Remember Me

by L'Amour, Nelle

  Finn tweaks my sensitive nipples, cutting into my mental exposé. “Skye, baby, you’ve got to stop working so hard. Whatever story you’re working on, let go of it.”

  So erotically charged by my husband, I arch my back and moan, managing a few words. “I can’t. It’s too important.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I can’t tell you yet.” Nicole swore me to secrecy. I haven’t even told my boss about it though I will have to. I’m not sure what he’ll think. Sheldon’s production company, Greenlight Entertainment, is a major supplier to Conquest Broadcasting. Best known for the long-running series, Criminal Justice and its various spinoffs set in gritty cities from coast to coast. Dominating the network’s prime time line up, the highly rated franchise has earned Conquest billions of dollars in advertising revenue.

  Since the meeting with Nicole, I’ve interviewed other victims—including Zoey Taylor, the star of Conquest’s hit comedy, Perfect 10 and wife of action star Brandon Taylor—who told me Sheldon Greenberg squeezed her ass and masturbated in front of her when she was working as a masseuse. While I have numerous allegations of this sort, running the gamut from sexual come-ons to making victims take showers with him, the key is getting concrete evidence. Tomorrow. Fingers crossed. Until then, it’s he said, she said. Nothing that can be taken to court.

  Finn continues to play with my breasts. “Baby, I’m worried about you. You’ve been so distracted lately.”

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “The story is close to home. It’s personal to me.”

  “You need to be closer to home. To us. Maybe it’s time to get a desk job. It’s too damn risky being in the field.”

  He nuzzles my neck, his day-old stubble brushing against my flesh as I process his words. He’s even urged me to quit my job and stay home ever since our life changed drastically nine months ago. Heated arguments have ensued, straining our marriage. But I can’t. Uncovering the truth is in my blood. I need to be in the field as much as he needs to be in a studio. My stories are his paintings; my words, his brush strokes.

  My breathtaking husband is an artist—a painter—but his creative talent extends from a canvas to a mattress. From his studio to our bedroom. So gifted. And he himself is a work of art, with his sculpted, hard as marble body and chiseled face that looks as if an Italian master crafted it. Deftly, he slides a hand down my torso and puts two long, skilled fingers between my legs, coaxing me to spread them. Still tweaking a nipple, he begins to rub my hypersensitive bud. I wriggle and moan louder as he works it harder and faster. Succumbing to his touch, I feel the beginnings of an orgasm crashing through me. The intense pressure building and building. All I can think about is my release. Finn knows how to push all my buttons. God, does he!

  “Jesus, Skye. The only thing you’re close to is coming all over my fingers.”

  He’s right. Then, just as I’m about to combust, he yanks me down the bed by my ankles and throws my legs over his shoulders. Still working my clit, he puts his erection—that spectacular cock of his—to my entrance and plunges it inside. While I’m used to his size, I groan nonetheless—partly from the shock of it and partly from the pleasure of it. He pummels me, and I feverishly meet his every powerful thrust.

  “Oh, fuck, baby,” he grunts.

  “I’m going to come,” I breathe out, my voice a mere rasp, my body on fire.

  “Not yet. Hold on, baby.”

  As the flames of my arousal consume me, I do all I can to prolong my release and come with him. Despite all that’s on my mind, I’m in the moment. Then, boom! As he explodes inside me, I fall apart and convulse all around him. The quasi-musical sounds of our ecstasy mingle and are joined by a loud wail from the small bedroom next to ours.

  Our baby.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Thanks for seeing me, Jim,” I tell my boss, sitting in an armchair that faces his pristine desk. My spine is straight, my legs crossed, and my hands clasped on my lap.

  “What’s up, Skye?” His Texas drawl is curt, his eyes focused on the dozens of television monitors that line one of the walls of his thirty-first floor corner office, which overlooks all of LA. Each one is set to a different news channel from around the world.

  “I’ve been working on a story . . . ” My voice trails off.

  “So . . . ”

  “I need your support. I believe it’s going to be groundbreaking.”

  His brows rising, he focuses his attention on me. My eyes take him in. A highly respected network veteran with a prestigious Peabody Award to his name and who single-handedly made Conquest News the most watched cable news channel, Jim Hartley is what I’d call debonair. Extremely handsome, in his mid fifties, tall and fit. I’ve heard secretaries refer to him as “our Silver Fox,” a jab at our rival, Fox News. A master of Southern charm, his often-flirtatious behavior precedes him. Almost every woman in the division harbors a secret crush on him though they all well know he’s married and a family man. It’s rumored that over the years a few have left the department, unable to handle their attraction to him.

  My gaze stays on him as he picks up a pair of Chinese stress balls from his desk and squeezes them in the palms of his hands. “Do you want to share it with me?”

  The word “duh” is on the tip of my tongue . . . why else would I be here? Biting it back, I start off slowly, vaguely.

  “Jim, there’s some serious shit happening in this town.”

  He chortles. “There always is.”

  “I mean really serious.”

  He cocks his head at me. “What do you mean?”

  “Sheldon Greenberg . . . ”

  His brows knit together as his jaw ticks.

  “I have reason to believe he’s a sexual predator.”

  He sets the balls down, and his slate-gray eyes darken. His gaze sharpens on me.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Several major actresses have reached out to me. Come forward with their stories—”

  He cuts me off, his voice challenging. “What kind of stories?”

  Undeterred by his tone, I look him straight in the eye. “He groped them . . . masturbated in front of them . . . forced them to have sex with him.” I refrain from using the r-word. Or telling him anything more—including Nicole Farrell’s horrific encounter.

