleash all his blood.

  Jake Axelrod is going to pay.

  He cries out, his mouth leaving mine. Jack falls away. I blink, struggling to focus. The ceiling is above me. I'm naked.

  I can't let him get away because he will come back.

  This isn't going to end well for either of us.

  He chose the wrong country bumpkin.

  I've done more then he knows. I built my own damn pyre of strength. He can take nothing from me.

  I roll onto my side. Jack is pressed against a couch. He’s not wearing any pants. One hand holds an injured cheek, his other palm, streaked with blood, up in front of his face. "You stupid bitch," he says. His eyes land on me. "You fucking slut."

  I don't try to make my mouth work. I can’t waste the fire on words. I need to burn him down.

  Forcing myself onto my hands and knees, I keep an eye on Jack, refusing to lose consciousness again. Refusing to lose sight of him.

  Jack is staring at his hand again. He can’t believe what I did.

  I let my eyes track the rest of the room. We are in the living room I passed through to get to the patio. The one the maid lead me through. Where is she?

  A shiver brings goosebumps over my bare flesh. She knows. She knew. This is what he does. I’m not the first.

  My eyes land on Jack again.

  I won't be the last.

  His eyes find mine, and a spark leaps into his gaze. He's got his own fire. And the blood on his hand is like kerosene.

  Jack launches at me, bowling us both over, knocking into another table hard enough to tip the lamp on it, rolling the thing onto the floor, breaking the bulb and sinking us further into darkness.

  The only light left comes from the city outside and the fires burning in each of us.

  I taste the smoke of our contradicting desires, feel the flame of our wills, the soft linen of his shirt and the rough stubble of his beard as we struggle.

  Wriggling, slithering, inelegant but effective movements free me from his clenches. Fingers tight on my ankle, he drags me back under him. My fists flail, connecting with his jaw, sticky blood coating my knuckles. He doesn’t cry out in pain but makes this weird grunt. Not sexual satisfaction but close.

  I kick out, or try, but he’s on top of me again. I struggle, my back burning against the carpet.

  I inhale a sharp breath as a shard of something cuts into my back, warm blood blooming between me and the rug.

  I have to get out from under him.

  His fingers grab at my wrists, weight bears down on my stomach, making it hard to breath. He’s got my left hand. I kick harder, desperate now. Really waking up, all this movement throwing off the shroud of the drug he put in my drink.

  Lucid thought twinkles in the near distance.

  I grasp out for clarity but fall back onto instinct as the drug crowds my thought into a haze, into the smoke-filled space of my subconscious where my fire burns.

  Strength infuses my limbs at the bright flame in my mind, and I lash out, fierce in my defense—desperate to be on the offense.

  I’m not subtle, or gentle. I’m not some little girl. No way! A primal scream rips from my throat, and he is stilled by it. By my power.

  Using his momentary surprise, I kick my way out from under him. He falls back into shadows and I scramble to my feet, still facing him.

  He rises slowly as I back up, my butt hitting another couch. My hand grasps it, and I move along its solid back. He’s blocking the front exit.

  I risk a glance over my shoulder. The fire place is to my right, the patio doors a straight shot down the wall and behind another couch.

  My vision jitters as I bring it back to him. He shatters into a kaleidoscope of Jack’s all moving toward me with the slow, steady pace of a man who thinks he’s won.

  He has won.

  His whole life.

  A shudder shakes me, my stomach cramping on emptiness and fear.

  My hand leads me along the edge of the couch. Archie’s barking starts up again as I reach the end of it.

  Where is he?

  I’m going to have to run, but I don’t know if my legs can hold me.

  I turn and launch myself from the steady support of the couch, flying forward, ungainly and sloppy. My bare feet touch the cold marble of the hearth. I’m falling forward. My hands fly out, grasping the edge of the mantel.

  It's cold and smooth, slippery against my palms—slick with sweat and fear. I grip the mantle, dragging myself along it.

  The gold of the Oscar statues twinkles in the low light. Four stoic forms all lined up—immune to the horror show playing out in front of them.

  Fingers dig into my hair, grasping a chunk of it, and rip back my head. I move with the pain for a moment but then lurch forward, trying to twist away, gripping the mantel even harder. Jack grunts.

  I grasp the closest Oscar. It’s cold and solid and heavy.

  Jack's arm comes around my bare waist, the softness of his shirt in contrast with the roughness of his hold. He drags me back, and we fall together onto a couch, me on top. My legs are spread, his arm under my breasts, and hot breath on my neck. A swipe of his tongue against my flushed skin turns me wild with rage, with fear, with every instinct out there. They all flare, the perfect fuel for my flame.

  "No!" I yell. And it comes out clear. Unmistakable.

  Jack thrusts his hips up, the hard line of him rubbing against my bare ass, wriggling to get in. A mind of its own. A member apart.

  I thrash, the statue in my hand landing against Jack’s shoulder loosening his grip on my middle. Surging forward, I fly onto the coffee table pushing big, heavy books off its polished glass surface and thudding onto the
carpeting.

  I thought that rug looked so soft when I came through here earlier—didn't know how much it could burn.

  Weight lands on my back, pressing me into the table, and, oh my god, no, no, he has me down. He's trying to... I twist hard, bringing the statue up and around. It connects with his temple—the sound a sickening thunk. A disgusting cracking. I just broke something.

  He falls away, limp. My heaving breath is the only sound in the room.

  I scramble away, pulling myself up onto a nearby chair. Grey light filters in through the tall patio doors. Scanning the room, I see one of my shoes in the open doorway of the patio. Where are my clothes? They must be behind the couch.

  Jack isn’t moving.

  Is he dead?

  I can’t look. I need to leave. The thought is sluggish, fighting through the loud rushing of blood in my ears and the hard, terrified gallop of my heart.

  My eyes travel over the couch in front of me, cushions askew, then to the mantel, where that one Oscar is missing... the dark gap in a perfect smile… down onto the coffee table. A sweaty imprint from my body mars the glass, big art books are open and crumpled on the carpeting below.

  A shudder runs over me and my stomach flips, threatening to empty.

  My eyes finally, slowly, fall onto Jack. A slumped, pants-less form on the floor. His legs and ass look so white. His pale blue shirt has gone gray in the darkness. Jack’s hair looks darker in this light... my eyes drop to my hand, to the statue still gripped there.

  Blood. There is blood on Oscar's head. My fingers grip the statue’s ankles so tight they hurt. Throbs of pain suddenly awaken all over me. There is a bite mark on my breast, a cut on my back, bruises all over me.

  Tears blur my vision. I can't see again. A deep heaving racks through me and I double over, retching at my feet, the bile splattering my ankles, wrecking the carpet... well, the blood probably already did that.

  What is happening?

  I heave again. But there is nothing left, nothing left to release. I got it all out.

  Struggling back onto the chair, I curl around the statue, my gaze drifting back to Jack’s slumped form. He's not moving. I should check on him. The thought passes by, as important as a drifting cloud, as matter of fact as a cow in heat. The baby will come. The cloud will dissipate. Jack Axelrod is dead.