by Stephens, L.
With the all the #MeToo cases coming to light, Ryan could see the end was coming for him, and it was approaching quickly. His career wouldn’t end in retirement, it would end with a horde of disgruntled actresses, models and assistants carrying pitchforks, with Carissa from Des Moines, Iowa leading the charge.
CHAPTER 8: BAD NEWS
Jill lay topless in the afternoon Sun, next to a lavish pool, a stone’s throw from the mansion she called home, but all she cared about was the cell phone beside her. It was her life’s blood, always within reach. The screen faced up at all times so her eyes could dart to it. All the likes and messages that were constantly notifying her that she was a goddess amongst mortals had to be seen. Her latest selfie was getting a lot of love, and it was doing its job of distracting her from all the negativity that was trying to ruin her day.
The photo of herself that she had uploaded to Instagram was from a high angle, her arm straining at its full reach to get the best view of her perfect life, her perfect body and her perfect face. This selfie was a work of art, just like her. She had shiny shoulder length platinum blonde hair that was tucked behind her ear, coupled with the pixie facial features of a Disney cartoon that were smoothed even more by a third-party app that removed the tiniest of blemishes, not that she had any to begin with. Her cleavage was ample, and her butt was the shape of a heart in her barely-there bikini. Everything about her suggested sex and fun, but she wasn’t anything like that in reality. Of course, she had a little bit of product placement in the picture as well: a weight loss tea and a Louis Vuitton handbag. She didn’t get paid for either plug, but she pretended that she did. Everything about her was image, image, image. The caption was the last part of the social media assembly line. It was simple, short and humble. She didn’t need much to tell the whole world how amazing her life was, because there were two thousand photos previous to this one on her account that showed exactly that. The caption read:
“Such a lovely day. Life can be perfect! #Blessed #BeKind #HelpSomeone”
“I’m so fucking hot,” she mumbled to herself as she watched the notifications roll in on her phone.
Jill was semi-famous on Instagram, but not in the traditional sense. She had manufactured her celebrity not earned it. Dudes and women loved her photos and wanted to either fuck or be her. In some cases both. She used the handle @JustIgniteLifeLove, which was just her name turned into something a little more significant. By no means was she some dumb husk. She was smart, but not college smart. She realized early in her sophomore year that adult life was going to be tiresome and short cuts needed to be taken. A quick financial restructuring via a student loan paid for her breast augmentation, some fine rhinoplasty and a new and improved butt. The modifications seemed like a much better investment than another three years of college. For her breasts, she didn’t go big. A pair of 450cc implants sufficed. Anything more than that would have been too restricting to her aggressive gym regiment, and she knew some guys didn’t like more than a handful. After the swelling subsided the ironically natural look she had been going for came into effect. She created a new account on Instagram and bought fifty thousand fake followers to create the illusion she was far more special than she was. The first few posts she made were super aggressive, sexy pictures you wouldn’t want your parents to see, and within a matter of months she had hit a million real followers, all of them begging and pleading for her to post more of her beautiful life and the excesses that went with it. Her life may seem fabricated and fake but understand: she was beautiful, she was perfect and she was now lounging by the pool of a palatial mansion in Bel Air. You just can’t embellish that.
The fine silver necklace that wrapped closely around her elegant neck was threaded through four tiny silver balls. Each one had an individual capital letter engraved in red on it, and together they spelled out her name, JILL. Her fingers rolled each ball on her necklace as if they were rosary beads and she was counting her prayers to the patron skank of sluts as she watched each and every notification roll in. She was living her best life, and no one was going to tell her any different.
Even with the world seemingly at her feet, at the tender age of twenty-six, she could feel the cold hand of death bearing down on her. She needed to make things permanent. Everything in her life at the moment was teetering on the edge of a precipice. A brutally cold email she had received in the morning was forecasting change, but, like all things disastrous, Jill had chosen to ignore it. Nothing was going to hamper another day of bliss captured on Instagram, with just the right amount of cleavage and butt exposed. Instagram was great in so many ways for her. All she needed was a moment to post the photo or a video and within minutes she got gratification from people viewing it on their phones all around the world and double tapping it to show their approval, lust or, in most cases, jealousy.
A large shadow cut her off from the sun’s warmth and combined with a cool breeze to raise goose flesh on her skin.
“Fuck off, Lurch!” Jill whined without turning around. “Can’t you see I’m trying get a tan here?”
She called him Lurch, but that wasn’t his name. She never called him by his name unless she really wanted something from him, and up until this point she hadn’t. He was her current sponsor’s manservant. Jill didn’t own this luxury palace, she was just one of the pieces that helped it all come together. She was the owner’s pet. She did exactly what he wanted, whenever he wanted and she did it with a smile. Lurch was dressed impeccably: a well-tailored suit that accentuated all the lines of his torso and accounted for the bulges in his arms and pants. Even though it was hot out, Lurch looked cool. His coiffed hair was perfect, and not a trace of sweat could be seen on his chiseled brow. He kept blocking her sun, and she knew she couldn’t avoid the conversation any longer. She covered her manufactured breasts with her forearm, but not before she let him see a quick glimpse of their perfection. If he did catch a glance she didn’t know. His presence said a lot more than his vocabulary ever could. Most of the time, all he did was stare and make his body sway just the smallest amount to show that he was alive and that he meant business.
