sex.lies.murder.fame.

by Lolita Files

  “Are you sure?” She reached over and patted Tina’s shoulder with concern. “It looks like it was painful. You can tell me.”

  “I was stoned when I got it. You ready for that drink? I told him to keep them coming.”

  “Oh, awwwwwriiiiiiiiiight,” Sharlyn said. “Gosh, Tina, you’re such a bad influence.”

  Shar wasn’t quite sloshed, but she was close. And she felt gidddddddddddyyyyyy, supergiddy, like maybe she could fly (or, at the very least, float around the room). It was that weird feeling that came from mixing drugs and drink. It was a combination that required great care. Too much, and a person was apt to do very bad or embarrassing things.

  Their libations arrived.

  A Wardrobe Malfunction, or WMD (the D was for “drink”), was a chocolate martini with a splash of Everclear and a Hershey’s Kiss (faux nipple) floating on top. All it took was a few of them and bras inevitably came off. A fair share of starlets, A-list actresses, and their hangers-on had flashed their superbowls after one WMD too many.

  Sharlyn grabbed one and drank it at once.

  “Shar, slow down. You’re gonna get sick.”

  “No I’m not,” she said with a burp. “And you’re a fine one to tell me to slow down when you’re the one that’s making me drink, you little skank.”

  Tina laughed.

  Shar sat back against the seat, her brow furrowed.

  “I can’t stand Miles,” she said.

  “Miles isn’t here,” said Tina. “So party, bitch. Like it’s 2005.”

  Shar gave Tina a prolonged blank stare. Then she brought her legs up on the banquette, stood on the seat, and funked to the music until her Giuseppe Zanottis punched a hole in the upholstery and she went crashing, laughing, onto the floor.

  He spotted her across the room, over the sea of celebrity heads and reality-show throwoffs. Overpriced liquor was being sucked down like air and the scent of fame was rich, thick, and heady.

  This is what it will be like, he realized. This is what it will be like to be one of them.

  Random hands were feeling him up, faceless voices coming on to him at his ear. Someone snapped his photo.

  “You’re delish,” the girl said as she clicked away. “Who are you?”

  “You’ll know soon enough,” Penn said as he smiled and pushed past her. There was his dark horse, heading toward the bathroom. She’d been dancing on the seat in her booth for the longest, flinging her arms around, her breasts barely contained in a strappy silk top. And the way her jeans hugged her ass. Penn had a rock in his pants and just watching her made it grow more granite by the second. Sharlyn Tate, right there in front of him, a sexy beast in the worst fucking way. It would be fun to nail someone this beautiful, this powerful. He reached into his pocket for some Kiehl’s, squeezed it on his finger, and smeared it on his lips. And then he was off.

  Now was the time.

  Shar was wiping her nose when she walked out of the bathroom right into a solid body in a solid black shirt. The force of the impact knocked her back a little and she stumbled. A strong hand caught her by the wrist to keep her from falling.

  “My bad,” she said, still not looking up. “I should watch where I’m going.”

  “No, it’s my fault. I guess I was distracted.”

  Sharlyn glanced up into the face of the guy talking.

  He was smiling. There was a twinkle in his pupils as he held on to her wrist.

  “Whoa,” she said. “Shit. Whoa.”

  “Whoa, yourself.”

  She staggered back a little, teetering on the stiletto Zanottis. He was still holding on to her hand as she ended up with her back against a wall. He was standing so close to her, right in her face.

  Shar’s head, the room, her emotions, all of them were atwirl. She was so fucking high, and drunk, and horny, and this kid, this kid, oohwee, this kid was hot.

  “You sure you all right?” he asked.

  Sharlyn’s eyes were fixed on his lips. They were so moist, succulent even, like the flesh of some kind of juice-laden fruit. He had his hand pressed against the wall as he leaned over her. His hair was thick and blonde. She wanted to touch it, but those lips were calling first.

  “Hey,” he said, his voice low and seductive, “you looked really good dancing over there.”

  “Oh yeah,” she said, her eyes still on his mouth.

