by Tiana Laveen
“What’s your name, cowboy?” Paxton questioned with a sexy smile.
“Andrew!” the guy shouted, drawing laughter from the audience as he hopped about in delight. Paxton laughed lightly and nodded at the man.
“Andrew, I want you to pull on the chains and the padlocks that are wrapped around my body. Make sure they are secure.” The man began to do as asked, but hesitated when he got to Paxton’s crotch, which caused another burst of laughter. Paxton smirked and shook his head.
“Careful now, cowboy. Just uh, tug on it… No! Not that! Wrong nuts and bolts! Tug on the chain and the lock,” the magician joked as Andrew bumbled about with the padlock, which fell dangerously close to his cock. Ivy fought a giggle herself as the crowd’s laughter boomed in her ears.
He’s definitely charismatic…
“Okay, are you feeling secure that everything is tight and in tip top order?”
“Yeah, the chains and locks are on good.”
“All right… and so that the audience is convinced, I need a second opinion. Come closer, love.” The second volunteer approached him, a young woman with brown wavy hair pulled taut in a ponytail. She wore an oversized shirt and black leggings.
“What’s your name, beautiful?”
“Rita.”
“All right, Rita, do the same to me as Andrew. Check the chains and padlocks.” She went through the same routine as the man who entered the stage with her. When she got to Paxton’s genitalia, the audience grew silly once again. “Now you, my dear, can tug all you want.” A burst of guffaws filled the place. “I’m just joking… the last thing I need is a ‘Me Too’ campaign waged against me. Okay now, do you feel secure that everything is locked and loaded?”
“Yeah, or are you just happy to see me?” the woman flirted, causing a ruckus of laughs.
Paxton’s mouth dropped open as if he were in shock. He winked at the woman and smiled. “Happiness is in the hand of the beholder.”
The woman quickly snatched her fingers away from the padlock, and the crowd really got going then.
“Everything fine?”
“Yes, the chains are tight and the locks are locked.”
“Good. Okay you two wonderful people, please step aside.”
The stage suddenly went from light to pitch dark and the music morphed into something gloomy and sinister—Benny’s “Little Game.” Fiery sparks and glitzy lights began to spin around Paxton’s twitching body as he moved about, jerking as if his pants were filled with a hundred fire ants. A box filled with water lowered from the ceiling and a collective gasp emanated from the audience. There were things swimming in it and upon closer inspection Ivy realized it wasn’t floating debris, but real-life piranhas. Ivy gulped.
Paxton began to levitate by the large tank of water.
I don’t see any strings or pulleys. How is he doing that?
As he floated up towards the ceiling, the gigantic glass tank lowered to the ground in a hard thud, causing the water within to slosh about. His body inched towards the left until he was hovering right above it, seemingly in midair. And then he dropped like a dime tossed in a fountain. Screams and applause filled the place. A huge splash ensued, the stage now covered in water droplets and shallow puddles.
Starr’s black hair floated about in the water, springing outward like octopus legs. His tanned skin suddenly turned ashen as bubbles danced out from his mouth and nostrils. The music grew louder and the tension in the room could be cut with a knife. Suddenly, through all the flailing and nervous anxiety, one padlock floated to the top of the water. Huffs of relief and screams of joy rang out. Another lock soon joined the first, and then fragments of the knotted chain as his hands moved frantically about. A stark raving madness seemed to come over his eyes as he tugged and pulled at one of the locks.
Ivy could practically hear her damn heart thumping when a piranha with razor sharp teeth swam dangerously close to his working hands and soon, the water was tinged with blood. Red swirls and droplets collected like rain around him as he was nibbled upon right in front of her eyes. Ivy chewed on her inner jaw, faced with newborn concern. She’d never heard of, read about, or seen this act before—definitely not with little demonic aquatic critters who feasted on human flesh.
