Sociopath?

by Vicki Williams

  *

  “Mr York? Rafe Vincennes here. You left a message on my voice mail to call you?”

  “Oh, yes, Mr Vincennes, I’ve been eager to talk to you. Do you think we could make an appointment to get together next week?”

  “What is it you want to talk to me about?”

  “We’re convinced you’re perfect for a role in a film we’re getting ready to start production on.”

  “A film?” Rafe asked blankly.

  “Yes, but I’d rather tell you the details in person. I could fly in whenever you say.”

  “Fly in from where?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “Are you sure you called the right person, Mr York?”

  “Oh, yes, Mr Vincennes, quite sure.”

  “Well, my weekdays are fairly free, except for Thursday when I have flying lessons. Why don’t you just come on into Baltimore. I’d recommend the Renaissance, the Marriott or the Radisson. Just give me a call when you get there and I’ll meet you.”

  “That sounds great. I’m anxious to talk to you so why don’t we tentatively shoot for dinner on Monday night. If my secretary advises me that’s not good, I’ll call and let you know you, but I’d really like to do it then.”

  “I’m always around. Let me know.”

  Rafe shook his head in amusement. “What the hell?”

  *

  Gribben York was exactly what you expected from a, well, Rafe wasn’t sure what his title was, but a representative of a film studio anyway, Benchmark Productions. Perfectly barbered golden blonde hair, sky blue eyes (colored contacts?), tanning bed brown skin, muscular build that Rafe assumed was helped along by the professional expertise of a personal trainer, designer jeans with a pale blue silk shirt and and fawn leather jacket, along with a thin gold Rolex watch, a large diamond ring and a smile that held all the sincerity of a cobra right before it sinks its fangs into you.

  Still, as far as Rafe was concerned, that didn’t necessarily mean their interests might not converge somewhere along the line.

  “My friends call me Grib,” he told Rafe, showing his orthodontist-enhanced perfect white teeth.

  “My friends call me Rafe,” showing an even whiter, but perfectly natural smile.

  Gribben York had delusions of grandeur if he thought he could out-insincere Rafe.

  “So, Grib, lay it on me.”

  “We’ve got a project everyone is fired up about. It’s been kicking around for a while until we got all the different elements put together - financing, casting, locations, writers. The two stars have already signed on. Preston Buckley will be the male lead and Rhiannon, the female lead.”

  Rafe whistled. Preston Buckley had won an Oscar last year for his portrayal of Franklin Roosevelt. Everyone knew Rhiannon, of course. She was one of those people so famous, she only used her first name. She’d been Hollywood’s darling for a while now. Just her presence automatically guaranteed any movie would be a hit. She had a reputation for being tempestuous and demanding as well as delectably gorgeous with her heart-shaped face framed by dark chocolate curls, smoky gray eyes and a sensuously full mouth, punctuated by a charming beauty spot, that made every straight man who saw it dream of kissing her.

  “Exactly,” Grib agreed. “You’ll be playing with the heavyweights if you do this, Rafe. We’ve been trying to cast the part we have you in mind for all along but nothing has come together. We offered it to a couple of people. One had a scheduling conflict and the other wouldn’t take anything but a starring role. No one else struck us as being right for the part.”

  “So whatever made you think of me?”

  “One of our girls saw your video on YouTube, the one that went viral.”

  “I have a video on YouTube?”

  “You don’t know about it?” Grib asked in disbelief.

  “No, probably my fan club president, Jeri, did it.”

  “Well, you might want to take a look, Rafe. Over a million other people have.”

  “No shit?”

  “No, shit, Rafe. Anyway, Ashley sent me an e-mail message with the link and a note that said, ‘I think I’ve found your perfect Kelan McCrea.’ After I saw it, I agreed and I forwarded it on to a bunch of other people and all of them were excited about the possibility of getting you to do it. You have just the look we need for this character. The story is set in Ireland during the worst of the Irish conflict. Press is a British Captain, Rhiannon is his wife and your guy is the I.R.A. terrorist. You end up kidnapping and raping her to get back at him. It’s going to be a great film, Rafe. It has adventure and intrigue and sex and magnificent Irish landscapes.”