  “Fuck, yeah. You’re gorgeous. But you know that, of course. I probably sound stupid even saying it. Everybody tells you that, right? You hear stuff like that every day.”

  “Not as much as I’d like to,” she said. Which brought back thoughts of Miles. Miles and his mergers. Miles and his this, that, and everything else. Miles didn’t have lips like this, hair like this, eyes like this, skin like this. Miles was sexy, granted, but Miles was gone. She’d never wanted anything but her husband, but her husband obviously wanted more things than just her.

  Fuck Miles.

  “I think you’re really—”

  Sharlyn cut him off as she pulled his face toward hers and pressed her mouth against those juicy lips. They were soft, fleshy, moist, delicious. And then his tongue was tangoing with hers and she was breathing him in and she was sure he could taste the WMDs on her breath and she couldn’t feel her face because her whole sinus cavity had gone numb, but miraculously her lips hadn’t, and neither had her tongue, and neither had that freshly bald place between her thighs because his hand was there now, pressing between the Frankie B.s, and she was wet, and getting wetter, and she was grinding against his hand and she didn’t even care, because she needed this, needed this night, needed to be felt up and sucked on and dry-humped by someone who seemed like they at least might give a fuck, at least for a second, and although Sharlyn Tate had never cheated on Miles Tate before, right now, in this moment, it wasn’t about him. This was going to be all about her.

  Fuck Miles, she thought.

  “Fuck me,” she said.

  And he was about to.

  He didn’t care. He would fuck her right there on the floor, in front of an Olsen twin, and all these celebs, models, and fashionistas. That would surely make a mark, get some attention. Look at what it had done for Paris.

  But Sharlyn was apparently gathering her wits. He stroked his thumb across the jean-covered nub between her legs and she buckled a little, moaned a lot.

  “We can’t do this here,” she said, looking around. “Too many people know me. I shouldn’t even be kissing you like this. It’ll be in the Post in the morning.”

  He stepped back from her, following her eyes. Everyone seemed to be into their own thing. There was Naomi in the corner, showing off her legs. The Olsens were laughing and shouting over the music. Owen Wilson or Luke Wilson or that other brother of theirs, whatever, in any case, one of the assorted working Wilsons was talking to one of the assorted working Baldwins. Alec maybe. Maybe not. There were a lot of well-known faces around. So far, what Sharlyn was doing seemed to be slipping under the radar.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Penn. Penn Hamilton.”

  “Penn Hamilton. I could eat you up.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Shit,” she said, talking to herself. He could see her thinking, could tell she was weighing the matter of next moves. He could touch her right now, touch her in a place of weakness, but that might be a bad move. Just let her be, he thought. Let her sort the what-ifs out for herself. This had to be her decision. It had to be all on her.

  She reached into her tiny purse and pulled out a pen.

  “You got some paper?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “All right. This is so high school, but here…”

  She grabbed his right hand and jotted down a number.

  “That’s my cell. Can I trust you to have my cell?”

  “Of course, but don’t you think you should have asked me that before you wrote the number down?”

  “I’m a little discom—”

  “Bobulated?”

 
“Yeah.” She smiled, her lip pressed into a tight curve. “I’m a little discom-that.”

  He cast his eyes toward the floor, a practiced move of sudden coyness, then lifted them again and gave her the full-on gaze. He knew his lashes would be framed just right, showcasing the inviting luminosity of his baby blues.

  “Are you a spy for anybody?” she asked. “Page Six? Gawker.com?”

  “Do I look like a spy?”

  “Yes. You’re too perfect. This must be a trick.”

  “I suppose I should say thanks, but I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

  “It is.”

  “Well, I think you’re pretty perfect, too.”

