TURN ME ON

by Kristin Hardy

  "That's pathetic."

  "Give it a chance. This isn't your kind of documentary, Stef. It's mine."

  "Your kind would change topics every five minutes."

  Sabrina's gaze chilled. "Leave your card with Laeticia. I'll e-mail you the details. And Stef?" She paused. "Don't think you know me just because I made the mistake of sleeping with you a long time ago."

  * * *

  4

  « ^ »

  "So what do you think, the green or the cream?" Kelly asked, nibbling on her thumb as she stared at the couches arrayed across the showroom at Civilization.

  Sabrina sat on the cream couch experimentally, running her hand over the woven cotton fabric. "You know me, I'd probably go for the leopard one. You should ask Paige. Or better yet, get her to take you to the Pacific Design Center."

  "Oh yeah, sure." Kelly dropped down beside her. "Paige would blow my budget on a single coffee table, then tell me the way to decorate was to invest in one signature piece at a time. And five years later, I'd actually have a completed living room."

  Sabrina fought a smile. "Well, it's not going to be perfect overnight."

  "I don't want perfect. I just want a room that's not furnished in Early American Garage Sale. You know Cilla offered to let me pick what I wanted from the Danforth home shop at cost," she asked with a grin.

  "Why didn't you take her up on it?"

  "Uh, right. Like I could even afford that at cost."

  Sabrina turned and looked across the room at the array of couches. "What color are you doing the walls in again?"

  "Sage." Kelly handed over the paint chip. "Cream trim. The coffee table's blond wood."

  Sabrina rose and began stalking between the couches, glancing at the chip in her hand.

  Kelly trailed her anxiously. "Just don't do a Paige on me. Nothing in the back three rows."

  "I should get myself some furniture one of these days," Sabrina muttered.

  "Why don't you? What I don't understand is why you live in Venice when you could live anywhere."

  Sabrina shrugged and leaned over to inspect the fabric of a floral couch. "What's wrong with Venice?"

  "Why not Brentwood? Or the Westwood Corridor?"

  "It's not like it's a wreck. I like Venice. I like the canals. It feels right to me."

  "But you've got all of L.A. at your fingertips," Kelly protested.

  "I suppose," Sabrina said absently. "But I'm happy where I am."

  "I wish I could say that."

  "But you've got a great little flat," Sabrina protested, thinking of Kelly's little 1940s courtyard apartment.

  "Sure, if you don't count the triple-X movie theater on the main boulevard."

  "At least you've got entertainment nearby."

  "Sorry, I'll take my porn at home like everyone else, thanks. Anyway, it's not the flat. I just wish the neighborhood were better. Next promotion, I'm moving." She smiled faintly.

  "What about a roommate?"

  Kelly shook her head again, more definitely. "No way. I like living alone. I mean, it was one thing to share a house with all you guys when we were in college, but it's different now. I like my privacy."

  "Are you sure? You could move in with me."

  Kelly nodded. "Naw, I like being able to come home and have wild sex on the kitchen counter if I feel like it. But if you move to Brentwood sometime, you can ask me again."

  "Okay." Sabrina slowed, then walked purposefully to a couch set up next to a distressed armoire. "That one."

  It was an overstuffed sofa in a deep plum, with a slight deco flare to the arms.

  "You're out of your mind. It's a green room. Why would I want to go with purple?"

  "It'll look ravishing, trust me." Sabrina's tone was brisk. "Green is too matchy matchy, cream is boring, slate is predictable. This will be just the bit of shock that you need."

  Kelly frowned. "This isn't one of your bizarre design statements, is it? I don't want bohemian chic, I want something that looks stylish."

  "Trust me," Sabrina said simply and held out the paint chip.

  * * *

  "Okay, a glass of the ten-year tawny and one cosmopolitan," said the waitress. "I'll be right back with your cheese plate."

  They sat at a patio table at Morels in the Grove, watching people walk by. A cross between Disney's Main Street USA and the Mall of America, spiced with a snip of Paris, the Grove had sprung up next to the L.A. Farmers' Market and had quickly become a place to be. Kids loved it for the old-fashioned streetcar that ran down pavement untouched by a car. Parents liked it because it was safe and contained, and full of goodies to buy.

