Femme Faux Fatale

by Susan Laine

  “Nah. She never made it in the industry. She did a few commercials and some voice work. But nothing major. It kind of broke her spirit, you know.” Cain grew quiet and serious, his brow furrowed, and the ambience took on a somber note. Riley empathized. No place on earth could crush dreams like Hollywood. “Then she got addicted to drugs—first marijuana, then cocaine.”

  Riley gasped, whirling on the seat to face Cain. “Oh my God. That’s horrible. Is she…?”

  Cain waved his hand about vaguely. “Nah. She’s okay. My dad’s pretty meek and docile in everything, you see, and he lets my mom get away with murder. Except this. He saw cocaine as a gateway drug, so he made a judgment call and gave her two options: she could have a life with him elsewhere or live alone in LA with her drugs. He really put his foot down. I was so proud of him for taking a stand against her obsessive addiction.”

  “What happened?” Riley sat on the edge of his seat, leaning in, curious to learn more. He hadn’t had enough information to picture any sort of background for Cain. This window into his past was priceless to Riley.

  “They moved to Florida six years ago,” Cain said. “I stayed because I’d built a life and a business here. We still Skype all the time. My mom’s in Narcotics Anonymous and doing better. She’s even got a job now as a freelance audiobook narrator. They’re all the rage these days, so that’s good.”

  “That’s wonderful. I’m so glad they’re both okay. Drugs can be a hard habit to break.”

  Cain gave him an odd look with narrowed eyes. “Speaking from personal experience?”

  “No. My only vices are sequined dresses and superhigh heels.”

  “Don’t forget those lacy undies of yours.” Cain waggled his eyebrows, and Riley burst out laughing.

  Despite his mirth, though, Riley observed that Cain had talked about his family but not much about himself. So he decided to probe a little. “You always wanted to be a private dick?”

  “Better than being a public dick, isn’t that right?” Cain deadpanned. Riley couldn’t keep a straight face. That brought out a grin on Cain’s face. “To answer your question, through my dad I witnessed the humdrum life this town had to offer and through my mom the glittering facade and rotten decadence hiding behind it. The parties and their cost. I didn’t really feel a desire to be a part of either world, so I found the middle road.”

  “How very Buddhist of you.”

  “I’m an atheist with agnostic inclinations. There’s some things we’re not meant to know or understand. Not in this life anyway. But I do believe in karma and the wages of sin, so to speak. I think there has to be justice to restore balance and a price to pay for crimes. I’m a firm supporter of basic human rights and equality for everyone, and of personal liberties free from government control.”

  “That says a lot about you,” Riley mused out loud. With every new word Cain proved to Riley that he was the man Riley had envisioned, a hero walking down darkened back alleys and smoky nightclubs. An antihero.

  “You couldn’t tell that from the start?” Cain jested. Rare flashes of humor that brightened Riley’s day.

  “I’m not good at reading people.”

  “That’s not true. For example, you saw right through Camille’s disguise.”

  Riley frowned, pensive. “I hope she’s not evil but just misguided by greed.” Then he shook his head, annoyed but trying to downplay it. “You’re deflecting. Once again you expertly divert the subject away from you. If you don’t want to tell me anything about yourself, just say so.”

  Cain shifted on the seat, discomfort evident in his fidgety movements. “I’ve never really had heart-to-hearts with the guys I’ve slept with. It was more, like, that was nice, let’s do it again sometime, bye-bye now, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

  Riley nodded, reluctantly admitting that it was easier to talk about other people than oneself. Opening up with new people was always a risk, sometimes quite literally life-threatening. “It’s not something I like either, you know. People take one look at me and think they know me.”

  “The dressing up, you mean?”

  “Yes, and the job. They make false assumptions about my lifestyle, my identity, sexuality, preferred positions, every damn thing under the sun. It’s aggravating and tiring. The worst, though, are the subtler slurs, like saying they’re amazed I can get away with wearing that dress or using that makeup, or that I’m really pretty… for a guy, or how they don’t even see me as a guy anymore, or how they always wanted to get with a he-she. Some actually think they’re being kind and polite and giving compliments. It’s subtle and yet so in-your-face.”

