by Tiana Laveen
“Pax, you know you can’t trust anything these writers say. They make their living off stretching the truth.”
“She’s scheming, no doubt about it, but what she said was true. I have to be more transparent. I can’t compete if I don’t start talking—all these other guys here blab all the damn time. They’re on Twitter, tweetin’ their innermost fuckin’ thoughts, posting private pictures on Instagram, making drunk Snapchats and all sorts of shit. I don’t have any of that, don’t plan to, but this could help. Gotta stay relevant, man. I’ve worked too hard to see it all go up in smoke.” Major sniffed. His nose reddened as if he’d been smoking blow all night. Paxton knew better though; the man hadn’t touched any hard drugs in over fifteen years, but the image brought back bad memories nevertheless.
“I guess, Pax. I don’t trust this though… something doesn’t feel right.”
Paxton turned away from his brother and looked towards the kitchen.
“Excuse me, Katie, I know this is last minute, but can you possibly prepare a couple of mimosas before you leave this morning?” He smiled at his personal chef. She made the best drinks ever, and he was pleased to have her in his camp.
“Of course. It’ll only take a moment.” He glanced at his cellphone. It was 9:54 AM.
“Why are you bouncing around so much?” Major asked with a smirk, then crossed his arms over his chest. “You think she’s gonna bite you? Hell, you might like that.” He snickered.
“No, it’s not that. I am just a little uneasy I guess. I am still deciding If I’m going to lie my ass off or tell the truth. She wants disclosure—never said it had to be accurate.” He chuckled. “Regardless, I don’t know exactly what to expect… got a bit of nervous energy, I suppose.” He threw up his hands, surprised at himself. “I’m inviting someone into my space, letting them see a slice of my life.”
“Yeah, and then she’s going to turn around and tell the entire world. Are you ready for that?” Paxton shrugged.
“At this point, it doesn’t matter what I’m ready for. It’s dangerous though.”
“Is it dangerous? Didn’t you jump off a bridge last month in New Jersey for HBO? Swallow a razor blade then crush a glass with the tip of your tongue?” his brother quipped.
“Yeah, but I had control over that. This is different. Well, we’ll see how it goes.” He began to slowly pace back and forth as he sorted his thoughts, compartmentalized everything in a neat and orderly fashion. His temper began to rage as inner bursts of possible negative outcomes flashed inside his head. And the damn vixen hadn’t even arrived yet to prove him right or wrong.
“She’s going to piss you off, Pax. I can guarantee you that.” His brother huffed.
“If she asks me something I don’t like, I’ll handle it.” A few minutes later, the drinks were complete and Katie left. The cleaning crew was gone and it was just him and Major standing in a spotless condo that looked fit to be in some showroom magazine.
Just then, his phone rang. His chest warmed as he regarded the caller ID.
“Hello, Ivy,” he answered, sliding his hand into his pants pocket.
“Hello Mr. Starr. I’m in the lobby with my film crew and—”
“Film crew?” He heard his brother snicker then looked back at him to see him shake his head in a ‘told you so’ fashion. “You’re a newspaper reporter. Why do you have a film crew?”
“I told you not to allow her to come by here!”
“Shhh!” He hushed him.
“Mr. Starr, we take photos and use footage to play back our stories to ensure we get everything right. It also helps with recalling the mood, facial expressions, body language. You know, things like that. This is totally customary and nothing for you to worry about.”
“You are not in the position to tell me what to worry and not worry about. You never told me that there would be a film crew, I never asked for one and you didn’t even consider the possibility that I’m not okay with that.”
“But—”
“I never agreed to that. The answer is ‘No.’ Just like my shows, I never allow videotaping unless it is a televised performance for HBO or some other affiliate. You can use an audio tape recorder and you can take photos of me yourself as long as you clear it with me right before hand but there is to be no video footage. Period.”
