Hooked Up: Book 2

by Richmonde, Arianne

  “I tried. You think I didn’t try? My last boyfriend. But it was a disaster in the end. Even he was crap in bed.”

  I sucked in a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. What I can do is pay for you to see someone. A psychiatrist or a counselor—someone you can discuss all this with you in depth.”

  “All those bloody book boyfriends don’t help.”

  “What?”

  “I feel so inadequate. All the women in those stories come in thousands of different positions as easily as if they were brushing their teeth. They even come on command. On command for fuck’s sake! All the guy has to say is, ‘Come for me baby,’ and the woman comes, one point zero seconds later. Just like that! As fast as clicking a finger. Is that even possible for a woman? Because it sure as hell isn’t possible for me! I can’t come at all, let alone on bloody command. What’s wrong with me?”

  “Claudine, that’s fantasy, not reality. In reality things are more complicated. Don’t believe what you read. I know . . . my mother’s into that shit. You think if all women were coming on command they’d be reading those books? No, they’d be busy fucking instead.”

  “It’s not just the novels but the magazines, too. It’s all about the men. How to please the man. How to be a sex goddess. What about us? Why aren’t they being taught how to please us?”

  I thought of Sophie. This was her next business plan—to set up a “romance spa” as she described it. Very chic. Expensive, where men would be trained to please women—women would be the only clientele—no male clients allowed. The sex workers cum “escorts” (yes, the word cum is very appropriate here) would be handpicked. Models—really good-looking types, would learn everything from scratch. Have their bad habits wiped clean. Learn how to make a woman come from just a foot massage. How to give her mind-blowing orgasms, even if she’d never experienced one before. There would be sex workers to accommodate gay women too. It would be fantasy haven. But better than fantasy, fantasy made reality.

  “Alex? Are you there?” Hell . . . oo . . . o?”

  “Yes, Claudine, I’m still here. I was just thinking about my sister’s business plan, sorry. Listen, I’m serious—I’ll pay for a shrink or someone you can talk to, but I can’t see you myself. I told you I was serious about Pearl. We’re getting married.”

  “But you’re not married yet?”

  “As good as. We’re engaged.”

  “But you haven’t got a ring on your finger.”

  “Claudine—”

  “Which means you’re still technically single.”

  I took another deep breath and looked at my bare left hand. I wanted that wedding band on my finger more than I imagined Rex wanted a big, fat, juicy bone.

  And damn it, I wasn’t bloody well going to wait until winter.

  LOS ANGELES

  PEARL

  LOS ANGELES did not let us down. The sky was so blue that just looking at it made you feel warm and happy, as if you’d never had a problem in your life. The palm trees lining Sunset Boulevard, the leaves shimmering in a gentle breeze, as we cruised along in our rented 1960’s Cadillac convertible. Powder blue no less. Only in LA.

  I remembered that when I lived here, brief as it was, I felt I was on vacation every single day even though I had a nine to five job. People are easy in Los Angeles and constantly in a good mood. They don’t call it La La Land for nothing. Beneath the veneer of perfection lie secrets and a dark interior, but why delve deep when you can savor the trappings of glitz? At least for a little while.

  Sunset Boulevard is a winding road over twenty miles long, linking the urban streets of downtown to the grand and glamorous residential avenues of Beverly Hills, Bel-Air, and Brentwood. It continues to the Pacific Coast Highway, in Malibu, passing some of the most beautiful properties that money can buy. Why take the freeway when you can soak up the ambience of the old-style Hollywood allure along this stretch? Gloria Swanson immortalized this place with her 1950’s film, Sunset Boulevard. As we cruised along I imagined the debauched parties that were held in the exquisite homes here, the deals, the passion and the backstabbing divorces that followed.

  Alexandre’s left elbow rested languidly on the sill of the open window, a content smile on his handsome face, the wind lapping his dark hair—neither of us speaking, just enjoying the music; a golden oldie, Hotel California.

  We were headed to Alessandra Demarr’s house in Topanga Canyon, an interesting choice for an abode, once famous for being an artists’ colony. She had invited us for lunch. I didn’t know why, but I was feeling nervous.