  Cain nodded. “Hollywood and America are riddled with covert prejudice. People don’t even realize it sometimes and think they’re saying the right thing, being open-minded or liberal.”

  Riley was pleased and relieved that Cain understood, despite him being a regular sort of white dude with no freakiness in his demeanor or appearance. From that inconspicuousness, a man might stand out courageously against wrongs or cower to blend in with so-called normal people.

  Riley was well aware his thoughts weren’t particularly PC or fair to Cain, but that was how he felt. The country was ruled by angry, idiotic, greedy white men at the moment, and things were going downhill so fast it felt like the land was being sucked into a black hole. The progress of time sure seemed to have ground to a halt.

  “But I digress,” Cain proclaimed with a bashful, lopsided smile. “What would you like to know about me? You already know my measurements.”

  Riley blushed. “I do at that. Say anything that comes to mind.” He stood, undressed, and sat down on the piano chair without a stitch on. Warm black velvet welcomed his naked backside. Only then did he start to play.

  Cain chuckled in surprise and catcalled behind him. “That’s new.”

  Riley snickered as he laid his fingertips on the keys. “I like to play the piano naked.”

  “Why?” Cain sounded more curious than lecherous, and Riley appreciated the hell out of it. A seduction didn’t have to involve blatant sexual innuendo, after all.

  Riley shrugged. “I don’t know. It just feels good. Raw and honest.”

  The keys chimed to the familiar rhythm of a slow blues tune, “Black Coffee” by Ella Fitzgerald. Riley sang the lyrics—but changed a word here and another there to match his present company. No mention of drink, but pixie sticks; no coffee, but toffee; not pour, but gorge, and so on. He’d learned Cain ate sweets due to his physical condition so… a gentle jab at his expense.

  Cain seemed to get the inside joke, and he laughed huskily with each word that referenced him. “You’re a little devil, aren’t you? A wicked imp.”

  Riley glanced over his shoulder and winked at his lover, fully understanding where the two of them were headed. If not into a relationship, just yet anyway, then directly to bed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I LOVE your voice,” Cain purred at Riley once they stood at the foot of Riley’s queen-size bed, Riley back in his clothes, though sans underwear, so that Cain could have the pleasure of stripping him at his leisure. “When you sang “Black Coffee”—sorry, Toffee—I was so close I damn near came in my pants.”

  Riley blushed at the inference. He definitely appreciated Cain’s bluntness in the bedroom. “I like that.” He leisurely pulled Cain’s rumpled tie from around his neck. “And I really like guys in ties. It’s like a fetish. Almost.”

  Cain quirked an eyebrow. “Ties, huh? In what context? Businessmen in suits?”

  “Nope. A hunk with a tie on—and nothing else.”

  Cain laughed so hard he shook from the force of it. “Well, I’m happy to oblige any and all kinks you might have, as long as they include me and only me. I’m not into three-ways.”

  Riley unbuttoned Cain’s dress shirt, getting whiffs of his spicy cologne as new patches of his skin were revealed. “You speak from personal experience?”

  “Yes.” Cain met Riley’s gaze, level and c
ool. “While I don’t recommend it for everyone, a threesome has its perks. And… its downsides.” He grimaced, piquing Riley’s curiosity. “Talking about limits is really important. I… I wasn’t clear about mine, so the whole experience was… more of an ordeal.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Riley pushed Cain’s shirt off his shoulders and down his arms till it fell to the floor, pooling at his feet with a soft thump. “I’ve never done that. But it’s been suggested to me. On more than one occasion, actually.”

  Cain harrumphed dryly. “Huh. Let me guess. They see the dress and expect you to bottom for them and all their bros six ways from Sunday.”

  “That about sums it up, yes.” Riley smiled. Cain understanding the kind of shit Riley faced each and every damn day gave him warm fuzzies. His belly fluttered with butterflies. God, it’d been ages since he’d last felt like this. He’d almost forgotten. “In any case, have no fear. I don’t intend to share you with anyone, in or out of bed.”

  Cain smirked. “Right back at you, darlin’.” He glanced at the walls around him and hummed with curiosity, evident from a quirked eyebrow. “Your bedroom’s different from the rest of your place. Are those by you?”