  It was Shar’s turn to cast her eyes to the floor. He could tell she probably hadn’t done the flirting thing in years. Penn realized this was a woman who was used to getting what she wanted and always had her needs attended to. Something must be missing. Her pupils were dilated when she glanced up at him. Just how high was she? Was she completely aware of what was happening, or would this be a blip, the dregs of an afterthought when the hangover kicked in? He’d tasted the chocolate and vodka on her breath and her tongue. She was steeped in drink. But Penn didn’t believe it was just the drugs and alcohol making her behave like this. This was a deliberate woman, a very intelligent woman, a woman whose work he’d read and recognized within that writing a shrewdness and an eye for detail that meant not much got past her.

  There was something more going on here. Despite the fact that he needed something from her, Sharlyn Tate obviously needed something from him, too.

  “Hold out your arm.”

  He did.

  She rolled up his sleeve and wrote the following:

  I, Penn Hamilton, want nothing from Sharlyn Tate and have no plans to exploit or sue her.

  The writing was wobbly and crooked, but legible. She was high, but not so high that she didn’t want to cover her ass.

  “Now write the same thing on my arm,” she said. “Verbatim.”

  “Damn. This is pretty elaborate, don’t you think? Next you’re going to want me to sign my name in blood.”

  “That’s a thought.”

  Penn gazed long into her eyes. He really did want to fuck her something fierce. And a plan was a plan.

  He took the pen and wrote the same words on her arm.

  “Now sign them both. My arm and your arm.”

  He shook his head and laughed.

  “You’re crazy.”

  “People are crazy. I’ve got to protect myself.”

  He signed both arms.

  She reached into her purse and took out her Sidekick.

  “Now hold up your arm.”

  He did. She snapped a picture of it.

  He was still laughing. This woman was smart.

  She snapped a picture of her arm.

  Then she snapped a picture of him. His face.

  “I need something to look at to remind me why I’m doing this,” she said.

  “And what, exactly, are you doing?”

  She glanced around.

  “Meet me at the Sherry-Netherland in thirty minutes. You know where it is, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Ask for Tina Turner’s room. They’ll give you a key.”

  “Suppose it’s the room key of the real Tina Turner?”

  “Then lots of luck. She’s got legs of steel.”

  The Sherry-Netherland was a landmark in New York City. Located on Fifth Avenue across from the southernmost entrance to Central Park, it was a historic piece of architecture from the Jazz Age, a gorgeous testament to luxurious living.

  Sharlyn’s suite, the Grande Deluxe, was a study in moneyed elegance. There was the (standard) chandelier, a sumptuous cream-colored sofa, chairs done in a delicate salmon, an inviting chaise in a rich burgundy brocade, and a desk, the desk where she wrote, facing the window overlooking Central Park. A vast mirror hung over the fireplace, and a short-legged coffee table in deep mahogany sat just in front of the sofa. Fresh flowers were everywhere—just inside the door, by the window, on the mantel, in the center of the classic round dining table, in the bedroom, next to the sumptuous king bed, and inside the marble bathroom.

  This was a place where she could find comfort and creativity. A place that brought out the best in her, when the best was there to be found. She hadn’t been very creative at the Sherry of late, but things, it seemed, were about to change.

  They were in the bathroom. She was standing on the toilet, the agile minx, in the Zanottis and nothing more.

  His face was between her legs. She was biting her lip, moaning, her eyes tightly closed.

  He was wet with her, pressed into her satiny brown hairless nether-loins of wonder. He was eating book pussy, movie pussy, superstar pussy, and it was soft and scrumptious and should have come with a glass of nicely aged tawny port, because this was dessert, sweetness, heaven, the antithesis of the bony hell of Beryl’s mean snatch with its alien labia and sideshow clit. Penn realized that it was going to take everything in him not to fuck Sharlyn tonight. He had to wait, do this exactly right. Tonight he would eat her, there in the bathroom of her hotel hideaway, eat the shit out of her, and then leave her there, wobbly kneed, but just turned out enough to want to know him more, to need him more, to buckle every time she thought about his tongue darting in and out of her tight wet canyon, and lapping around that sea of brown softness. He would do what he had planned to do to Beryl, only this time he would get it right.