  “What makes you think I can do it?”

  “You weren’t even in any school plays or Drama Club or anything?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, you don’t have to be perfect at acting. We can coach you enough to get you through.” Grib assured him. “It’s, like I said, that particular look is what we’re seeking. In your video, you come across as sort of a dashing outlaw type.”

  He gave Rafe’s darkly handsome face some professional scrutiny. They were seated in an out-of-the way table in the hotel’s luxuriously appointed dining room. A beautiful view of Baltimore’s harbor, acres of white linen tablecloths. Usually Grib liked to hold forth from the most visible table in any public room, demanded on the strength of his Hollywood credentials, but he’d asked for a private location for this particular discussion. Still, he noticed that Rafe was one of those people who drew others, especially women, to look at him even if they had to go out of their way to do it. It didn’t escape his notice either that Rafe was aware of the attention he received and to acknowledging it with a flashing smile and that he didn’t reserve it just for the beautiful ones. The pudgy little woman over in the corner had turned beet red when that quick grin came her way. To Grib, that democratic quality was a very good sign in a would-be movie star because after all, it didn’t matter what people looked like when they lined up at the queue at the box office to buy their ticket.

  “So, are you’re saying you’ll settle for mediocrity?”

  Grib was reluctant to accept that characterization. “I wouldn’t say mediocrity, maybe more like willing to work around inexperience.”

  “I don’t think that would satisfy me though, Grib. I’m used to doing whatever I do very well. I don’t think I’d be happy with so-so.”

  “That’s why we want you to come to Los Angeles for a screen test. We’ll do a run-through. We can look at the results and so can you. Everyone can make their decision after that. So, Rafe, can you make a trip to sunny California later this week? Like tomorrow? I went ahead and got you a ticket on my flight in case you said yes. It leaves Baltimore at 2:00.”

  “You are hot for this, aren’t you?”

  Everything about making a movie is dicey. So many things can go wrong. You have to move quickly when all systems are go or it can all fall apart. You’re all this film is waiting for.”

  “Okay, I’ll have my sister bring me in and take us to the airport.”

  *

  He called Denis that night. He could hear the kids laughing in the background.

  “So how goes it with being parents, Denis?”

  “It’s great, Rafe. I think they’re adjusting pretty well considering what they went through.” He laughed a little. “And I think we’re adjusting too despite how drastically our lives have changed. I never thought I’d be worrying about researching pre-schools or choosing the perfect pediatrician or trying to get cough medicine down a three-year-old or braiding a little girl’s hair but it’s fine, really fine.”

  “That’s good, Denis. Hey, can I talk to Jeff a minute if he’s there?”

  “Sure, hang on.”

  When Jeff picked up the phone, he explained about the movie and asked for a short tutorial on actors’ contracts, assuming they offered him one. He thought being in a movie sounded interesting but it wouldn’t be huge disappointment if it didn’t pan out. Still, he didn’t want
to wander in like a babe in the woods and get totally shafted out of ignorance. Rafe believed in always being prepared.

  “Lord, Rafe, sounds like a strong part, supporting two stars the caliber of Press Buckley and Rhiannon. Hope it happens. We’ll be able to say we knew you when.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks for your help, Jeff. I’ll let you know.”

  “Do that, Rafe.”

  “You know what’ll happen, don’t you, Jeff?” Denis said when Jeff told him about the conversation.

  “What?”

  “He’ll make the movie and become a huge star without even trying because that’s the way it always is with him.”

  “Well, cracking Hollywood may not be so easy, even for Rafe.”

  “You don’t know him like I do, Jeff. Hollywood will be child’s play for Rafe. They’ll love him precisely because he won’t care.”