  Riley cast a look around the room. Unlike the rest of his spartan apartment, his bedroom was his sanctuary and special place. The wallpaper had lavender-and-mint-hued polka dots, the bedding was violet with mint-colored music notes, and the old-fashioned vanity was made of cherrywood.

  On the wall above the headboard hung three posters of fifties-style pinup girls, all half-clad or virtually naked. Their poses were provocative and sensual, the colors vibrant and lush, and the artistic style detailed and talented.

  “No, I didn’t paint those, silly boy. They’re by Olivia De Berardinis. She’s my absolute favorite artist. They’re from her cheesecake line. Three of them are even signed personally by her. Worth every penny. I own three of her books—Let Them Eat Cheesecake, Cheesecake Chronicles #1, and Malibu Cheesecake—and I’m saving up for The Great American Pin-Up, though that one’s not specifically about Olivia’s art alone.”

  As Cain studied the posters, his hands still over Riley’s hips, Riley looked at the images too, loving the look of them, as he’d done from the beginning.

  “That one’s called Tapioca.”

  Riley pointed at a poster where a voluptuous girl lay on her side on a bed with white sheets and pillows, wearing a white silk corset, black silk stockings, and a black transparent mask. She held a long pinkish-white ribbon casually above her blonde curls, and two cats lay curled up beside her. On the bed and on her leg rested several theatrical masks.

  “Why?” Cain asked, seemingly baffled. The picture had no tapioca in it.

  Riley giggled. “All the cheesecake pictures refer to food. That one’s Sugar.”

  Against a backdrop of black velvet, a curvaceous blonde, wearing nothing but a garter belt, silk stockings, and silk gloves, looked up at the viewer from a hands-and-knees position. Her slight, almost nonexistent smile was inviting, her ice-blue eyes serving in stark contrast but no less warm. Her apple-shaped behind was featured prominently in the picture, and that was one of the reasons Riley adored it.

  Cain snorted. “No sugar in there.” Then he grinned and winked. “Or is there…?”

  Riley laughed, blushing. “And that one’s…. Taffy.”

  The last image over the headboard depicted a platinum blonde lying on her back against a white background, her bare breasts in full view, and her legs in see-through, light-brown stockings pointed straight up at the sky in a V-shape, high heels on her feet that had dark pink bows on them. Her lips, painted startlingly red, were parted, and her bedroom-eyes beckoned the onlooker to taste her sweets.

  Cain smirked at Riley, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Is this what you were thinking of when you sang that song for me?”

  Riley shook his head, puffing out a laugh. “As much as I love pin-ups and the classic themes they portray, I assure you I wasn’t imagining women in any way, shape, or form. You’re enough fuel for my smutty imagination.”

  “Good to know.” Cain’s gaze seemed appreciative as he studied Riley, who tried not to fuss and fidget. “I’m not into the ladies myself, but I like pin-ups too. I read a lot of pulp fiction, which has a similar feel, both dating back to the same era. Roughly.”

  Riley nodded. “I know. I saw a bunch of books on your shelves.”

  Cain offered a lopsided smile that seemed a bit embarrassed too. “Yeah, I’ve got a ton of that stuff, collected over the years from every bookstore, secondhand shop, and street vendor I’ve come across. Dime detectives and gangsters, short stories with monsters or spaceships, penny dreadfuls and outer world horror, occult tales with witches and curses, cheap homoerotica, and so on. I’ve read it all. It’s my preferred genre.”

  Riley grinned. “I can see that. You embody the characteristics of those antiheroes. Is that the effect you were going for? A lot of gumshoes in pulp fiction to idolize and emulate.”

  Cain quirked an eyebrow. Riley couldn’t tell if he was being serious or joking. “I’m like, what, Humphrey Bogart in his heyday as Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe?”

  Riley beamed, pleased that Cain knew what he was referencing without having to explain every detail. “You two do kind of evoke the same feeling in me. The noir hero—”

  “And the femme fatale?” Cain jested.

  Riley snickered and rolled his eyes. “Anyway… why do you like pulp so much?”

