That Man 2

by Nelle L’Amour

  Room service arrived. I checked my phone. Still no response from Jennifer. After a few bites of my steak, I took a quick shower and went straight to sleep. I was too despondent to jerk myself off.

  *

  Monday morning, bright and early, Vera picked me up in her red Mustang convertible. Driving at eighty miles an hour, we were out of Vegas in no time, cruising down a newly built highway. At this hour, there were hardly any cars on the road. Vera was taking me to a remote area where many of our shows had set up production. The already warm dry desert wind blew against my face while I soaked in the scenery. I’d never actually been out of Vegas before and was in awe of the beauty of the desert wildlife and rocky terrain. The next frontier, I mused. It was only a matter of time until someone like Steve Wynn laid his stake in this virgin ground and built a brand new strip of luxury hotels and casinos.

  “How’s your son doing?” I asked Vera.

  “Much better.” She smiled. “I thought he was coming down with the flu but it turned out to be just a twenty-four-hour bug.”

  “That’s lucky. I had that flu last week and it sucked.” The memory of Jennifer coming to my apartment and taking care of me flashed into my head. Despite the pleasant temperature, it sent a shiver straight to my dick.

  “Kids are such a joy, but they come with so much responsibility. Being a parent is the hardest job you’ll ever love,” she added with a laugh.

  “I wouldn’t know.” And, at the rate my love life was going, I might never know. Jennifer, however, was marrying that dweeb dentist Bradley, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she had a family before long. That fucking anal Dickwick probably had things all planned out. I inwardly groaned. Operation Dickwick was sadly at a standstill.

  About a half an hour into the ride, my cell phone buzzed. A text. Holding it in my hand, I quickly checked whom it was from. My heartbeat quickened. It was from Jennifer. Two cold little letters responding to my text from last night: ok. My heart sank. She didn’t even fucking take the time to capitalize the “o.” So much of me was hoping she would have written something like: Looking forward to seeing you on Tuesday. That and a little xo.

  With Jennifer on my mind and in my heart, I told Vera about her idea for a daytime block targeted at women as well as about the focus groups and erotica book signing. Keeping her eyes on the road, she listened intently. When I was done, she repeated verbatim the words my father had used, “Mommy porn. That’s fucking brilliant.”

  I could trust Vera. She was my favorite affiliate manager. In her late thirties, she was strong yet compassionate and didn’t take shit from anyone. Raised by her single-parent mother, an abusive drug-addicted showgirl, she’d managed to get both a college degree and business degree. She was married to a great guy who designed neon signs for Vegas hotels. Tall, blond, and beautiful, she reminded me in many ways of Gloria Zander. I admired her greatly, like I did Gloria.

  “Your new development girl sounds like a rare find,” commented Vera as we came upon what looked like a studio in the middle of the desert.

  “She is,” I breathed.

  For the first time on our drive, Vera turned her head to look at me. “Blake Burns, I detect some feelings in your voice.” She gave me a knowing smile. “Do you more than like her?”

  I let out a loud exasperated sigh. “Yeah, I do. I’ve never met anyone like her before.”

  “So what’s stopping you, Blake? You know Conquest is pretty liberal when it comes to interoffice affairs.”

  “She doesn’t trust me.”

  Vera laughed lightly. “Well, Mr. Hook-Up, I can understand that.”

  I scowled, but she had a point. “It’s more than that. She’s engaged.”

  I expected her eyes to shoot up, but they didn’t. Instead, she smiled warmly. “I never told you this, but I was engaged when I met Steve.”

  “Really?” Steve was her beloved husband.

  “Yup. It was love at first sight. It took me a bit, but I broke off my engagement with my fiancé whom I realized was not the right man for me. I’ve never looked back.”

  My heartbeat sped up, in a good way. Vera had instilled in me some guarded optimism. Hope. Maybe, Jennifer did have feelings for me, but didn’t know to handle them. I mean, at times the electricity between the two of us was palpable. Sparks had flown in the air we breathed. I just needed to figure out how to prove that I was better for her than fucking Dickwick. I thought back to Jaime Zander’s words of wisdom. I needed to romance her. Shower her with compliments. Buy her presents. I bet the cheapskate bought her bubkus. I mean, that ring was a total joke. I immediately called my secretary, Mrs. Cho, and asked her to arrange a flower delivery to Jennifer McCoy. A dozen red roses with a note from me. Thanks for a great job—Blake But before hanging up, I had an even better idea. I told Mrs. Cho to instead call my mother’s exotic florist and have a large flowering cactus plant delivered to Jennifer’s office. So much more fitting. Phallic. And symbolic. And it would last a lot longer than the roses if Jennifer took proper care of it. Maybe forever.