“Okay, you weirdo,” Jill teased. “What is so important you have to disturb me?”
Once again, Lurch didn't react, his dark sunglasses hiding his eyes and his true intentions.
“Well?” Jill snapped.
“You know you aren't supposed to be here,” Lurch finally said in an even tone. “You got the email, you have to get out.”
“I don’t have time for your sick jokes, Lurch,” Jill whined. “What the fuck are you even talk—”
“Enough!” Lurch interrupted. “Look, it doesn't matter to me what the story is. If I'm told you have to leave, you have to leave. Edgar, will take you. I’m sure this is not the first time this has happened to you.”
Lurch nodded towards an older man dressed how you would imagine a chauffeur would be. He was standing on the other side of the pool with his hands behind his back pretending not to be a part of the scene in his best “none of my business” pose. Jill reached over with her pristinely pedicured foot and rubbed up and down on the side of Lurch’s enormous calf muscle. She didn’t want to have to do this but as far as dicks in her mouth went, he would probably not be all that bad.
“Donald, come on,” Jill said in a seductive tone. “I've lived here for like six months. He can't just kick me out! You are not going to let him do that, are you?”
She gave him her best duck face, hoping that the combination of that plus calling him by his actual name might make him go easy on her.
“This has nothing to do with me,” Lurch replied stiffly. “Put your clothes on, let's go.”
Jill let out a large sigh and let her arm release her breasts before she slowly stood up and pulled on her tiny cutoff jeans, leaving the top two buttons unbuttoned for extra effect.
“I think you’re forgetting something,” Lurch said with the slightest of nods.
Jill’s face contorted in anger. She hated men who d
idn’t bow before her, especially those she knew she could have in the blink of an eye. She reached down and got the bikini top from the ground and hastily put it on. Once her breasts were securely put away, she began moving towards the house, but Lurch put out a tree trunk-like arm in her way and blocked any further advancement.
“Come on now,” Lurch said quietly. “Let's not make a scene.”
“Get out of the way, loser,” Jill barked. “I need to get my fucking stuff.”
“Edgar’s already taken care of it.” Lurch nodded towards Edgar.
Jill took a couple steps back and put her hands on her hips, like a child about to give a ten count to her nuclear meltdown at the toy store.
“We'll take the side gate to the SUV,” Lurch said, motioning again.
“Not until I speak to Max!” Jill cried.
“You know that’s not going to happen,” Lurch said changing tack. “You had a good run. But now, it’s time to go. I know you’ll be just fine.”
With a flurry of flailing arms and bedazzled fingernails, Jill ran at Lurch, trying to push past his massive body but failing miserably.
“Max! You can't do this to me!” Jill screamed over the human wall in front of her. “Get out here and speak to me like a man, you fat fucking asshole!”
No response or movement came from the house, just the reflection of the setting sun in the windows. Exhausted, Jill gave up on trying to move Lurch. She knew she was leaving, whether she liked it or not, so she stopped struggling and began sobbing on his chest.
“Come on now,” Lurch said as he put his hands on her shoulders. “We’ve all got places to be.”
Lurch was right; this wasn’t the first “time to go” speech she had gotten from one of her benefactor’s lackeys. It was all part of the deal. You had to make a choice—the good wife or the cum-dumpster. The wife angle meant security but also signing away the chance at his fortune via prenuptial agreement. It also came with the added bonus of watching him take young sluts around the world as you drank yourself to death alone at home, having to fuck the ugly gardener for attention. Jill thought the girlfriend angle was the best bet for her at her current stage in life. International trips, jewelry and fancy dinners, all while you were meeting other rich assholes you might just become arm candy of in the not-too-distant future. In this case she had been shafted. He had been busy on a new project, so the international trips and fancy dinners had been replaced with three minute long blowjobs followed by thirty seconds of crotch humping that ended with cum all over her face and hair.
In one last act of desperation, Jill lunged, reaching up high and digging her nails into Lurch’s face. The scratch was deep and that would be her parting gift, every time the fat asshole would look at his manservant he would see the gouge she had left on him. Lurch didn’t show any emotion or pain, but in a swift and smooth motion he knocked her out with the back of his hand.
CHAPTER 9: OLD MAN WITH A PLAN
Max had a big grin as he peeked through the window. Donald scooped Jill up and carried her to Edgar and the waiting Escalade. She might get another chance once the dust settled, Max mused, but more than likely he would dangle some money or a sparkly necklace at the next trollop he came across. Max’s pleasures were a lot simpler nowadays. In his younger years he would get off on making a girl work for her money and push them do every sex act in the book to please him. He never went as far as shitting on them, though he had tested a few girls to see how much it would cost for him to squeeze off a fresh turd on their chest—thirty grand was about the average for those playing at home. Max found one of the benefits of playing the “How Much To Shit On Your Tits” game was the girl’s relief after she had negotiated a price then found out that she wasn’t going to have to wash feces off her chest. It was like she had missed an airplane only to find out it had crashed on takeoff. So, Max became a dealmaker; he would find out the depravity they would sink to for cash or jewelry, then he would deal down. The fuck he used to get for fifty-grand from the box office beauty could be haggled down to twenty thousand if you started the shit talk at the same price.
