“Right.” Lucas reversed course. “Stay. Please.”
I had no idea how Kristen and Lucas got together as a couple, but I’d bet they met for the first time on set. At home, it seemed he still followed Kristen’s script.
“Sure,” I said.
“I’ll get the number,” Kristen said. “Lucas, will you help me bring in the speakerphone?”
Lucas nodded and they headed down the hallway, presumably toward the office.
I watched their retreating figures. They looked cute together. Lucas leaned into his older lover. Although bigger and stronger, he was clearly submissive to the worldly LaNue.
They seemed into each other. Why, then, was Lucas so ready to run off with Brent?
For that matter, hadn’t Kristen been flirting with me? Or had I imagined that?
I had no problem with people having open relationships, but these two seemed pretty active in their pursuit of others.
Was nothing what it seemed?
Lucas may not have been Laurence Olivier, but he was an actor. Maybe he regarded Kristen as more of a meal ticket than the love of his life.
If so, Kristen would have been an appealing sugar daddy. Rich, handsome, sexy, and I could see he pushed some of Lucas’s most obvious buttons. After all, he was a director. By definition, he liked to be in control.
And wasn’t control what Lucas most craved?
What did Kristen get out of keeping Lucas? Companionship and sex were the obvious answers. Maybe his need for running things at work also extended to his home life. If so, he’d found the perfect puppy to fetch his papers.
Then again, did it even matter? Who was I to be analyzing them? I doubted my relationship with Tony was any healthier.
A loud crash from the door Lucas and Kristen had disappeared behind shocked me out of my reverie.
“Kevin!” LaNue screamed.
I ran down the hall to Kristen’s office.
A long desk ran along one wall, littered with papers and eight-by-ten photos. Across from it was tens of thousands of dollars of video and computer equipment. Naked bodies writhed across monitor screens in a silent kaleidoscope of flesh.
Lucas lay unmoving, facedown on the floor. A small pool of blood surrounded his head. It got larger as I watched.
“What happened?” I asked, kneeling next to him.
“I don’t know!” Kristen stood in the far corner, hands behind his back, looking frozen. “We just got in and he . . . collapsed. Maybe he . . . fainted or something. He’s a sensitive boy, you know. This may have all been too much for him.”
“He’s bleeding,” I said.
“What? Where?”
I pointed at Lucas’s head. I had no idea how bad his injury was. Should I turn him over?
“He must have hit the corner of that table.” Kristen brought one his hands from behind him and pointed to a corner of the desk. Sure enough, there was a dent and a splash of blood there.
“Should we call an ambulance?” I asked.
I leaned closer to Lucas. A funny smell. Like ozone. Electricity.
“Hey,” I said, “is something burning?”
Kristen didn’t move. He had a glassy stare that scared me.
Was he in shock?
Why was he was standing so far away?
And, I wondered, what did he have in his other hand?
“Kristen?” I asked louder, trying to rouse him from his stupor. “Lucas is hurt. I think there might be a fire somewhere, too. You think I can get some help here?”
“No, baby.” Kristen sounded genuinely regretful. “You probably can’t. At least, not in time.”
What?
My alarms went off and I started to rise.
“No!” Kristen barked. His sudden authority made me freeze. “Wouldn’t want you bruising the merchandise, too.”
He brought his hidden hand around.
It wasn’t the first time I’d ever seen a stun gun.
Ever the director, Kristen called the scene.
“Lights out, Kevin.”
A moment later, they were.
41
Closed Set
From the darkness, light.
If I was dead, at least I’d made it to heaven.
It certainly looked like it. The first thing I was aware of was an infinite whiteness. A blindingly bright flood that filled my vision and obscured everything else. I blinked once, twice, a third time, then left my eyes closed for a bit, fighting off the sting.
I reopened them. Gradually, shapes and shadows formed. Across from me came the second evidence that I’d made it past the pearly gates: an angel. Blond, handsomely shaped, physical perfection. Floating above the ground as if on wings, although none were visible.