  Vera smiled warmly. “You’re very good, Blake. Don’t lose hope.”

  “Thanks,” I said as she pulled into the parking lot of the studio. “What show is this?”

  “Private Dick.” Great. My favorite show on our schedule. I loved the lead character. Oral Covert, the detective with the twelve-inch dick. My mind flashed back to the time Jennifer watched it with me in my office and told me it was vomiticious. Her made up word. I laughed silently. And then my cock twitched. Eureka! I just had to prove to her that Dickwick was vomiticious. Yes, it was as simple as that. My father always said, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” Whatever it took, I was going to find a way. My silent laugh grew evil.

  *

  The filming of Private Dick bored the shit out of me. I had no patience for the constant takes and retakes. Rod Hammer, the actor who played Oral, kept forgetting his lines and lost his erection every time the show went down. Everyone on the set had to sit around while he thumbed through a girlie magazine to get it back up. Jesus Christ. So much for America’s most popular porn star and hero to millions. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Pussy Amour, who played the hooker, Daisy, Oral’s on and off love interest, was a bull dyke who kept complaining about her co-star’s bad breath. In a rage, she threatened the producer, Eddie Falcon, she was going quit if Rod didn’t start using mouthwash.

  Jennifer had been right. This show was vomiticious. While I’d never had a problem before, I could now barely watch it being filmed. It lacked heart and soul. Just two fucking morons who in real life hated each other. Where was the romance?

  The scene that was being shot was particularly challenging for Oral. They didn’t call the character Oral for nothing. The private eye’s favorite way of coming was in Daisy’s mouth. But this scene called for him to come between her planet-sized tits in her heart-shaped, satin-sheeted bed. He had to take the globes in his hands and rub them against his foot-long cock. His “big gun,” as he called it. Both stars were on their knees facing each other.

  “You’re hurting me, you fucking asshole!” screamed Daisy.

  “Shut up, you fucking dyke!”

  “Cut!” screamed Eddie. Neither line was in the script.

  Finally, after ten takes, two breaks, and one walk off the set, Oral managed to explode between Daisy’s chesticles. Cum poured down her torso as she arched her head back. The expression on her face was one of pure torture, but those watching the show would think she was in heaven.

  “That’s a wrap!” shouted Eddie with relief.

  Thank God.

  While the two actors stormed off the set, Eddie sauntered up to Vera and me. He cracked a smile and gave me a manly pat on the back. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Blake. How’s it going?”

  “Great.” Get me the fuck out of here.

  “I’m really digging Vegas. The town’s got so much talent.”

  “It depends on what you call talent,” I snickered. Vera bit her lip
to stifle a laugh.

  “Hey, I’m about to have a meeting with a very talented director. I’d love for you to meet him. He’s waiting in my office.”

  Against my better judgment, I agreed to join him. Vera and I followed Eddie to his small office behind the set.

  “Blake, I’d like you to meet—”

  I could feel my face blaze with rage. My fists clenched so tightly my knuckles turned white. Gritting my teeth, I cut Eddie off.

  “Get the fuck out of here. Or I’ll kill you.”

  It was the fucking lowlife bastard. Don Springer. His face turned as fire-red as mine.

  “Blake!” gasped Vera. Eddie remained speechless, his mouth agape.

  “Vera, I’ll explain later.”

  Springer leapt to his feet and stomped over to me. He was in my face. His fetid breath heated my cheeks. I couldn’t bear sharing the air he breathed. It took all my willpower not to throw him out the door. And to keep my heart from beating out of my chest and exploding in his ugly face.

  “Fuck you, Burns. You’re going to pay big time.” He spat at me and then stalked out of Eddie’s office.

  “I never want to see this man again anywhere on or near this set,” I barked at Eddie while Vera grabbed a tissue from her purse and wiped the prick’s spit off my chin.