The vicious little bastards had quickly progressed from small sampling bites to making a fast meal of him, and that’s when Ivy noticed the clock on the screen. A large chain then hit the bottom of the tank. People rose from their seats, shouting cheers and applauding. A few nail-biting seconds later, which felt like an eternity, the man was free and swimming to the top of the tank. With a smile, he shook his head so sprays of water came off the saturated strands of his hair. He thrust one hand in the air and out flew a bat … and then another. That was it.
The crowd went ballistic. Ivy took a deep breath. Pulling her cellphone back out of her pocket, she typed another note:
I have seen several of Mr. Starr’s performances on television, but this is my first time viewing one live. I am at a complete loss of words. Either this man is the best damn illusionist of the century, or he is a total maniac. Only time will tell…
At 4:07 A.M. in the morning, Paxton sat in his favorite blood red leather chair overlooking a spectacular view of the Metropolis. The window took up an entire wall of his home. The thick, black curtains were pinned open as he cast his sights on the city lights, feeding off the electricity of the nightlife that seeped into his surroundings like infectious vapor. The excitement filled his lungs with all that was rotten and sweet. With a glass of cognac in one hand and tapping a tune on the arm of the chair with the other, he then scanned his surroundings, pleased with his choice to relocate. He’d moved into a high-rise condo with breathtaking views of Las Vegas. The place cost him a pretty penny but was worth every cent.
His money covered the use of a large indoor swimming pool, accessible 24/7, a hot tub in his condo, round the clock security, private wine cellar, laundry facility on site, and sound proofed units, which afforded him his privacy when he rehearsed various tricks, screamed during a manic frenzy, or fucked something pretty and tender. He’d lived there a little over two years and considered it to be the place he’d hang his hat for quite some time.
He stretched his legs, moving the material of his garment as he did so. The heavy black robe draped over his naked body, but he’d gotten a bit warm and flung it open, needing the cool breeze of the air conditioning to come and kiss his neck, lick his ribs, and tickle his knees. He got to his feet, feeling unsteady; the alcohol had given him a much-needed buzz. Taking a final sip of his liquor, he set the empty glass down onto a nearby glass table which featured a grand silver and diamond encrusted faux skull as a centerpiece.
As he traveled around the place, not certain where he was going, he stooped low and picked up a pair of black lacey panties, a matching bra, and another pair of panties, this one bright yellow. Making his way into the kitchen, he pushed a lever on the red wall. A trashcan slid out, and he tossed the apparel inside without a second thought. He didn’t even recall the women’s names, nor did he have the desire to do so. Snatching the refrigerator door open, he pulled out a bottle of wine and carried it down the hall to his bedroom, his shoulder pressed against the wall as he walked to ensure he didn’t crash to the ground. With a shove of his elbow, he opened the panel door, took the three short steps into the room, and made his way to his rhombus shaped bed.
He deposited himself on the black sheets, his head hitting the pillow and his brain a fuzzy mess. “Imagine Dragons” by the Demons played through the surround sound speakers. Slowly closing his eyes, he disappeared within himself, still holding tight to the neck of the unopened wine bottle. Working up to a seated position on the bed, he opened the carafe, tossed the cork across the room, and wrapped his lips around the bottle, then burst out laughing as he fell into delirium. His own laughter sounded foreign to him, echoing in his chest like the voice of someone he once knew. His phone rang, but he ignored it, while nodding his head laz
ily to the music.
“Don’t get too close, it’s dark inside…” he sang along, falling apart, swimming inside of a piece of himself. Moments later, he’d fallen asleep, not even recalling slipping away. When he woke up six hours later, he imagined he dozed quick and fast like the heroin addicts from his old neighborhood, the way they’d stand there speaking and then, in mid-sentence, they’d bow their heads like people would do while saying a prayer. The wine bottle was empty, his phone’s voicemail was filled with messages, and his head throbbed in the worst way.
Shit.