  We arrived at our destination, although it was not quite as elegant as I had imagined. Our low automobile had trouble on the bumpy, pot-holed driveway, which crossed a creek where frogs were croaking—not your typical Hollywood mansion. Who was this woman? Everybody had been raving about her acting abilities and her brooding beauty. I was already intimidated by her.

  Alexandre parked the car in an opening where the driveway seemed to come to an abrupt end. There were no houses about, or at least, none that I could see.

  “Did we make a wrong turn?” I asked him.

  “This is where the GPS directed us,” he answered, looking about. There were some lemon trees and rolling, scrubby hills in the distance, and exposed bedrock. I even saw a vegetable plot, and beyond it a sort of shack. There was a black vintage Porsche, dusty from passing along this makeshift driveway, no doubt, parked in a corner.

  Just then, a figure appeared from behind a hedge. A sunbeam of light caught her and she was wearing a long, black dress. She was slim and when she walked she glided as if she were not part of this world. For a second I thought I’d seen a ghost. But I knew it must be Alessandra Demarr.

  She grinned at us and called over, “You made it! Shows you must be in the top four percent of the intelligent population—you’d be amazed how this place has most people flummoxed.” Her accent was vaguely Italian, but obviously she had mastered the English language with a word like ‘flummoxed.’ I looked at Alexandre to see if he was as bowled over as I was by her beauty, but he seemed nonchalant as if seeing stunning women was part of his daily routine. He walked over to greet her and she immediately offered both cheeks.

  I did the same. When I kissed her I felt her skin, soft as down, and she smelled delicious, of flowers and sweetness; femininity seeping from every pore. I stepped back and my breath hitched. Her thick wavy hair was almost wild, like a teenager who hadn’t brushed it in days. The dark locks hung down her bronzed back, her shoulders strong but slight, her breasts pert but not large—you could see straight away that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Again, my eyes flitted over to Alexandre to gauge his expression, but he seemed unimpressed by her. Her teeth were flaming white and her smile stretched across her face—a Julia Roberts sort of smile, warm and friendly.

  “You know what? I’m starving,” she cried, “I skipped breakfast. Do you mind if we eat something straight away? I’ve prepared some antipasti to nibble on. Then I have a home-baked pizza cooking away in my wood-fired pizza oven.”

  I licked my lips. “Wow, you have a special pizza oven?”

  “Made by hand by an Italian guy who lives nearby.”

  “Count me in!” I said.

  “Where are you guys staying?” she asked.

  “In Santa Monica,” Alexandre told her, edging towards the old Porsche. Is this car yours? It’s a 356B, isn’t it? Let me guess, 1962?”

  “Yes, you’re right. Poor thing, she needs a wash,” Alessandra said with a laugh, and then linked her arm in mine and pulled me towards the gap in the hedge from where she emerged five minutes ago like a dark angel. “Boys—always obsessed by bits of metal. Sniff about her, Alexandre, why don’t you. Take her for a spin if you like—the key’s under the matt. Meanwhile I’m going to feed your fiancée some snacks and give her a Bloody Mary. Come join us when you’ve finished with your testosterone boost. Anyway, I want to have your beautiful Pearl all for myself for a while and talk shop. Go for a
drive, Alexandre, take my car along the coast.”

  Alexandre laughed out loud. “I can see you’re desperate to get rid of me.”

  “Just for a little,” she admitted, tossing her dark mane. “Come back in half an hour.” She pulled me close and walked me away from him. I looked behind and he winked at me in amusement, settling himself in the driver’s seat of her classic car.

  “See you in a bit,” he called out, but Alessandra ignored him and raked her gaze over me, from my head to my toes. I was wearing just a dress and some flat Greek sandals. A frisson of nervousness shot through my body. No woman had ever looked at me this way before.

  Once through the secret entrance in the hedge, I set my eyes on her house; a glorified barn made of wooden clapperboard, and with a garden surrounding it of roses and more lemon trees. There was a little tree house looking like something out of Robinson Crusoe and a hammock resting between two small oaks. Beyond, a swimming pool, the water shimmering and breaking up into fragments of wavy light from dark blue mosaic tiles. The place was magical and from another world. The antithesis of “Hollywood” or how you’d imagine it should be.