I sensed my feet weren’t quite planted on terra firma, either. A cloud.
The divine creature facing me appeared to be meditating or asleep. Like you’d imagine, he was beautiful. Pale, golden-haired, and nude, like a vision of God’s messenger from a Renaissance painting. His nakedness seemed natural and fitting. We leave the world as we enter it: unclothed.
The only incongruous detail was his impossible-to-ignore erection. It pointed at me accusingly, as if I were to blame for his current predicament. It was large, throbbing, and so red it looked like you could use it as a branding iron. I didn’t remember Michelangelo or da Vinci depicting their heavenly representatives as quite so . . . happy to be there.
Seeing the angel’s condition made me consider my own. Yup, pretty much like my cherubic companion’s. Hello, hard-on. Who invited you to this party?
But we weren’t floating. We are hanging.
I, too, was naked.
And, although I didn’t feel particularly happy, I was at full salute, too.
Unless rigor mortis started with your dick, I guessed I wasn’t dead after all.
I was dazed, though. My head felt like it was stuffed with mud. Not painful, but numb. My arms were extended above my head. Something that felt like leather looped around my wrists and held me to a beam or pipe I couldn’t see. I was standing on what felt like a chair. I moved my legs a little and it rocked under me. Careful. If it tipped over, I’d be hanging free, my full weight pulling on my arms. It wouldn’t be comfortable.
My memory of recent events slowly seeped back. I’d gone to see friends. Someone fell. Something sizzled.
Focus, Kevin, focus.
That was no angel.
Hi, Lucas.
Damn, he looked good.
Kristen.
He’d called me in because Lucas had fainted. But he hadn’t. I hadn’t seen it, but I bet Kristen zapped him like he’d done me.
I was still dizzy and thick-headed. Was I remembering this right? Why would Kristen have done that?
I should have been struggling to get out. Screaming at Lucas. But I couldn’t muster the will. All things considered, I was pretty calm. Actually, kind of . . . carefree. Maybe a little turned on, too. Lucas really was adorable hanging there. If I had a free hand, I’d take it and . . .
Wait. If I had a free hand, I should be thinking how it could help me get the hell out of here. Not using it to grope Lucas like he were a cantaloupe I was judging for ripeness.
What was wrong with me? How come I wasn’t more freaked out to be here?
Where was here, anyway?
I looked around as best I could. It wasn’t painful to turn my head, but it wasn’t easy, either. The slightest movement took great effort and came with a heaping side dish of nausea.
I hadn’t been wrong in my initial impression—it was awfully bright in here. But now I saw it came not from celestial grace but from six or seven heavy-duty light stands, like the kind you see on movie sets.
They went along with the cameras, monitors, and other video equipment I eventually discerned in the glare.
Let’s see, what did we have here?
Lights, cameras . . . what comes next?
Oh yeah.
Action.
“Well, look who’s
an early riser.” I heard the smooth voice of Kristen LaNue before I saw him walk into the lights. He was dressed in the same jeans and tan, long-sleeved T-shirt I’d seen him in at his home. Could we still be there? No, this space was much too large. Kristen’s apartment probably cost well upward of two million dollars, but a setup like this would have been unaffordable by Donald Trump at El Santuario.
Which raised an interesting question: How did a porn director afford a place at El Santuario, anyway? I was sure he was well paid, but nowhere near the kind of money you needed to live there. Kristen must have had another source of income. It probably wasn’t selling Girl Scout cookies.
“What’s . . . ?” My mouth was dry. I swallowed a few times. “I don’t understand.”
Not my best line, but, like I said, I wasn’t feeling quite myself.
“Ah,” Kristen said, stepping up to me. He ran a finger from just under my chin down to just below my belly button. I wish I could tell you my cock didn’t give it an expectant little nod, but I’d be lying.
Listen, I’m the first to admit I’m probably oversexed, but this was ridiculous. I’d been accosted, kidnapped, restrained against my will, possibly by a killer, and judging by the red lights on the cameras that circled us, the whole thing was probably being filmed. How the hell could I be turned on at a time like this? Was I more of a freak than I knew?