  Sabrina liked it because it held Morels, the only restaurant in town that boasted a cheese list as long as its wine list.

  Sabrina raised her glass of port. "To your new furniture."

  "To you, for helping me choose," Kelly countered, clicking her glass against Sabrina's.

  "The living room's going to look great."

  "I'm actually excited about the kitchen table. I'm just trying not to think about the fact that I just killed my savings account. How in the hell do people make themselves buy houses," she muttered, taking a sip of her drink.

  "Oh, come on, remember your promotion. You should be rolling in it now."

  "I don't know about that, although certainly senior writers make better money than associate editors."

  "There, see? How's the new job going, anyway?"

  Kelly grinned. "Pretty well. I've been getting out on interviews a lot. I just got to report from the set of Matt Ramsay's new film," she said with a gleam in her eye. "Hey, how come you never invite him to any of our parties, anyway? You never even invited him to the drama productions back when we were all at UCLA."

  "Trust me, you don't want to get anywhere near my cousin."

  "What, is he a jerk? You've always talked about him like he's a nice guy."

  "Oh, the nicest. Totally sincere. Fatally." Their waiter set their cheese plate at the table. Sabrina shook her head and reached out to spread Gorgonzola on a slice of brioche. "That's the problem, he's fatally sincere. A woman catches his eye and suddenly he's nuts for her. He's telling everyone who'll listen that she's the one. And the woman, whoever she is, eventually falls for it, because he believes it himself. Then he sees that she's only human and the infatuation wears off. After that, it just gets ugly. He's an incredibly creative and interesting guy in every other way, but I'd never in a million years let anyone I actually liked date him."

  "Sabrina, how long have you known me?"

  Sabrina counted in her head. "Nine years. God, has it really been that long?"

  "Probably. And in all that time, have I ever said anything about looking for true love?"

  "No, but—"

  "Have I?"

  "No."

  "Then what makes you think I'd go all doe-eyed over your cousin?"

  "It's this mind control thing he gets going. You wouldn't mean to, but you wouldn't be able to help it."

  "Trust me, I'd help it." Kelly waved the waiter over and ordered another drink. "Anyway, never mind. I'm not interested in any guy who's going to go all gaga over me anyway. I want a good time, good sex and a hot career. I'd rather stick with the ones who know how the game's played." She waved her hand. "Speaking of games, how's the great American documentary going?"

  "Okay," Sabrina said noncommittally, nibbling on an almond. "So are you going to the premiere?"

  "Don't try to change the subject. Last time I saw you, you were dancing on air over this thing. What, are you having problems now?"

  "No, everything's fine, great."

  Kelly's eyes narrowed fractionally; then she relaxed, glancing over at the dancing water fountain next to the restaurant. "You know, we have known each other a long time," she said, leaning back in her chair and looking at Sabrina. "I don't think I've ever told you, but did you know that every time you lie, there's this little muscle by the corner of your eye that starts to twitch?"

  Sabrina cho
ked on her drink.

  "What's going on, Pantolini? Something's up."

  "Nothing's up."

  "Boy, look at that thing go," Kelly said with enjoyment, and began digging in her purse. "I know I've got a mirror in here somewhere. You oughtta take a look. It's really something."

  Sabrina scowled at her. "I get the idea."

  "So?"

  "I just had some problems lining up a director. Mine bolted for another project before we had him locked in."

  "Are you going to be able to find someone else in time?"

  Sabrina chewed on her lip. "That's where the problem comes in. My uncle Gus came up with someone, which was a good thing since I'd scoured the town and couldn't find anybody."

  "Why do I want to say uh-oh?"

  "It's Stef Costas."

  Kelly blinked at her. "Stef?"

  "Stef."

  "The Greek god? Are you out of your mind?"

  "It's okay, Kelly."

  "Rina, there has to be someone else around. You can't work with this guy. You talk about not letting your friends go near your cousin with a ten-foot pole, what about this?"

