Vice, Virtue & Video: Devoted

by Bianca Giovanni

  “Over here,” Lola says once we get into bed. “Flat on your stomach.”

  I comply, getting comfortable while she swings her leg around and straddles my back.

  “You gonna give me a massage?” I ask her, my voice sleepy and my words slightly muffled by the pillow.

  “Yes, I am,” she softly replies, starting to rub the tension out of my shoulders. “You’ve been through some shit, and I know I can help you relax, so massage time it is.”

  My smile is wide as I take a deep breath and bask in the feeling of her hands soothingly rubbing my skin. She’s great at this. She’s stronger than you’d think from how little she is, and she’s really working all those knots out.

  “Married to a fuckin’ angel,” I murmur into the pillow.

  I hear her laugh lightly, and then she leans forward to kiss between my shoulders.

  “We don’t have to keep that gift from Karen if you don’t want,” I drowsily suggest.

  “It’s cool. We can keep it.”

  “It’s not going to bug you?”

  “When you’re in that kitchen whipping me up something delicious, Karen Landry will be the last thing on my mind.”

  “I’ll always make you anything you want. Chef on demand.”

  “Nice!” she replies, running her fingers through my hair and massaging my scalp.

  It’s funny how tender little stuff like that can be so meaningful to me. Maybe I’ve changed. Maybe I’ve grown up. As much as I’d love to flip her onto her back and fuck her until thoughts of my parents are the last thing on my mind, I’m really digging this massage, and it’s doing the trick. I feel relaxed and warm, both inside and out, and I can feel myself starting to doze.

  “Just think, baby,” she whispers to me as she concludes the massage, “tomorrow we get to go back home and return to normal.”

  That makes me smile, and I feel relieved just thinking about it. This visit has been productive, but damn, it’s been stressful too. I’m ready for some quality time hanging out with our friends and just living our lives. Tomorrow night, I just want to be at home with Lola, decompressing from this whole trip.

  We have breakfast with Theresa and then doze for most of the flight home. I feel incredibly relieved the second we walk inside the apartment. I don’t think seven hundred square feet have ever looked so good. It feels great to be back.

  We put our stuff away, and both of us throw on some casual clothes before we go back into the living room.

  “Pizza?” I ask Lola.

  “Mushrooms, green peppers, and extra cheese,” she says back with a big smile.

  “Coming right up,” I reply, tapping the number in my phone.

  Just a little over half an hour later, we’re sitting on the couch chowing down on slices while we flip through Netflix looking for something to watch.

  “How about an It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia marathon?” I propose.

  “Sounds perfect!”

  We’re enjoying the antics of The Gang as we sit back, me with my feet up on the coffee table, her with her legs draped over my lap in that way I know she likes.

  “That visit was fuckin’ crazy, dude.” I sigh.

  “Tell me about it!” she responds with a laugh.

  “It never would have happened without you. My parents never would have given me the time of day if you hadn’t given me your endorsement by marrying me.”

  That makes her smile.

  “It’s kind of funny because I can’t even picture what my life would be like if things had just gone on the way they were,” I continue. “I’d probably still be doing movies, you’d still be doing your thing, and I’d have to watch you go on dates while I tried not to develop stress ulcers.”

  A giggle—one of those cute, adorable, ultra-sexy ones.

  “I never really thought shit was too bad before, but man, did my whole perspective change once I had you.”

  She sits up and scoots closer to me, curling into my chest and letting me hold her.

  “I can’t imagine my life like that now,” I say. “I’m, like, so done with the dude I used to be.”

  “I like the dude you used to be. At least, I like the dude you were with me. You’ve never been all that different with me, James.”

  I listen, drawing my eyes away only long enough to take a glance at her dainty left hand and that big-ass ring on her finger.

  “You’ve been my superhero for years,” she says with a sweet smile. “You still are, and you’re always going to be. You take care of me in a way I’ve never experienced before.”