  *

  On the plane, Grib gave Rafe a bound manuscript. He flipped to a highlighted section.

  “This is the whole script but all you really need to read right now is this part. That’s what we’ll use for the screen test. You won’t remember it all it but this way, you’ll be familiar with what to expect.” Of course, Baltimore to Los Angeles is a long flight. Before they landed, Rafe had read the entire script and memorized the highlighted area.

  He liked the character, Kelan McCrea, and thought they had enough in common that he’d feel comfortable being him. He sort of had the same code of vengeance Rafe himself had although he didn’t put it in the same words. Rafe figured he’d probably turn out to be a pretty good actor because, after all, he’d been acting all his life.

  *

  The test was over. They’d just watched it on the screen.

  “Wow,” said Sylvia, the assistant director. “Just, wow.”

  She’d been a dubious at first, not quite convinced that pulling some kid, good looking as he might be, off the street was going to work. After all, she had to deal closely with these people to try to get them to come through on the screen and she preferred working with professionals who knew the ins and outs of acting, not some newbie who had to learn the ropes from scratch. But it hadn’t been her decision to make. She was only the assistant director.

  Sylvia was 38 and hoping to be the executive director the next time out and maybe this film would do it. She had her fingers crossed. Sylvia was sleek, from top to bottom. Sleek slender shape in black silk slacks and a red knit sweater. Sleek cap of black hair, washed with raspberry highlights, sleek porcelain-perfect face with jade green eyes and narrow, determined mouth. She’d worked hard to get where she was and she wanted everything perfect.

  The scene was between the British Captain, Andrew Stewart, and Kel McCrea. A stand-in was playing Press Buckley’s part. He’d just finished telling Kel that the British would crush the Irish rebellion because they had unlimited money and material and manpower and could go on forever. Kel was supposed to shout back that the Captain might be right but the British would pay a huge price for their victory.

  “I don’t really see this guy as a shouter and I’m not a shouter myself. Will you humor me and let me try it my way first? Then if you still want me to read it as it’s written, I will.”

  “Go ahead,” Syvia had told him impatiently, a little irritated that this novice thought he knew more than the professionals.

  Instead of loud and threatening, Rafe played him softly menacing, with a dead on Irish brogue. (One of his team mates on the Princeton football team had been from Ireland and he could recall the guy’s phrasing and lilting speech from memory.)

  *

  “Aye, Captain Stewart, I have no doubt ‘tis true that before it’s over, ye’ll get me. ‘Tis an end I’m prepared for. But I promise you, Captain, by all I hold holy, yer victory drink will be harsh and bitter in yer mouth and ye’ll get no bit of satisfaction from it.”

  Hugely magnified on the screen, Rafe’s twisted smile, the lock of black hair fallen to his forehead and the chilling midnight eyes were riveting.

  Sylvia gave him his head after that, acknowledging that Rafe’s interpretation of Kel was hugely more attractive than their own view of who the character was.

  Everyone who saw it agreed - this kid was born to play the part.

  *

  He flew back to Maryland with a contract in his pocket. He’d got them to agree to fly him back and forth so he wouldn’t miss any races. The first scenes to be shot would be the ones they could do in California. Then they’d be leaving to go on location in Ireland for the scenery scenes. They were doing some things first with Press and Rhiannon. He didn’t have to return to Los Angeles for a couple of weeks.

  *

  Grib had told Rafe that Rhiannon was originally from Ireland and that’s one reason she was so looking forward to going there for the shoot.

  ~ ~ ~

  CHAPTER 11

  When he got back, Sylvia told him they were going to just jump right into the rape scene, one of the most powerful in the movie.

  “We think it might set up a more compelling sexual tension if you and Rhiannon actually are strangers when you come together,” Sylvia told him, “she’s on her way to the set now.”