Of course, the deal making and fucking of young movie stars was all before the company he had built from scratch had dethroned him. The walk of shame out of Greytech Industries had been the lowest point in his life. He had never imagined he’d be ousted. He had founded the company, for Christ’s sake, but the board had spoken, and he had left with only one thought on his mind: revenge. To make matters worse, one of the traitorous board members had called the press to document him leaving, and to prolong his embarrassment they had also arranged for his chauffeured car to be missing. He didn’t offer any emotion, though. He stonewalled the questions and accusations being flung at him as the cameras flashed in what seemed like an attempt to burn out his retinas. It was a waste, though. There were rivers of ice behind his pale blue eyes. Max had already made his moves. He knew things they didn’t, secret projects, hidden agendas and a master plan worthy of an evil lair built into a volcano.
With Jill safely enclosed in the Escalade that was moving down the long driveway, Max took a seat behind the large handcrafted desk. Even though the mansion was massive, boasting fifteen bedrooms and numerous amenities, he rarely left his office. He had nowhere to go. In the two years it had been since he left the company, he had piled on weight, not that he was trim and terrific to begin with.
“Mr. Michaelson,” Donald said as he walked into the room.
“What the fuck happened to your face, Lurch?” Max asked with a laugh.
He had seen Jill hit him but he wanted Donald to admit his embarrassment, especially after calling him by Jill’s favored nickname.
“Miss Borkavitz, sir,” Donald said quietly.
“Ah, she put up a fight, did she?” Max asked. “You’re slipping Donald, I’m going to have to keep an eye on you, sport!”
Max had a noticeable Australian accent, but he had never actually admitted his country of origin.
“Indeed,” Donald agreed as he nodded his head.
“You got her SIM card?” Max said, more a statement than a question. “Left her one thousand dollars like I asked and set her up for a week at the Chateau?”
“Of course, sir. It’s all taken care of,” Donald said with a small smile.
“Good.” Max massaged his neck. “She was a good girl for the most part. I’m sad to see her go.”
“Your guests are here, sir,” Donald said.
“Oh, why didn’t you say so? Bring them in!” Max said excitedly. “Bring them in!”
“Right away, sir,” Donald answered as he turned to leave the office.
Donald walked back into the office after a couple minutes leading Jake in a black shirt and jeans paired with matching Ray-Bans, which failed to hide his hungover state. Behind him walked Daryl. He was dressed a little more appropriately for a meet and greet with a man of Max’s station in life, wearing a fitted button-down shirt paired nicely with pleated pants that were hemmed a little higher to show off his designer loafers. Max was a little alarmed by the man Jake had brought with him, Daryl seemed a little too well-dressed for the job Max was about to offer him. He needed a pack mule not a thoroughbred.
“Good to see you, Jakey!” Max said with a grin. “It’s been way too long, mate!”
Jake saluted him and flopped into a chair as Daryl stood over the table with his hand outstretched. Max looked at Daryl. His chiseled face and piercing brown eyes sickened him. Max hated good-looking men, reminders of exactly what he was not.
“So, this is Daryl, is it?” Max asked, looking over to Jake.
“Yes, yes sir,” Daryl interrupted, looking at his hand, still outstretched.
“I was asking, him,” Max said, nodding at Jake.
Daryl took his hand away in defeat.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jake said with an air of petulance as he settled deep into the chair.
“Okay then, that’s all I wanted to know,” Max said with a sneaky grin, still ignoring Daryl.
This is where Max excelled. He had just met Daryl and he already had him questioning the value of his existence, and Max could see it too. It was too easy. He had the power and had created an enemy, less than thirty seconds in: mission accomplished.
“So, Jake here tells me you are a guy who can get things done on short notice,” Max said, finally turning his attention to Daryl.
“Yeah,” Daryl replied with a confident swagger. “I've been known to conjure up some magic when the occasion has called for it.”
“Magic, huh?” Max asked. “That’s cute.”
Daryl looked a little embarrassed but maintained eye contact. Max curled his lip at him. He was very unsure about offering the job to Daryl. He seemed overly qualified and overly smart.
“Jake vouched for you, so he must trust you,” Max said poking a thumb in Jake’s direction. “I trust him, not that it means much. He’s a bit of a piece of shit, isn’t he?”
Daryl gave a half smile, and Max could see that Daryl was a good friend of Jake’s, which was not ideal for what he had planned.
“To be honest, I'm in no position to be picky right now,” Max confessed, shrugging his shoulders. “I had a last-minute cancellation.”
“So, what's the job?” Daryl asked, raising his chin towards Max.
“A truck, one driver, no security,” Max replied without missing a beat.
“But what's the job?” Daryl asked, his voice stern and to the point.
“Jake, I like this guy!” Max said turning to Jake. “I'm not even trying to sell him something and he's busting my balls.”
Jake didn’t respond. He just kept looking down. Daryl nudged him a little but he didn’t budge.