  “It’s ’cause I’m crazy about you, cupcake.” I flash her a grin.

  “Well, the feeling’s mutual, stud.”

  “Hey, side note, I think I’m gonna grow a beard.”

  “And what brought about that decision?” she asks, giggling.

  “Several things. I was thinking about how they grow playoff beards in pro sports, and I thought maybe this could be like my playoff beard, but for the wedding.”

  She bursts into laughter.

  “Seriously, though,” I say, trying not to laugh. “I was thinking it would be like a countdown kind of thing.”

  “But you’d shave it off before the wedding, right?”

  “Probably.”

  “I don’t want my wedding pics to look like I married Grizzly Adams.”

  “Okay, then,” I say, nodding, “I’ll grow it until the wedding.”

  “And what was the next thing?”

  “What?”

  “You said there were several things that led you to the conclusion that a beard was a wise choice. What were the other things?”

  “I was thinking about it, and since I quit porn, I really don’t have to keep up with all that shit anymore,” I explain. “I used to have to shave and wax and stuff, and I don’t really have to now because my body’s not going to be on camera anymore.”

  There’s this adorable smugness to her smile, and I think she realizes that this is just one more way for me to show her my devotion.

  “So you’re going to get all hairy now?” she asks, trying to act like she’s not just a little bit touched.

  “To be fair, I’m not all that hairy to begin with. I mean, aside from what little I have of this, I don’t have a lot of body hair.” I tug the neckline of my T-shirt, and she scratches her nails through my chest hair while making a sexy purring noise, which makes me laugh. “I think I’m going to let things grow out. I’m going full Sasquatch, Lo.”

  She takes a glance down at my crotch and then back up at me with a smirk. “You’re firing the gardener?”

  “I’m going for a mountain man thing now,” I explain, grinning. “It’s going to be like Life After People down there.”

  That cracks her up, and I look her over while she throws her head back in laughter.

  “Yep. Beard. A whole forest of hair down below. I’m going to be totally rugged and natural,” I continue.

  “What if I said I was going to do that? What if I decided to grow a seventies bush and you had to just go with it?”

  “Hey, I’m down,” I say, laughing. “I’d love you and your seventies bush. I’d get to feel like one of those old school porn stars. I could grow the ’stache and get some skintight bellbottoms.”

  She’s cackling with laughter, and she gives me a playful little shove.

  “I like that you’re rockin’ the Brazilian thing now,” I tease, “but I’d still be all about it, whether there was hair or not.”

  “What’s your preference, Mr. Porn Superstar?”

  “Normally I like hairless,” I answer honestly, “but now I just prefer however you’re doing it. Yours is the only one I want.”

  “Aw,” she sighs, putting her hand to her chest. “I love that you can be such a sweetheart when you’re talking about pubic hair styling.”

  Now I laugh loudly and grab her, bringing her closer for a kiss.

  She gives me this really sweet, tender, powerful look, like she’s telepathic
ally transmitting her love to me, and then she kisses the tip of my nose before curling up to me again and turning to face the TV.

  This is how I want to spend every waking moment for the rest of my life: close to her, my arms around her, her looking in my eyes like that, and giving me those little kisses. She’s it for me. Forever.

  Chapter 10

  Lola

  JAMES IS AT THE WHEEL of the old, reliable Civic, and I’m riding shotgun as we pull up in front of the For Sale sign. This morning, he woke me up with the wild hair that it was time to buy a house, and I was totally into it. This is our first day of the search, and we’re both beaming with excitement.

  It hasn’t even been six months since our Vegas nuptials, but he insisted that it was time for us to upgrade from a one-bedroom apartment to a real house. He’s got a picture in his head of us being a normal, everyday, average couple with a house in the burbs and a couple of kids. While I’d like to wait a few years for the latter, I do like the idea of owning our own home. It would be nice to paint a wall without losing our deposit or get as many pets as we want without having to hide it from the building management company.