He looked towards his bedroom window and smiled at the rays of sunshine that filtered in and tapped him on the nose. The curtains were partially drawn; had he closed them the night before? That window reminded him of himself; he purposefully revealed only a little bit of him, at times in stingy, tiny little increments. Other times, if he was drunk or emotional enough, he shouted his secrets to anyone who would listen. It was the luck of the draw. He raised his hand in the air and wiggled his fingers; the bandaged pinky one ached. A fucking piranha had taken a chunk out of it and once the others got the taste of blood, they’d banded together and tried to feast off his flesh.
Ugly fuckers… What a last-minute idea of mine. Might have to rethink it.
As he waved his hand in the air, no bats came flying out on their way to the bat cave. No, no, no… this time, he was vying for a different magic trick, one where he wished he could make the whole fucking world disappear…
“His voicemail is full,” Ivy explained as she sat in her boss’ office. She glanced at a vent that was blowing out industrial strength amounts of cold air but kept her complaints about the frigid temperature to herself. “I’m going to keep trying, though.”
Thus far, she’d not made much headway. Neither her paper, The Las Vegas Sun, nor any other local, national, and international publications had gotten their meaty little hooks into Paxton Starr. He was a ‘no show’ for all interview requests as far as she could tell. She’d done a thorough exploration and nothing could be found—no revelations or exclusives. The man barely had a social media presence. He was a mere ghost.
“I dunno.” Eric sighed as he pivoted back and forth in his white chair, twirling a cheap BIC pen between his fingers. “He doesn’t do interviews. We know this as fact. Definitely not trying to discourage you, Ivy; you’ve surprised me over the years, but what I have heard about Mr. Starr is that under no circumstances does he talk to the media. Even when that scandal hit about how he does his Queen of Hearts card trick and the other allegations from women about his womanizing and an alleged raging cocaine drug habit. He didn’t say one damn word when those accusations landed in the public eye. When that court case hit from the guy saying that he punched him in a casino, he didn’t settle in court, either. He said nothing to the public and that man didn’t get one dime.” He shrugged. “I don’t know how he does it, but he’s a slippery, slick son of a bitch.”
Ivy smiled. “That he is, Eric, but I’m going to keep trying. I have seen five of his shows now. Two I saw live. One last week and another last night. I also watched some of his televised work. He is consistent to a fault as far as his attention to detail. His performance is flawless. I’ve seen a dozen magicians and illusionists, some of the top ones, and he has to be the best I’ve ever seen. I mean, I was right there, up close and personal, and it is really difficult to figure out how he is pulling some of this stuff off.”
“He’s intriguing, isn’t he?” Eric smirked at her, making her feel a bit uncomfortable with the way his sights occasionally landed on her breasts. Not soon enough, he met eyes with her once again.
“Yes, he is.” She reached for her cup of coffee, took a sip, and set it back down on his desk.
They locked eyes for a spell, then she turned away and took a deep breath. Eric was decent enough, but they had a rather unorthodox history. The man had invited her out to dinner outside of work hours a few times, but she’d always turned him down until, one night, she accepted. That evening developed into a time of regret. She vowed to never allow it to happen again, and though he’d appeared understanding, he’d also seemed rather wounded by the rejection. Eric was an important man, and he’d been helpful and encouraging to her in her career but she felt no romantic attraction to him whatsoever. More importantly, she refused to be one of those desperate women who fucked their boss to get to the top. She wished to remain professional, so she drew a line at friendship.
“You like him, don’t you?” The man swiveled faster in his seat, his smirk growing wider, though she knew, despite his grin, he didn’t like what he felt deep within.
“What do you mean? How can I like someone I don’t know?” She sat straighter in her chair and glared at him.
“No need to become defensive. All I am saying is that you like what he presents, Ivy. He is a sex symbol, after all.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” She peered at Eric, sitting over there with his expensive shirt, thin rimmed dark green glasses, blue eyes, and salt and pepper hair pulled back in a short ponytail.
“Look, we can be honest, Ivy. It’s fine.” Eric tossed up his hands. “The man is mysterious, does some pretty cool and creepy shit, has a reputation with the ladies, and isn’t afraid to get into a skirmish. He’s a bad boy… one who doesn’t talk to strangers.” He shrugged. “He does dangerous acts and he’s funny on the stage, exciting, engaging. You can’t get more thrilling than that.”