  *

  She entered the space like a queen, wearing a long shimmering silver robe, lowcut and slit to the thigh. As Rafe was taking note of the swell of her creamy breasts, sable hair like a crown piled on top of her head, storm gray eyes and full, sensuous mouth, she saw a lean, brown body, black hair with a unruly swatch almost falling into one eye, pitch dark eyes and a gleaming smile that crossed his face and disappeared, leaving you waiting for its return.

  *

  When he took her hand to shake it, both of them were instantly cast into foreign territory, a place neither had even been aware existed, where love and lust and recognition competed for attention. It was like finding like. They were tigers, having been raised with housecats, thinking there was was not another like them, and suddenly being stunningly confronted with another of their own species.

  “Bloody hell,” thought Rafe, “I think I just met my match.”

  “Holy shit,” thought Rhiannon, “I think I just found my mate.”

  *

  “Hello, Ree,” he said.

  “I don’t allow anyone to call me Ree,” she informed him haughtily.

  “Well, is that right now…Ree?” He grinned.

  She smiled back, that gloriously inviting smile that had been the target of so many camera lenses. “Except you, that is.”

  “Yes, I thought that’s what you meant to say.”

  *

  “Okay, you two, do ya’ think you can quit holding hands now so we can get on with it?”

  *

  The way the scene was set up, Kel had already plotted her capture and sent his men to bring her back. She’d been confined in this small, bare room, stone walls, dirt floor (not really dirt, of course, because dirt would be too, well, dirty. This was movie studio stuff, meant to look like dirt but clean). The room contained nothing but a single cot. The silver gown was what she’d been wearing when they kidnapped her from a party. The plan was for him to throw her on the bed and rip it open before proceeding onto the rape itself.

  “I think we ought to do it naked,” Rafe told them.

  Reynard Fusco, the head director, said, “no way, can’t be done.”

  “Why not? You’re allowed to show tits and ass, aren’t you? My ass, her tits. It would make it more real.”

  “Besides, Rhiannon would never agree to that!” sputtered Sylvia.

  “But I do agree,” Rhiannon backed Rafe up.

  “But you’ve never allowed…..”

  “That was then and this is now.”

  “Hmmm,” said Reynard, “if word gets out, and it will, that Rhiannon’s bare breasts will be seen in this film, that’s probably good for another million tickets. The publicity would be immense.”

  He told the camera people what they needed to do, how they needed to film it so neither Rhiannon
’s mound or Rafe’s cock were ever revealed. They could edge right up to it with the swell of her hip or the sweep of his flank, barely kissing the line between an R or X rating.

  *

  So they showed him from behind as he tore off her robe and then pushed her onto the cot, just his strong shoulders and back, his taut butt and long legs, and from behind him, her ravishingly beautiful but furious face and one luscious golden breast. He quickly climbed on top of her, holding her in place with muscular thighs.

  “Tis pleased to meet ye, I am, Missus Captain Stewart,” he said mockingly.

  “Crack!” they heard as her hand slapped his cheek with all her strength.

  “That’s not in the script!” said Reynard.

  “Crack!” He slapped her back equally as hard.

  “Neither is that!” exclaimed Sylvia.

  Reynard tossed his marked copy on the floor. “I think a script is going to be beside the point with these two.”

  He quickly captured her hands with one of his own strong ones and pinned them above her head. He ran his other hand through sable hair, sending pins flying, so that it cascaded down to the pillow and framed her face.

  The camera showed his gleaming smile and the audio heard his low voice.

  “Bitch,” he said before lowering his head to kiss her.

  They played it for real. She fought as hard as she could. Her body writhed under him, seeking escape. She spit in his face, her saliva running down his chin. When she bit him on the shoulder, he yelped in pain. When she freed one hand and clawed his back, bright red streaks of actual blood appeared. But nothing she did stopped the deed from happening. The cameras showed his hips thrusting and his panting breath and the way he slumped against her in the end. And they filmed her look of defeat and the tears welling out of the smoky eyes and running down her face.