“But you never said—”
“I don’t want it. Do you understand me?!” He jabbed his finger into his chest. “You never asked me. You just expected to be able to do this with no problem. Send them away or you can fuckin’ leave with them, too. I will go about my day as usual. My life was fine before you called me. You, on the other hand, will have failed. The choice is yours.” He heard his brother grunt in the background and when he looked in his direction, the instigating bastard was rolling his eyes.
“Okay… well, I see. Since there appears to be no way to change your mind, I recognize your concerns and will handle the situation. I’ll call you back in a second.” Paxton ended the call and stomped into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He walked over to his massive black vanity and looked in the mirror, then took several breaths, trying to calm down. The woman was working his damn nerves and she hadn’t even stepped foot into the place. Grabbing his hair with both hands, he pulled, stifling a barrage of profanities. His diagnosed ADHD had kicked into high gear due to this little unfortunate snafu. A few minutes later, his phone rang once again. He answered it promptly.
“I only need the answer to one question, Ivy. Are they gone?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. You can come up now. Security knows I am expecting you. Leave your I.D. with Charles at the front desk and I’ll buzz you in.” He exited the bedroom only to see Major lazing about on the couch, looking at the television. “Are you fucking serious?”
“What?” The big guy shrugged as he chewed noisily on an apple.
“Turn that off.” He snapped his fingers at the man. His brother swallowed, grunted once, and turned the television off. A few moments later, the doorbell rang.
“I got it.” Major got to his feet and took sluggish steps towards the door as if he were expecting to meet his doom. They passed each other and Paxton took a seat at his dining room table. Once the door was open, he listened to her voice but couldn’t see her just yet.
“Hello, Ms. Faye.” Major greeted, switching to his professional voice. What a card… “Come right on in.”
“Thank you.” He heard the click clack of high heels against his foyer floor and when she rounded the corner, their eyes met. His dick jumped as flashes of all the nasty things he’d like to do to her entered his mind.
Well looky here, I’ve got the catch of the day… This may just be a jolly good time after all…
CHAPTER FOUR
Tricks of the Trade
I can’t believe it. I’m here…
Chewing on her lower lip, she felt suddenly awkward. Her usual confidence had floated out the door as she was swallowed by her awe at the place, which was simply magnificent and mesmerizing. It was one thing to see the building from the outside, a map on Zillow and the like, but a totally different experience to be within these quarters. Large framed artwork of oceans lined the walls, but most of the partitions were glass, showcasing a fantastic view of the city. Paxton’s condo was on the 15th floor and a corner unit with slightly rounded edges, an odd and interesting shape to one side of the room. His floor plan was open, but each room was divided from another by steps that led up to another slightly elevated level. The dining room was filled with opulent, almost garish black and red velvet furniture. In the distance she spotted a hot tub with a built-in side bar and what appeared to be marijuana rolling papers. Perhaps her eyes deceived her, but she doubted it.
She turned to her left and took note of the huge minimalistic kitchen area. Black appliances filled the space, and the walls in it were red, including the cabinets that were trimmed in cream. He seemed to be partial to the color. Dots of red were sprinkled throughout the premises. Th
at color seemed to be the hue he gravitated towards, the one that moved him. It suited him so. Clear furniture filled a living room area and the couch appeared to be floating two inches off the ground but upon closer inspection, it sat on a clear block, against a clear floor, turning it into an otherworldly illusion.
“Hello, Ivy,” the now familiar deep voice beckoned.
In person, she was almost certain she detected a Bostonian accent. Paxton was now close to her, and she hadn’t even seen him approach. Creep about like some sly, bloodthirsty fox from the brush…
“Hello, Mr. Starr. Thank you so much for allowing me to interview you. I apologize for the misunderstanding regarding the film crew. It’s just something I always do. It’s taken care of now.”