  Cain shrugged. “It covers every genre under the sun. Whatever story you can imagine, you can probably read about it between those floppy covers. And no matter what the topic is in a story, they’re good old-fashioned adventures, you know. Always made me feel like a daring explorer, discovering strange things and fighting evil. Like a hero. It was very appealing to teenage me, as it would to any young man in search of ways to have fun and play with danger.”

  Riley nodded eagerly. “I remember feeling something similar. Except in those visions of me having wild adventures… I was the heroine. Or at least the hero in a less macho manner, if you get my meaning.”

  Cain gave him a cursory once-over. “How often were you the bad chick instead of the lady of virtue and integrity?”

  Riley blushed. He liked how Cain teased him, as if he’d done it for years instead of a few days and hours. Cain apparently felt comfortable doing so, and Riley didn’t want that to change. “No comment.”

  Cain chuckled. “Aww, no heartfelt confessions of dirty little secrets? I’m disappointed.”

  “You first, and I promise I’ll follow.”

  Cain shrugged. “Maybe later.” While Riley was attracted to Cain’s mysterious reticence, he was brimming with questions. Yet he held back and listened to Cain’s low, soothing voice that spoke of serenity in the shadows.

  “After I grew up,” Cain went on, “I began to see the other side of pulp fiction.”

  “Oh?” Riley was intrigued. He’d totally forgotten they were supposed to sleep together. A rare insight into Cain’s way of thinking was an opportunity Riley didn’t want to miss.

  “As an adult I loved how the heroes were flawed. They could drink, smoke, lose in a fight, or fall for fatal women. In short, they were allowed to be imperfect. That was such a positive way of looking at heroes. I mean, when you grow up and start making your own way in life, you start to realize that things are more complicated than you anticipated, that you don’t have all the answers like you assumed as a teenager, and that reality can be brutal, wearing you down. As a man, society expects you to be a certain way—strong, capable, smart, ambitious, and so on. But pulp fiction gave a hero permission to be different—lazy, addicted, weak, emotional, all that—and still manage to save the day. What’s not to love?”

  Riley blew out a breath. “Wow. I’ve never thought of it that way. Perhaps I was too focused on the femmes fatale to notice. But now that you mention it, yeah, it makes a lot of sense.”

  Cain smiled lopsidedly. “The facade of
stoicism kind of threw me for a long time too.” His eyes narrowed, and Riley gulped. He felt like Cain could see into his very soul. “Why do you like pin-ups? You’re not a girl. Not really. No offense.”

  At first Riley bristled. But his flaring temper soon subsided. Cain was not trying to offend him but note a physical fact. “I don’t want to be a girl. I just like some girly things.” He glanced at the familiar posters on the wall. “Pin-ups are stunning. The girls are so pretty. They’re smartass, sexy, audacious, and glamorous.”

  “You like male pin-ups too?” Cain cut in softly, a flicker of a smile gracing his lips.

  Riley scrunched his nose. “Sort of. Not as much. But they have their time and place too, I suppose. Did you know that pin-ups originated from the world of burlesque in the late nineteenth century?”

  Cain whistled and shook his head. “No, I had no idea.”

  “Burlesque starlets used photos to advertise their shows, sort of like handing out business cards. See, even early on new technologies were used to show some skin.” Riley frowned as he thought about the results of decisions made so long ago. “I suppose that paved the way for society to view the female form, often oversexualized, as public property, an object to be owned by men. Kind of sad, really, when that wasn’t the intended outcome. Those girls were just trying to earn a buck, and visibility was—and is—important for their line of work.”

  Cain nodded. “Sex symbols are hardly a modern invention.”

  Riley sighed. “I guess that’s true. Perhaps it was that side of things that influenced my way of seeing pin-ups. They can come in many forms, but I seem to prefer them as paintings instead of photos. That way no one is victimized in real life. Plus, Olivia is a wonderful artist. She really has an eye for cheesecake photos, as pin-ups are sometimes called.”

  Cain snickered. “Are they, now? Well, most pin-ups, even the male ones, are scrumptious. As for burlesque, I know very little about it at the end of the day.”

  Riley grinned. “But you liked what you saw, surely?”