  “He’s cute your husband-to-be,” she noted. “Very sexy French, yet with a body like an American movie star—before and during filming, you know, when they’re in perfect shape.” She threw her head back and laughed. “Very Alpha male. I bet he’s a great fuck.”

  My mouth hung open at what she’d just said. I was speechless. I’d known her for less than ten minutes. I replied simply, “Yes, he is.”

  “Of course, that’s something I don’t do anymore, but sometimes I miss that, you know, I miss that hard rod between my legs. But the whole man thing is such a bore. The pride, the bullshit, and they just don’t smell like we do. There’s nothing like a woman’s touch to make you feel like you’ve come home.”

  At the words “woman’s touch” she placed her hand on the small of my back, letting her fingertips linger on my butt. I thought of Natalie’s warning and knew that this woman was just getting warmed up. I felt scared but thrilled and mostly . . . curious. Not even Alexandre had come on so strong when he met me. Then it suddenly hit me. The names:

  Alexandre.

  Alessandra.

  The yin and the yang.

  Why was this woman making me feel as if I had no control? As if she were running the show? What happened to Pearl the ball-buster? Was it because Alessandra had no balls at all that I was at a loss for words?

  I wriggled away from her contact, but she grabbed my hand instead and led me to the pool.

  “I’m hot,” she said, and pulled her slinky dress over her head. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. I glanced awkwardly at her body. It was perfect. Her legs were smooth and long, her golden arms hung cool beside her hips. Her breasts perfect and not surgically enhanced like so many actresses here, but curved upwards like full but perky teardrops, the nipples pert and small. She caught me watching her and smiled seductively. The dimple on one cheek reminded me eerily of Alexandre when he looked at me that way. It was uncanny. She was like a female version of him. He may have been Alpha male but she was Alpha female, all woman. Tough, but whimsical; strong, but softly feminine. Her eyes were also green like his, but more feline. The similarities between them were frightening.

  “Come in, the water’s perfect,” she entreated, after she had accomplished a perfect swallow dive. Her hair was now sleek on her head, and her eyes dark from run mascara—it made her the epitome of a Hollywood ‘femme fatale.’

  I took off my sandals and dipped my toes in the water. It really was warm and I was tempted.

  “Come on, don’t be shy. Nobody’s allowed in this pool with a swimsuit—only skinny-dipping here at all times. Come in, Pearl.”

  I slipped my dress over my shoulders and stood there in my bra and panties. A matching, pale pink lace set from La Perla that Alexandre had surprised me with the other day. I suddenly felt awkward and embarrassed—I don’t know this woman! “You know what? I think I’ll just dangle my feet in and wait until Alexandre gets back.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I won’t bite, you know,” and then she dove down and did a handstand, her elegant toes as pointed as a ballerina. She emerged from the water and looked like a Bond girl, all sex, heat, and temptress. As if she were designed by God to do nothing but seduce. I turned my eyes away and reached for my dress and struggled back into it—I should never have taken it off in the first place.

  “Come, I’m going to make you the best Bloody Mary you’ve ever tasted,” she told me, water dripping off her tanned body as she grabbed a towel.

  I followed her to the kitchen, which was country-style with a large pine table in the middle, and baskets of dried flowers hanging from rafters and wooden beams. She took a jug out of the refrigerator and poured the mixture into two tall glasses, garnishing them with sticks of celery and lemon slices. She handed me a glass. “Here, try this, it has a kick to it, a touch of horseradish. And help yourself to my spread of cold meats and bruschetta. The basil’s fresh from the garden and the tomatoes from my greenhouse. Oh, and the olive oil I brought from Sicily, where my grandparents are from. It has a nutty taste—quite delicious. Actually, let’s take it all outside on the porch.”

  We put everything on a tray and took it outside, where there was a wrought iron table and chairs. I delved into the bruschetta and could taste sun in the tomatoes. It was true; the olive oil was sublime.

  “So Pearl, Sam says we need to get to work on the script straight away.”

  “We?”

  “You didn’t think you’d be doing it all alone, did you? No, no, my darling, this needs to be teamwork. I want the script to feel natural to me. You know, be part of who I am.”