  She was coming now, coming loud, on his cheeks, in his mouth. He grabbed her legs and carried her, crotch still in his face, into the bedroom and laid her down on the coverless bed, onto the cool, welcoming sheets. She was gasping, choking, spastic, reaching at him and his incredible hair, coughing, coming, and coughing some more. He was on his knees at the foot of the bed, still working on her, even though she was in the throes, in many throes, throes and stilettos, all kicking in the air.

  Sharlyn couldn’t feel her face.

  None of it.

  All the sensation had traveled out of her head and was down between her legs, which felt like some sort of dormant volcano that had at long last erupted.

  When was the last time Miles had eaten her? She searched her mind, but couldn’t remember. It was a long time ago, whenever it was. So much time had passed, cunnilingus almost felt brand new.

  “You all right?” the handsome boy asked. He wasn’t a boy, Shar thought, correcting herself. He was a man. God. And what a man. He was lovely, golden, glowing, and he had a magical tongue.

  The Magic Tongue. Yes. That could be the name of her next book.

  No. That was silly.

  The Magic Boy.

  No.

  A tune danced in her head.

  Try, try, try to understaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannd…

  The Magic Man!

  There.

  That was better.

  “Hey,” he repeated. “You all right?”

  He was stroking her face, her breasts, her thighs.

  “You’ve inspired me,” she whispered. She was in a reverie, her body throbbing and her mind refreshed. It was the first creative moment she’d had in months. She wanted to run to a computer, a laptop, some paper, something, and write it all down.

  “Inspired you?” he asked. “How’s that?”

  He was lying alongside her nakedness, but he was still clothed. Sharlyn realized she hadn’t even seen his dick. Hadn’t even felt it. Yet she was happy, sated, had experienced tremendous, necessary release. And he was so pretty, this guy.

  And she’d just cheated on Miles! And she didn’t care!

  Fuck Miles!

  This was business, not personal. Her husband shouldn’t have been hunting down the Finlandian dollar and neglecting his business at home. See what happens when you set pussy free? Premium pussy? Ukrainian-yanked hairless pussy, the most exotic in the world? Miles had left his unattended. When you do what you do, you get what you get.

  Fuck Miles!
/>   “How did I inspire you?”

  “Huh? Oh. You’re making my brain work. It’s been stuck on stupid.”

  “You? Stupid? Never. You’re the shit.” He placed fluttery kisses on the side of her neck. “You’re a goddess …[kiss]… a beautiful …[kiss]… amazing …[kiss]… delectable goddess.” His lips were against her ear, his voice a gentle, barely audible wind. “A goddess with a pot of honey so sweet, I could drink from it forever.”

  A jolt of electricity shot through Shar. Was it the drugs that were making her like this? she wondered. The alcohol? She still felt lucid, and yeah, her face was numb, but she was aware of everything around her. She knew she had cheated on her husband, and she had done so willfully. There were no pangs of conscience.

  Fuck Miles indeed.

  He was getting up off his knees.

  Shar opened her legs wider, expecting to welcome the rest of him in.

  He went to the bathroom instead. Took a piss, checked his face in the mirror, turned on the faucet, washed his hands and splashed some water on his face.

  He was fixing his clothes when he came out.

  “What are you doing?” Sharlyn asked. “Get your sexy butt over here.”

  “I’ve gotta go,” he said.

  She bolted upward, her legs still splayed.

  “What do you mean, ‘go’? We’re just getting started. Get over here.”

  Penn walked to the bed. She pulled him closer.

  “Now let’s get these slacks off,” she said, tugging at his zipper. “You have condoms, right?”

  “No, seriously.” He took hold of her hands. “I have to go.”

  Penn leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

  “So you’re just going to, to”—she swallowed—“to do what you just did and that’s it?”

  “Believe me, I’d like to do more, but I’ve got to be somewhere really early—”

  “Oh brother,” Shar said, flopping back on the bed, “tell me you’re not going to run that oldest of lines on me.” She clasped her forehead. “I can’t believe it. The first time I dare to do something like this, I get blown off.”

  Penn sat on the bed.