Worse, Kristen noticed my reaction. “It looks like ‘Little Kevin’ wants to play-ay!” he singsonged. He gave Little Kevin a long stroke. I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning with pleasure.
I twisted away as best I could.
More, I thought.
“Stop,” I said. “Don’t touch me, you sick bastard.”
Kristen’s smile was dazzling. Confident and cocky. “Your lips say stop—”
“Yeah, yeah.” I shut him up. “It’s an old line, Kristen. I had you pegged as a little hipper than that.”
Kristen’s smile didn’t waver. In fact, it might have widened. “Listen to you. Considering how high you’re flying, you shouldn’t be able to form a coherent sentence, let alone be so . . . what’s the word? . . . feisty.”
How high . . .
“You drugged me with something,” I said.
“Oh no.” Kristen grimaced with faked offense at my accusation. “I drugged you with a lot of things.”
A cocktail. I bet I knew what was in it.
“Valium,” I said. Which explained why I was feeling so calm under perilous circumstances.
“And Ecstasy,” I added, remembering the mild euphoria I’d experienced earlier. Not to mention the yearning to touch and be touched. I’d never used the drug, but I knew it had a reputation of earning its name on a number of levels.
Kristen clapped his hands together in polite golf applause. “Very good. Bunches and bunches of those two. But don’t forget ‘Little Kevin’ here.”
The other drug found in Brent’s system. “Viagra.”
“Impressive. You got three out of four. But the Viagra’s just to prime the pump, as it were. More effective is the phentolamine.”
“The feenty who now?”
“Phentolamine,” Kristen corrected me. “It’s a vasodilator. You should be glad I gave it to you while you were still unconscious. It’s an injection that goes right”—he put his index finger at the base of my cock—“here. Opens up the flow of blood so you can’t help but get hard.”
It sounded gross, but I was kind of glad. At least I knew I wasn’t to blame for Little Kevin’s embarrassing eagerness.
“The Ecstasy’s home-grown, too. A special blend that not only increases libido but also confuses the body’s nerve response. Everything is experienced as enjoyable. Watch.”
He reached out and squeezed one of my nipples. Gently at first, but with a quickly increasing intensity that seemed likely to draw blood. Now, I normally like a little chest play, but he could have cracked a walnut with that grip.
Damn if it didn’t feel good, though. My conscious mind registered pain, but somehow, the sensation was indistinguishable from pleasure. Little Kevin agreed, even tearing up a little, and not in sadness.
The whole thing was surreal. The disorienting lights, the physical restraints, the sense of losing all control. I felt apart from myself, detached from my own fate. I had no drive to fight back or resist. So much easier to submit . . .
Last year, when I was looking into the death of my friend Allen Harrington, I’d read a lot about how cults operate. In the first meetings they got you to attend, they’d keep you for longer than they’d promised, using peer and psychological pressure as the restraints. They’d deprive you of food and deny you use of the bathroom. They’d manipulate light and temperature to deny you a sense of physical comfort or any confidence that you’d know what was coming next. Sometimes, they’d even use mild hallucinogens to make you more malleable to their will.
Sound familiar?
These techniques were common because they were so successful. They were the same strategies used by cult leaders, deprogrammers, and Dick Cheney to wear a person down. They combined physical realities with psychological techniques to break the strongest will. Discomfort and relief, pressure and release, shunning and acceptance, each doled out in measured doses to elicit the desired responses.
There was some good news. It didn’t work on everyone. One of the best ways to fight off the mind control was to be familiar with the techniques. Like any magic trick, knowing how it was done made it harder to be taken in. I knew what Kristen was trying to do, and that helped.
After tasing and doping me, Kristen expected me to be unconscious longer. I assumed I wasn’t the first boy he’d done this to, so I had to assume my recovery was, indeed, faster than most. Why?