  Cowering, Eddie nodded. “Got it, boss.”

  “You call me if he comes back.” Looping my arm through Vera’s, I led her out of Eddie’s office.

  “Jesus. What the fuck was that all about? That was Don Springer, right? The producer of Wheel of Pain.”

  I nodded as we headed back to her car. “That fucking bastard almost raped Jennifer on the set of Wheel.” All the pain of that night seeped into my veins as I retold the horrific story.

  “Oh my God!” gasped Vera, clasping her free hand to her mouth.

  “If I hadn’t gotten there when I did, God knows what he would have done to her. I cancelled the show and fired him on the spot.”

  “That was the right thing to do. The only thing to do.”

  “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you this earlier. I should have sent an e-mail out to everyone. With my flu last week, a lot of things went by the wayside.”

  “Blake, don’t worry about it. Shit happens.”

  “I’ve made it so he never works in LA again.”

  “I have a lot of power in Vegas. I’m going to make sure that asshole never works in this town either.”

  I gave her a peck on the cheek. “Thanks, Vera. You’re the best.”

  She broke into a smile. “Now, Superman, go save your relationship.”

  Chapter 11

  Blake

  At six in the evening, I caught my flight back to Los Angeles. Actually, I was flying into Burbank, a small retro airport located in the Valley not far from Dickwick’s office. While LAX, LA’s main airport, was much closer to my condo, I was unable to book my last minute flights from there. Not a big deal though I hated being in The Valley.

  Sitting in first class, I was still reeling from my encounter with Springer. The fucking, fucking bastard. At least, he was now based in Las Vegas, far enough away from Jennifer. My need to protect her was fierce. It brought out a killer instinct I never knew I had. Heaven help the man who hurt her. Move over Superman, Batman, and Ironman. Thatman, my new alter ego, would cut his fucking balls off!

  Knowing she was safe, my mind wandered. I wondered if she’d received my cactus plant. I was disappointed she hadn’t e-mailed or texted me to thank me. Maybe she thought it was some kind of ruse. Or she didn’t like cactus. Or she’d never gotten it. Nah. I could count on my mother’s florist. Especially since she spent tens of thousands of dollars with him during the year—purchasing flowers for both our house and her many charitable galas.

  I ordered a beer from the flight attendant. Savoring it, I pondered how I was going to prove that Jen’s fiancé, Bradley Wick, DDS, was vomiticious. Totally not the right person for my tiger. Phase Three of Operation Dickwick was officially in effect. Hopefully, it would be the last.

  Damn. Not one breakthrough idea. Almost as fast as we were up in the air, we were back down. The flight to Burbank was only forty-five minutes. We encountered no problems. Upon landing, I called for my car. I’d parked it with the valet. It was actually simpler than taking a cab, and plus, I got a free car wash.

  The night was warm. Man, it was like we were having an endless summer while everyone in the rest of the country was freezing their asses off. My sparkling clean Porsche came around quickly. Pleased, I hopped into it and sped off.

  Only minutes into the ride home, my stomach rumbled. I was starving. During Vera’s whirlwind tour of our Vegas productions, I hadn’t eaten a thing. I drove by one crap fast-food joint after another and then remembered a decent place where I could grab a bite to eat. The Smokehouse.

  I hadn’t been to the Smokehouse in Burbank in ages. In fact, I’d only been here once before with my father. Around since the 1940s, it was very old school—big red leather booths, a meat-and-potatoes menu, and old-fashioned drinks. It was a haven for Hollywood old-timers. Especially those looking for a good fuck. It was no secret that hookers patrolled the bar looking for a well-paying lay.

  For me, it was a sociological experience. Seated at my own dimly lit booth, I surveyed the gray hairs in garish polyester jackets looking to get some pussy, I wondered—would this be me in twenty years? I already had a couple of pre-mature grays, a gene I’d inherited from my silver-haired father. There was something pathetic about an older man trolling bars and looking for a hook-up. Maybe that’s why my old man took me here—to show me how my life could turn out if I didn’t settle down.