  “So Marty said he’s got three to show us today, all within our price range, but he has one other one that’s a little bit more expensive but has all the stuff I told him we wanted,” James says, putting the car in park next to the flashy, yellow Lamborghini belonging to Marty, our Realtor.

  Marty Caprita used to be known as Mario Forte, and he was a pretty popular adult film star in the mid-eighties and early nineties. He got into real estate after he retired from the biz, and James, being a former adult superstar himself, chose to work with Marty out of honor for the unspoken brotherhood of professional dick slingers.

  “This one looks a little eighties,” I say, looking at the clearly redone Southwest style exterior. “Nice yard, though,” I add, giving the manicured hedges and tall trees a glance.

  “It’s the cheapest on the list,” James replies. “Marty said it was remodeled in two thousand and three, so the inside is relatively updated.”

  I take out my little notebook with the flyers James printed for each of the houses on our mini tour today and shuffle to the one for this address. This is our first home, and I want to take copious notes so we can properly compare before we decide.

  We park and get out of the car, walking up three small steps and ringing the doorbell.

  “James, good to see you!” Marty smiles and pats James on the back.

  He greets me politely with a two-handed handshake and ushers us into the house. He reminds me a little bit of Pat Riley—the slicked back hair, the sharp suits, that confident air of a man who’s been in this business a long time and knows how to close a deal.

  We walk into the foyer, and I stifle a snicker. Mirrors. Lots and lots of mirrors. One entire wall is mirrored, and that’s just in the entryway. As we continue into the living room, I see that the reflective theme seems to flow through the whole house. The furniture seems to go with the style—black, leather couches, sleek, glass coffee table, very modern, but in an eighties way.

  James looks over at me and gives me a grin like he too is holding back laughter. We can’t live in a house that looks like the dressing room at Contempo Casuals, but we’ll let Marty take us through and show us the features.

  “So, as you can see, we’ve got a spacious living room—lots of light from the mirrors,” Marty says, leading us into the kitchen, which, much to my surprise, also has a mirrored wall. “They’ve upgraded all the appliances, new gas range here, new tile on the floors.”

  James looks around. This is the only part of the house that might impress him. He’s a wonderful cook, and I know he’s looking to step up from our simple, basic, electric stove.

  He gives me a glance, and I subtly shake my head. This is not the place for us, even with a killer kitchen. I can’t look at my own reflection twenty-four-seven, and there is literally no place to avoid that in here.

  Marty continues the tour, taking us upstairs to the three spacious bedrooms. The two guest rooms are all right, but the master bedroom looks like a strip club with low, recessed lighting and even a mirror above the bed.

  I’m doing my best not to laugh as I think about what might have led Marty to choose this place. A young, hot porn star and his wife, of course they’d want a mirrored ceiling! I feel like I need a high cut bikini and a perm just standing in here.

  The “Hot for Teacher” music video plays in my head as James asks Marty some questions, playing the part of the discerning homebuyer.

  Soon, we’re back downstairs and following Marty to the next address on the list.

  This place is nice, with a long driveway, lots of greenery and tall hedges that block the view from the street. It’s Spanish style, and I remember seeing on the flyer that it was built in the nineteen twenties, but you can tell it’s been well kept and tastefully remodeled over the years.

  James gives me a subtle smile and raises his eyebrows. “Not bad,” he says, giving it a once-over.

  I agree, and we step out to meet Marty at the front door.

  The inside of the house is void of furniture and very pretty with dark wood floors, high ceilings, warm, rich shades of beige and green on the walls, terra-cotta floor tiles, and arched doorways.

  “This one’s pretty sweet,” James murmurs to me as we continue into the living room and kitchen.

  The stainless steel appliances and high-end gas range immediately catch his eye. I can tell he’s already thinking about the meals he could cook here. I’m secretly thinking about how much I’d enjoy gorging myself on those meals, and what I could ask him to cook for dinner tonight. He made a rosemary chicken entrée the other day that was a lot of work, but completely to-die-for. Maybe I could use my feminine wiles to persuade him to cook it again.