Like a human rollercoaster…
She swallowed at his words. Eric was right. She’d been chasing this story for weeks, desperate to get a hold of the man. She’d tried to meet him backstage, emailed and called several times, contacted his agent and even an ex-girlfriend, but they all led to dead ends.
“Well, that’s all the more reason for us to get this prize, now isn’t it? I’m not giving up. Everyone has a breaking point. Maybe I just need to put him under a bit of pressure.” She closed her notebook, got to her feet, and grinned at the man who looked at her with what appeared to be a mixture of jealousy and encouragement. “Let me handle this, Eric. There has to be a way in.”
“Alrighty then, you have my support. Go get him, tiger…”
CHAPTER TWO
New Phone, Who Dis?
After playing in the private poker tournament for three hours, Paxton walked away with a $4,300.00 profit. He enjoyed Craps as well, but tonight he changed it up a bit, and was lucky to get on the winning end. After putting on two shows earlier in the evening, he was running on pure adrenaline and a couple of soppy pecan pancakes drowned in maple syrup that floated about in his gut. In order to get his gambling fix, he’d gone to his condo right after the performances, dressed down in a dark hooded jogging suit, put on reading glasses, and even put on a male wig to deepen the disguise.
He was sick and fucking tired of people coming up to him demanding autographs while he wagered, with no respect for his personal space and timing. He went to great lengths to put some much-needed room between him and these fiends that would stop at nothing to wring him dry; they’d demand he take photos and do some dice and card tricks, as if he were sitting at that table for shits and giggles—a paid monkey still on the clock for their viewing pleasure. He sighed in relief that no one seemed to recognize him, and he’d gotten through the evening fairly unscathed. After gathering his winnings, he called it a night. He left the casino wearing dark shades, his chin held high, and made his way to the valet in front of the casino.
“Hello, Mr. Starr,” greeted the valet attendant. “How are you this evening?”
“I’m doin’ great, Stephen. Just give me the keys I left. I’ll get my motorcycle myself tonight.” He wiggled his fingers towards the attendant, cueing him to hand over his possession.
“Of course.” The man went to grab Paxton’s bike keys from the storage cupboard and placed them in his hand.
“Here’s a tip anyway.” He slid a crisp twenty-dollar bill in the young man’s hand and made quick steps towa
rds his Dues Grievous Angel motorcycle. In a matter of seconds, he was leaving the Venetian casino and weaving through traffic.
A rush of cold air bathed him as he made his way through the busy traffic, eager to get home and drown the dark, icky thoughts that threatened to cloud his mind. Once he got home, he burst through the door and turned on “Bruises and Bitemarks” by Good with Grenades at high volume. After opening the door to his liquor cabinet, he stripped off his clothing until he was stark naked, bouncing about to the music. He made his way to his living room with a freshly poured glass of vodka and a joint in hand to turn the water on in the hot tub. Placing his glass down on the edge, he stood there smoking as he glanced out the open window at the sparkling city lights and gorgeous view. He caught his reflection in the wall of windows and winked.
He searched his mind for shit he needed to do… the mundane aspects of life. His agent, Major, who was also his eldest brother, had been calling in regard to details of a show in New York they needed to finalize. He walked back to the liquor cabinet where he’d left his phone and found he had another missed call. He didn’t recognize the number, but he’d seen it a few times. He walked back to the hot tub and turned the water off, then stepped inside, ready to release his tension from the day. Placing the phone on the edge of the tub, he let the voicemails play, one by one, on speaker.
“Pax, it’s Major, your brother… remember me, ya bastard? What the fuck are you doing? I’ve been trying to reach you for two days. Look, this is important. You’re going to blow this deal if I don’t get your signature. We’re talking big money. I need you to call me back. TONIGHT!” Paxton drifted under the water, submerging himself for several seconds. When he came up, he ran his hand over his hair, brushing it back from his face.