  "It's history, Kelly, eight years ago. It's nothing I can't handle," Sabrina muttered.

  "Are you sure of that? Don't forget what he put you through. I haven't. I was the shoulder you cried on."

  And Sabrina would never stop being grateful for it. "I was nineteen then. I've gotten smarter. I can work with the guy without letting old news get in the way."

  Kelly gave her a level look. "I hope you're right."

  "It's business, that's all. If I've learned nothing else since working for Uncle Gus it's that you get the job done, no matter what." Sabrina's voice was shaded with intensity. "You don't let anything get in the way of the job, especially nothing personal."

  "Nothing personal? He broke your heart."

  "Look," Sabrina's voice softened. "I appreciate your being concerned, but it's okay, really. We set some ground rules. He knows I'm in charge."

  "You sure about that? Because it would be a really bad idea to be going into this thinking that you're going to rewrite history or something. Sexual politics never got anyone anywhere."

  "Trust me, the only thing I'm thinking about is getting this pilot done the best way I know how. As far as I'm concerned, Stef Costas is just another person on the set."

  Kelly shook her head. "Sure. And denial is a river in Egypt."

  * * *

  5

  « ^ »

  "So what got you interested in teaching lap dancing?" Sabrina sat on a couch next to a ripe redhead named Cherry Devine, ignoring the lights and the microphone dangling overhead. "I mean, if you teach wives and girlfriends to do this for their significant others, isn't that ultimately going to cut into your clientele?"

  The lush stripper threw her head back and laughed. "Honey, the guys who come to see me are looking for a pro, not someone they really have to deal with." Her red silk robe gaped open with a studied carelessness to display the lingerie—and the soft skin—beneath. The camera angle worked, Sabrina decided, giving a nod to Stef. It made Cherry the sole focus, so that they could edit down to just comments rather than Q and A in postproduction.

  Stef gave a quick hand signal to the cameraman to zoom in just slightly. Black-eyed and intense, his dark hair curling onto the collar of his denim shirt, Stef looked calm and in command. He also looked outrageously sexy, Sabrina thought. Which was something she had to stop noticing, and pronto.

  "How did you wind up in lap dancing?"

  Cherry dangled a cigarette from her fingers with innate theatricality. "I like showing off my body. Being a stripper is one way to make a living at it."

  "It doesn't bother you to be on stage naked with a room full of men watching you?" The question wasn't part of the script, but Sabrina followed her instincts.

  Cherry's laugh was husky and confident. "When I'm up on that stage, I own the room. Every man with a pulse wants me. I'm the one in control." She blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling and glanced appraisingly at Stef. "Being able to get a man hot is the most powerful feeling in the world."

  "So teach us how it's done," Sabrina suggested, resisting the sudden urge to grind her teeth.

  Cherry stood and eased her robe off one shoulder. "It'll be my pleasure."

  The red and gold living room was crowded with the six couples who'd come for her class, as well as the film crew. "Okay, each couple, pull up a chair. Guys, take a seat. Ladies, stand nearby," she said, setting a straight-backed chair in the center of the living room to demonstrate.

  Sabrina moved over by Stef. "Aren't you going to move in with the handheld to get footage on some of these people?" She kept her voice low.

  "In good time."

  "How much time do you think we have?" she asked.

  "Look, if we move around too much now, we're going to draw their attention. Right now, we stay in one place, they'll start relaxing and you can get some good candid footage. Just calm down and let me direct, all right?"

  Sabrina stared at him a moment, then subsided, turning her attention back to Cherry.

  "My usual assistant isn't here," Cherry said, "which means I don't have anyone to demonstrate on. I could use a spare red-blooded male." She rested a hand on the chair back and glanced around the room; then her eyes brightened. "You, big boy," she crooked her finger at Stef, who stood next to his cameraman, Kev. "Have a seat."

  "Sorry, I'm busy," he said tersely.