He acknowledged her with a simple nod and led her over to the dining room. Much to her surprise, the tall man with gorgeous, light gray eyes pulled her chair out, then gestured for her to take a seat. She sat down and gasped when he shoved her in, his movements at the same time quick and careful. He’d picked up the chair off the ground with her in it, and placed her perfectly at the perfect spot, as if she were a queen. All that was missing were the grapes she should’ve been fed. Seconds later, she was handed a cocktail of sorts from the big man who’d answered the door. The guy looked somewhat like Paxton, especially about the eyes.
“Thanks for the drink and it’s a pleasure to meet you.” The big guy offered her a smile, then turned and saluted Paxton with a garish grin. This drink looks like a mimosa. I’ll ask to be certain.
“This is my brother, Major. He’s also my manager.” She nodded in understanding. Ahhh, no wonder they favor.
“I’m going to sign off now, Pax. I’ll talk to you later tonight.”
“Okay, thanks for your help,” Mr. Starr stated.
The man walked away, a sound quickly followed by the sound of the front door closing.
“Well, Mr. Starr. It’s truly an honor to—”
“Are you hungry?” He cut her off, crossing his long legs and leaning back in his chair. He wore only a pair of black baggy pants. No shirt, just a line of downy, dark hair that trailed down his stomach and disappeared behind the elastic of the pants. His long, lean swimmer’s build was unbelievably sexy and covered in ink.
“Uh no, I just ate, thank you. Speaking of which, what is this drink Major served me?” She held the glass and gave it the once over.
“It’s a mimosa my chef made before she departed for the day.”
She nodded and set it down on the table before whipping out her notebook and pen and turning on her tape recorder.
“Shall we begin?” she asked, hoping her out-of-the-blue anxiety would pipe down. She felt so starstruck in that moment, a feeling she never experienced. Ivy had interviewed a host of celebrities, many of whom were more notable than Mr. Starr, but perhaps it was his elusiveness and reluctance that stirred her so.
“Sure, we can start. Why not? You’re about to bust my interview cherry. I suppose that makes you special.” He cocked his head to the side, clasped his hands together and grinned—the kind of grin that one would have before driving a stake through a vampire’s heart. The kind that seemed pocked with mockery and stained with anger, tinged with hatred, while married to a tone that flirted with condescendence. Portis Head’s “Glory Box” played so clearly through hidden speakers. She loved that song…
Her eyes rested on him sitting at the other end of that table and her thoughts strayed.
The fucker had a tight eight pack that was rippled like the sea. Black ink of gorgeous flying birds, salivating wolves, shiny angelic horns held by chubby cherubs and deadly demons were etched across his flesh. A thin silver chain hung from his neck, holding a pendant of a pair of red dice that dangled from the clasp. She turned her notebook to a blank page and tapped her pen a couple of times against the sheet.
“Mr. Starr, how old were you when you first realized you were interested in magic?”
“Well, we’re all interested in magic, Ivy. Magic is in our everyday lives, and we’re invested in it, right? You see, magic is waking up in the morning after a binge of sex, drugs, and rock and roll.” His smile grew wider, more sinister. “Magic is being conceived, the lucky sperm and egg, if you will. It’s in being born and surviving in a world designed to destroy us from the moment we take our first breath. So…” He opened his hands as if waiting to catch a ball, then frowned. “I can’t be just interested in magic. I didn’t choose it—we merely are magic. That’s like being interested in what you innately are; of course you are captivated by it, it’s a mirror of your own existence, but there is no separation between it and you. It simply is because I am magic … as are you.” He pointed at her. When he looked at her, she felt as if he was looking into her very soul. A chill ran up her arms.
He’s a creepy son of a bitch. Well played, bastard. I’m not falling for your bullshit.
“Okay. You’ve been called a magician, a mentalist, and an illusionist. What description do you prefer for your profession?”