Maybe it was my ADHD. I was used to the effects of medication. In fact, I tended to need a pretty high dose, and one that was given more frequently than for most people. My doctor called me a “fast metabolizer.” In fact, due to the stress of the day, I’d taken an extra pill before heading over here. My medication was a stimulant—maybe it helped me shake off some of the drugs Kristen administered.
Lastly, Kristen was trying to manipulate me primarily through sex. Well, using my face and body to get guys to do what I wanted them to used to be how I made my living. I was good at it, too. Sure, Kristen had drugs and a physical advantage on me, but I used to be able to control guys without those crutches. He was playing on my turf, now. I had to find a way to use that to my benefit.
At the same time, I knew I was thinking best-case scenario. Cult leaders may use subtle mood enhancers, but Kristen had me more doped up than a crack whore. They used peer pressure to keep novitiates in their seats; I was literally all tied up.
It wasn’t exactly a fair fight.
But it wasn’t one I could walk away from or lose. I had a feeling my life depended on it.
42
Touch Me
“Do it again,” I begged. “Please.” I let my mouth fall slack, licking my lips. I writhed like a cat, arching my back, tightening my abdominal muscles for maximum display. “Touch me.”
“In time.” Kristen chuckled, fiddling with his cameras. “We have to wait for your co-star to wake up. Then, I promise, we’ll get started right away. There won’t be a part of you that goes ignored.”
I’d said it to make Kristen think I was more out of it than I felt. As long as he thought I was in a sex-crazed delirium, unable to think straight, I had a bit of an advantage.
Sad thing was, it was kind of true. There was a part of me on fire. An artificially fueled frenzy that had me aching to be touched. My every nerve ending screamed for release.
But I had to find a way past that.
When I worked as a hustler, not every one of my clients was someone I’d have gone home with if I weren’t getting good money for it.
Okay, that’s an understatement. Most of them weren’t particularly appealing at all.
Which isn’t to say I didn’t have my share of clients who were
sevens and above. Good-looking, smooth-talking men too busy or bored or closeted to meet someone in a more traditional manner. Even though those guys could have gotten laid for free, it was easier for them to pay for it and get exactly what they wanted, where and when they wanted it.
They were the minority, however.
There was a trick, though, to appearing—not to mention getting—turned on with someone to whom you’re not attracted. You just had to find something about him that was appealing. Older men tended to have larger and more sensitive nipples—that was hot. Some guys had ugly mugs but sexy voices, or fat bellies but impressive appendages. Or, maybe they had a sense of humor that made sex fun, or the kind of desperate need that elicited a sympathetic response. Whatever it was, everyone had something. It made my job a lot more enjoyable if I could identify and focus on that particular trait.
Now, I had to do it in reverse. Ignore the fact that Kristen was devilishly good-looking. Disregard his deep green eyes and smooth, touch-me-now skin. Try not to think about how soft his trendy buzz cut would feel against my stomach, my thighs. Force myself not to notice his tightly muscled body that moved with a dancer’s strength and grace.
Instead, I ran through my head everything about him that was gross and off-putting. When he got close to me, I was struck by his breath, which was sour and yeasty. It matched the smell of his sweat. Not an earthy clean-but-just-worked-out sweat, but an acrid, anxious sweat. The vinegary stench that accompanies nervousness and bad intentions. He had pit stains, too. Ugh.
While he dressed well, it was all too young for him, the clothing of a man ten years his junior. Trendy in a way that just made him look older. I remembered being in his bathroom and seeing a ridiculously large assortment of anti-aging products. It all spoke to a vanity and lack of self-acceptance that went along with the other narcissistic traits he displayed. Not hot.
On closer inspection, I noticed his pretty eyes were a little crossed, making him look kind of dumb. He had crooked teeth with an overbite. His short haircut was contrived to hide early balding. While his hair fled his head, it grew overlong from his nostrils and ears. I was surprised his obsessive self-care regime hadn’t caught that. Someone needed to introduce this man to some tweezers, stat.
Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery) Page 31