  But you’re an actress, ACT! “Oh, Sam made out that I’d be working with just the script writer, he never mentioned that you wanted to be involved,” I said, as politely as I could.

  “Nuh, uh, I want to put in my two cents—I want to have my say.”

  “With all due respect, Alessandra, that wasn’t part of the deal—it wasn’t written into your contract.”

  She pouted her lips like a child. “But Sam wants me to be happy. Don’t you?”

  I took a sip of my Bloody Mary and then replied, “Well of course I do. I think an actor’s input is very important, but you know, too many cooks spoil the broth.”

  “I just need a week with you. Just so you get to know me. I thought we could do a little improvisation, you know, have some fun.”

  “But we’re only here for three days and then we have to get back to New York.”

  “Who has to get back to New York?” It was Alexandre. He came up behind me and massaged my shoulders. His touch was warm. I felt a wave of relief wash over me.

  “Hi Frenchie,” she said. “Hope you had fun with my car. Just trying to persuade your other half to stay on a few days. You know, we need to work on the script together before the others get hold of it. I want it to be our baby.”

  Alexandre laughed. I could see her flirtatiousness toward me was amusing him for some reason. Even calling him Frenchie. I felt as if I was being fed to the wolves when he said to me: “Stay, darling. Enjoy this beautiful LA weather—relax a little. I can’t as I’ve got a meeting in Montreal, but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”

  “No way,” I stated assertively. “I have to get back to Manhattan. Natalie and I are working on something very important. She needs me in the editing room.”

  “Nonsense. That was your old job, remember? You’re on features now, not documentaries. Natalie can take care of it all herself,”

  Whose side are you on? But all I said was, “I’ll call Sam later and discuss it with him.”

  Just then a black cat shimmied its way around my bare legs. Its soft fur seductive, its purr intense.

  “That’s Lucifer,” Alessandra told me. “He’s an Oriental. Isn’t he the most handsome thing you’ve ever set your eyes on?”

  The cat continued to purr and
rub itself against me. Why did I have this ominous feeling that between Lucifer and Alessandra I didn’t stand a chance?

  ALEXANDRE

  LA WAS PERFECT. Sunny, blue sky, palm trees, people smiling incessantly as if they were taking some sort of happy pill. Our trip was made all the more enjoyable by our choice of rental car: a powder blue, 1960 Eldorado Biarritz convertible Cadillac. It had fins and glistening chrome that shone silver in the sunlight. I felt as if Pearl and I were riding on a giant shark, cruising the wide avenues, spotting other vintage cars and California girls as we sped by, the wind catching our hair, the music blasting through the speakers. Pearl looked like a true California Girl herself—tanned and lithe, golden and sun-kissed, so I played the song, California Girls by The Beach Boys, and we sang along.

  We were on our way to Alessandra Demarr’s house in Topanga Canyon, and when we arrived my eyes strayed—not to Alessandra in her black negligee number—but to her classic car, a 1962 Porsche 356B, also black. As Alessandra eye-fucked Pearl, roaming her saucy gaze lasciviously all over Pearl’s body and suggesting Bloody Marys of all bloody things (yes, I know), I was only too glad to take Alessandra up on her offer of taking her car for a spin.

  “She’s all yours, Alexandre, the keys are under the mat.”

  “I can see you can’t get rid of me fast enough,” I said with a wink.

  “Come back in half an hour,” she said in her lilting Italian accent, taking Pearl’s arm and guiding her away.

  Pearl looked like a lamb being led to slaughter. Sophie had been right; beautiful seductress Alessandra was all over her. Funny, we could have been siblings Alessandra and I. She had eyes my color: fiery green. I guess I was used to looking at myself in the mirror and didn’t think about my eyes, one way or another, but on Alessandra they looked predatorily unnerving, as if she were about to literally devour Pearl. I wondered if I looked the same. Like a wolf. Or a panther. Because before Alessandra began her feast, I imagined that she’d lick Pearl all over first and taste every inch of her body. It turned me on, actually, to envision this, and I felt rather wicked for leaving my fiancée in her clutches, but it also amused me.