  "Ooh, I just love masterful men," she cooed, walking up to him to curl her fingers into his shirtfront. "Just give me a few minutes of your time. You don't even have to do anything but sit." She turned, still holding on to his shirt and started to tug him across the room.

  Emotions chased through Sabrina in rapid succession—confusion, shock, dismay, and a surprising spurt of jealousy. "He can't do it," she bit out. "Pick someone else."

  Cherry looked back curiously at Sabrina. Her eyes flickered to Stef and then her gaze sharpened. "Ah." Slowly, the corners of Cherry's mouth drew up into a smile.

  "He can't appear in the footage. He's the director," Sabrina persisted.

  Cherry gave her a glance. "Don't worry, sugar pie, I'll make sure I stay between him and the camera."

  With a glance to make sure Stef was seated, she sashayed over to punch the Play button on the CD player. Rock music filled the room, not the slow bluesy number Sabrina had expected, but something a little faster, with a beat that thudded into her brain. There was something familiar about that beat, she thought. Not too fast, not too slow, it had the beat of…

  It had the beat of sex.

  Cherry turned back to her class. "You've got to have music you can move to. There is no right or wrong, so long as it's sexy to you and your partner, it works." Around the room, here and there, people nodded to the beat. One of the men, who looked like a junior high school principal, reached up and ran a hand down his partner's hip; she leaned back against him with a smile of promise.

  "Thanks Paul, you just handed me the perfect lead-in," Cherry said to him. "I'm sure you all know the basic idea of a lap dance—the dancer is allowed to touch the client, but he's not allowed to touch her. Or him," she added looking around at the men in the room. "Don't think that your job is just to sit there, fellas. We'll have you doing the dances by the end of the lesson." There was a bit of uncomfortable laughter. "By holding back, by not allowing the client to touch you, you turn touching you into the only thing he can think about. That's where the tease comes in."

  Suddenly, she began to move to the beat, the sway of hip and flow of shoulders all the more riveting for the lack of introduction. She shrugged her shoulders and the robe slipped down her arms to a crimson pool at her feet. "The tease and the promise are everything." She ran a hand through Stef's hair as she straddled his lap. "Of course, everyone in the room here is lucky—you'll actually get your dancer to come through on that promise, won't you," she said, looking into Stef's taut face.

  Sabrina c
ould cheerfully have scratched the woman's eyes out. It shouldn't bother her, she told herself, watching Cherry slide around on Stef while a roomful of people eyed them avidly. It didn't matter to her what he did. She was over him.

  She had to be.

  Eventually, Cherry finished and Sabrina's jaw loosened. The stripper threw Sabrina a grin and then addressed her class. "All right, ladies, listen to the music. Now just stand in front of your man and touch yourself. Run your hands down your hips, up your arms, or anywhere else you'd like to," she said, demonstrating. "Get yourself turned on and get him thinking about touching you—because he can't, and you want him to want it more than he's ever wanted anything. You want to blow the top of his head off."

  Sabrina looked around the room as Stef rose to return to directing.

  "Did you have fun?" she asked, just a bit of bite in her voice.

  "Did I have a choice?" he returned. "You're running this shoot, why didn't you pull her off?"

  "Weren't you the one who always said you never did anything you didn't choose to?"

  "You want to last in this business, you learn to cooperate."

  A woman could drown in those black eyes, she thought. But not her. "Great. Then how about if you start by getting some footage with a handheld?"

  "Not now."

  "Oh, really. If not now, when?"

  "When they stop looking around at one another. You go with how it feels." He shrugged. "Maybe in a little while. Maybe never."

  "Thanks for being so precise."

  "Maybe when you stop drawing attention to us by talking."

  "It's not like they don't know we're here," Kev murmured from behind Stef. "Let's see if we can blend in. Sabrina, maybe if you move around the room and let them start talking to you, it'll get things going."

  With his jeans, T-shirt and untidily cropped hair, Kev looked like someone's kid brother, but there was a casual efficiency to his motions that spoke of long experience. He might have a point, Sabrina acknowledged. She wondered if it said something about her character that it was easier to take suggestions from him than from Stef.