  I snap out of my food fantasy as Marty leads us to the expansive sliding glass door and into the backyard.

  There’s a small pool and added hot tub. Though it’s not as large and sprawling as the other house, the greenery is very manicured and looks like something out of a magazine. Even though James despised working for his father’s landscaping business as a teenager, I can tell he appreciates a good lawn.

  “They’re very motivated sellers,” Marty explains, gesturing to the furniture-less rooms. “They bought another place, and they’re looking to move on this as soon as possible. It’s a steal. A house like this would easily cost you fifty grand more than what they’re asking.”

  We continue down a hallway to the bedrooms; there are three in total. The master suite is beautiful with exposed beams on the ceiling, a small fireplace, surprisingly large closet and patio area with its own privacy fence.

  “This one is definitely impressive,” I say to James, who nods in agreement.

  “And here’s the second bedroom,” Marty says, leading us down the hall to a plain, warm, beige bedroom with very polished wood floors.

  We pass a heavy, wooden door on the way, and I turn my head to see what it is, but he doesn’t stop.

  “What’s in that one?” I ask, pointing back down the hall.

  “Oh, that’s another bedroom.” He smiles at me before giving James a sly look. “It’s kind of unique.”

  I look back and forth between the two men, who seem to be sharing a secret exchange.

  “Well, can we see it?” I inquire.

  “Sure, sweetheart,” Marty says, pulling out an extra key from his pocket.

  “What is it, a panic room or something?” I ask with a slightly nervous chuckle. “What’s with the extra security?”

  “Mostly for privacy.” Marty flashes me a grin, and I start to get suspicious.

  He unlocks the door and flips on a switch, which casts a low light over the windowless space. It’s dark in here, very dark. The floor is black tile, the walls are deep charcoal painted cinderblocks with matte finish, and everything is colored in cold, uninviting shades of gray. I look overhead and see a large, metal grid on t
he ceiling. As I take a closer look around, I notice a pair of heavy-duty eyehooks embedded in one of the walls. Curious about what the hell these could be for, I step closer and examine them. They’re spaced a little wider than my wingspan and they look very sturdy. About two feet over my head is a slightly larger hook with a wider circle. It appears to be anchored down pretty securely, and I’m guessing it’s meant to hold something heavy. There are holes in the wall from where other things once hung, but they’re too big to be nails for picture frames. It’s kind of perplexing.

  I notice that the men have fallen silent behind me, and I turn to look at them. Both are smirking, and I’m wondering what’s so funny.

  “This is a unique feature you’re not going to find in a lot of other places,” Marty says to no one in particular.

  I look back to the hooks and the grid on the ceiling, and soon I’m starting to piece it together. The black walls, the heavy hooks, the bleak, dungeonesque feel of the room—this certainly wasn’t used for sleeping. It’s a playroom, a BDSM playroom. I’ve seen shit like this in James’s movies. The hooks were for shackles, and I can only assume that the grid was for suspending someone with rope or chains.

  “Is this a…playroom?” I timidly ask.

  The guys exchange shit-eating grins and chuckle.

  “It is, isn’t it!” I gasp. “That’s the ‘unique’ feature? A room for kinky sex?”

  James bursts into loud laughter, and I cross the room and give him a playful smack on the arm.

  “Hey, I just figured, since you were in the game, maybe you guys would be looking for a place with some extra ‘amenities’ like this,” Marty says, snickering.

  “We are absolutely not having a playroom in our house!” I decree. “Next house!”

  “But this one’s so nice,” James contests, clearly entertained by my vehement refusal.

  “Next house!” I say, stomping my foot and crossing my arms as my cheeks flush fire truck red.

  “We could always make it a wine cellar,” he adds, pushing his luck.