  A waitress came by and asked for my order. She came with the territory—sexy but cheap-looking with a pile of brassy hair and boobs that could create a new bra size—double X. Strangely, she didn’t turn me on, despite her seductive ways. I ordered another beer—a Coors, the only one on tap—and a cheeseburger with fries. My mind was focused solely on my dilemma—Jennifer McCoy. I was crazy about her. But I fucking didn’t know how to handle it. Why couldn’t she see her douchebag fiancé was all wrong for her? And why couldn’t I prove it?

  The chesty waitress came by quickly with my beer. Over a gulpful, I considered my next move. Maybe it was time to tell Jennifer I was the man she’d kissed in that game of Truth or Dare. Maybe, that would shake things up. Or screw things up. Frustrated, I slammed the mug back on the table and flipped open the copy of The Hollywood Reporter I’d brought along to entertain myself. Burying my eyes in the trade magazine, I caught up on the latest show biz goings-on. To my surprise, there was a small article about the cancellation of Wheel of Pain. News traveled fast in this town. Fucking Don Springer. Every muscle in my body tensed. If I ever saw that fucking bastard again . . .

  My thought was cut short when a familiar scent assaulted me. I’m not talking barbecued beans. A powerful, cloying odor that nauseated me. Scrunching my face, I remembered where I’d encountered that smell. How could I forget? At the office of Bradley Wick, DDS. It was the vomiticious saccharine scent of his dental hygienist, Candace.

  I glanced up from The Reporter and couldn’t believe my eyes. Holy shit! There she was brushing past my table. All 36-24-36 of her packaged in the tightest, shortest mini skirt I’d ever seen and anchored in six-inch high heels. And she was dangling like a piece of jewelry on the arm of a man. Holy fucking shit! Bradley Wick, DDS. Dickwick. I took a quick gulp of my beer and almost gagged. He was out of his white lab coat and in his douchebag uniform—a poorly fitting navy blazer and two-inches too short khakis. D-cup Candace towered over him, but he wore her proudly as if she was a gold Rolex. I’m sure neither of them saw me. For sure, they would have stopped. They were too wrapped up with each other. But I had to be careful. Setting my mug back down on the table, I quickly lowered the baseball cap I was still wearing so they wouldn’t recognize me and flipped on my shades. Move over Oral Covert, Private Dick. I was now Blake Burns, Secret Under
cover Agent. The final phase of Operation Dickwick was now in full force. I was going to take him down.

  I took another glug of the beer and watched stealthily as they slid side by side into a leather booth. Faster than I could say, “Busted,” he was all over her, mouthing, fisting, and groping. What a fucking lowlife. Prickwick! Did Jennifer know her fucking fiancé was cheating behind her back? Boinking his sexy hygienist?

  A light bulb lit up in my brain. I swear I could hear and see it ping the way they do in comic books. This had to be fate, meant to be. Jaime Zander’s words flashed in my head. Eliminate the competition. Not wasting a second, I grabbed my cell phone and squatted below the table just so my eyes were above the surface. Aiming the phone at the amorous couple, I thumbed the camera icon, and adjusted the setting to “video.” I tapped the screen and began recording Dickwick’s little oral care session. My lips curled into a wicked smile. I was getting it all—their heated embrace, with lover boy’s greedy little hands all over Candy-girl. Too bad, I was too far away to pick up any sound. But it was obvious; they were panting into each other’s mouths, moaning, and groaning. It was the best adult entertainment I’d witnessed in years. Better than anything I’d ever seen on SIN-TV. Then the show ended. A waitress came by to take their order and they abruptly parted. Slightly embarrassed, Dickwick dabbed his slimy lips with a napkin. Hot lips, however, continued to nibble his neck. I stopped recording. I had everything I needed. Hastily, I dug my hands into my pocket for my wallet and slapped a hundred dollar bill onto the table. Though I’d never gotten my cheeseburger, this meal was worth every penny. In a flash, I was out of there, my phone secure in my hand.

  Jennifer needed to know what a two-timing prick her future husband was. She was a nice girl. She deserved better. Someone who would fuck her brains out, not fuck with her brains. Someone who would be faithful and cherish her forever. Someone like me.

  Seated in my Porsche that happened to be parked next to Bradley’s Prius, I signed into one of my many bogus gmail accounts—charles­palmer­the­third@­gmail.­com. The name sounded important and distinguished. I always got a quick response back from customer service whenever I used it.