“Well, first off, let’s take a step back. You’d be hard pressed to find an illusionist who is also not fine-tuned in the art of magic. However, there are magicians who know little to nothing about illusionism. A mentalist may know little about magic, but once again, it would be difficult to find a highly skilled mentalist who does not have at least a loose grasp of illusionism. Many people in my field excel at one or two, rarely three. I do all three and I believe that’s part of my public appeal.”
Cool. Now we’re getting somewhere.
“I see, thank you for explaining that. So, since you categorize yourself as all three, and it does in fact make you a hot commodity, have you seen newcomers that are attempting to copy your style and become a triple threat, such as yourself, so to speak?”
“Well, of course. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?”
She nodded. “Yes, that’s what they say.”
“So yeah, Ivy, there will always be individuals who are naturally gifted at magic and they have idols, people they look up to in the industry. I don’t expect to be the only triple threat, as you call it, to ever be in existence. I’m not the first of my kind and I damn sure won’t be the last. We’re not unicorns.” He chuckled. “we’re just people who work very hard at our art, perfecting it over and over again.”
“That brings me to my next question. I’ve seen your show twice in person and several times on television. Your acts are flawless.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. How many hours do you spend per week, on average, practicing new material?”
“It varies. Honestly, it depends on what I’m trying to achieve. There are no set hours per se. If I come up with a concept and begin to lay out a routine, it may only take an hour or two of practice for me to get it to work as seamlessly as I’d like. Other times, it can take months, perhaps years. Some acts I perform are amusing and don’t have a level of danger that one would consider high. Other times, well, you’ve seen the show…” He winked at her, and she immediately turned away to jot notes on her paper.
“How long have you been doing this professionally, Mr. Starr?”
“Well, I actually began doing magic tricks for children in the hospital.” She couldn’t help but smile at that confession. What a feel-good moment. Readers always loved statements like that, especially if they were sandwiched between something scandalous and juicy. “I learned magic at an early age and would practice in my room as a little boy. I tried out the tricks for the children in the hospital, and they took to them.”
“That was nice of you… that’s great.”
“What else was I going to do? I was in there with them. Stuck. Night after night. Day after day.”
Her smile slowly faded as she caught his drift. “You were a sick child?”
“Yes. I used to have seizures. The doctors never knew where they’d come from. I didn’t have epilepsy. I didn’t have M.S. and other tests they’d ran were inconcl
usive. Finally, seemingly out of the blue when I was about ten, these episodes vanished. I never had another one but maybe the experience left some neurological damage that gave me magical super powers. I have no idea.” She stared at the man, dumbfounded and fascinated. “I feel as if I function fine, but one never knows for certain, right?”
“And to this day no one knows how it happened?” She found this tidbit mind-blowing to say the least.
“Yes, that’s what I said. They occurred for years and then literally just stopped.” He clapped his hands one time. “You know what? I would much rather interview you, Ivy. I bet you’re an interesting person.” There was that smile again…
“I don’t do interviews, Mr. Starr. I just conduct them.”
“You’ll do an interview for me. I need for things to be level, not one-sided. I need a spiritual connection with each and every person I share with. You can’t have a taste of me, but I not get a taste of you… It may not happen right now, but you will answer my questions eventually, Ivy.” He winked.
“I don’t believe so. Moving on. I detect a Boston accent but just to be sure, were you born and raised in Las Vegas?”
“Yeah, you’re correct. I was born in Boston, Massachusetts. I moved here after a few auditions and was asked to perform. After I began to sell out shows within twenty-four hours of availability, they wanted me here permanently. The rest is history.”
“Okay, so you’ve been a sensation for a long time, which definitely explains your almost cult-like following. Back to Boston and you performing for sick children in the hospital for a minute.” She held up her finger. “Would you say that your parents were supportive of your aspirations to do magic as a profession? I mean, from your own words, you started early on so there obviously was no secret where your interests lay. What did they think? It’s not exactly a traditional occupation.”
“This interview is about me, correct?”
“Yes, it’s about you. Definitely.” She took a sip of her drink.