  Jim digests my words, then rises from his chair. Folding his hands behind his back, he strides over to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the distant Pacific. I observe him. He cuts a beautiful picture with his tall, lean physique and meticulously tailored sterling gray suit that complements his shimmering silver hair. From my perspective, he’s almost painterly, and for a second, I think about Finn, my husband. Silently, he stares out the window. After a few moments, he pivots and faces me. His arms are now folded across his chest, the intense expression on his face borderline menacing.

  “Skye . . . ”

  “Yes?”

  “I want you to drop this story.”

  Shockwaves course through my body. Doesn’t our motto, “the truth is everything,” mean anything to him?

  Anger quickly replaces my shock. “Why, Jim?”

  His face tenses. “Jesus, Skye, are you fucking kidding me?”

  My eyes narrow at him. “I don’t understand.”

  He swipes his usually smooth forehead. A deep crease lines it. “Seriously? Sheldon is the number one supplier to Conquest Broadcasting. You bring him down . . . you bring us all down.”

  “But, Jim. This man is a monster. He needs to be brought down.” My mind flits to the post-grad school event that ironically changed my life.

  While my chest squeezes at the memory, Jim stiffens, his lips pulled tight in a flat, pensive line. After a stretch of silence, he strides up behind me, and rests his hands on my shoulders, his fingers lightly massaging them. I squirm.

  “Skye, darlin’ . . . you have a great future ahead of you.”

  His voice softens, his smug tone cajoling, almost phony. In my mind’s eye, I pictu
re a smarmy smile on his face.

  “We’re thinking about giving you your own show.”

  “Yeah, right.” I’ve heard that God knows how many times before. Skye’s the Limit. I hold my own, not backing down. I’m tired of his bullshit.

  “Jim, I want to break this story.”

  A tense pause and then he squeezes my shoulder blades. His tone grows as firm as his touch. “Don’t go there.”

  Without another word, I jump up from my chair and face him. Rage rises inside me like mercury and so does my voice.

  “What about the first amendment? Freedom of the press?”

  “Don’t. Go. There,” he repeats, each word now as sharp as a tack.

  “I’m not backing down.”

  Jim’s expression turns glacial, his voice icy. “Skye, you’re going to regret this.”

  His cold, ominous words go in one ear and out the other. Stalking out of his office, I curse under my breath. I’m going to pursue my story. Pursue the truth.

  I owe it to all these poor innocent women.

  I owe it to myself.

  Nothing’s going to stop me.

  Nothing.

  CHAPTER 4

  I spend the morning in my studio painting. Working on a triptych that I’m entitling Past, Present, and Imperfect Future. The colors go from serene, to chaotic, to a blur. The paintings represent the way I see this tumultuous world, the past so peaceful, the present so chaotic and violent, and the future so unknown. I’m almost done with the second in the series. It’s a mixed media mash-up that combines monochromatic shades of gray paint with pieces of shrapnel, rusted nails, and fragments of glass. Given the political unrest and terrorism in our world, I’m thinking that the third painting may be a nihilistic splotch of black paint or tar that I’ll fling at the canvas with my bare hands. But who would pay big bucks for a colossal canvas with just some random blob resembling a slimy Rorschach personality test? Then again, art collectors are unpredictable and you never know what the next breakout piece of work will be. I often like to think of Picasso, who blew away the art world with his unprecedented cubist masterpieces.

  I, however, have yet to blow the art world away. At best, I’ve sold some pieces on Etsy and at the Fairfax Flea Market, where I exhibit every Sunday, and to some of our friends. Nothing much. I’m lucky if I make a whopping thirty grand a year. I’m fortunate my wife Skye supports us and allows me to indulge my passion. But it’s nothing to be proud of. I’m thirty-two and have been at it since I was a kid. Sometimes, I want to throw in the towel. Start all over again. But Skye has faith in me. And it has never wavered. “It just takes one person to recognize your genius,” she’s told me over and over.

  I love my wife. And today, she may be right. Kayla Phillips, one of the hottest promoters in the art world, contacted me after I shot her an email and included a file of my portfolio. It was prompted by an article I read about her in the Los Angeles Times. She said she was looking to represent emerging artists. Bold. Creative. In touch with the times. To be honest, I never expected to hear back from her, and I’m sure every struggling artist and their mother reached out to her, but she responded almost instantly. The email was brief and to the point.

  Intrigued by your work. Let’s meet for lunch at Fig & Olive this Friday. Reservation at 1 p.m. in my name.

  Though being a little superstitious about the day—Friday the 13th—and hating lunches because they dig into my painting time, I readily agreed. Judging by her response time, she seemed eager to meet me. Maybe today, despite the stigma associated with it, is going to be my lucky day. It’s my wife’s lucky day. Her thirtieth birthday. Maybe we’ll have an extra special reason to go out and celebrate tonight.

  My studio is located in industrial Vernon—a depressing as hell place—strewn with one ugly warehouse after another. A gloomy canvas of grayness and bleakness. Population: 115. Seriously. No one lives here and I can’t blame them. Even the perpetual SoCal sunshine can’t brighten industrial Vernon. It’s a sprawling part of Los Angeles that hardly anyone knows or frequents unless you’re employed by one of the many small fashion labels whose manufacturing and distribution headquarters are based here. For me, it was an opportunity to rent an expansive loft for a reasonable sum. The hip, pricier Arts District is not far away, but to rent space like mine there would cost an arm and a leg.

  After getting in some painting time, I abandon my work in progress and clean my paintbrushes. It’s a lengthy, multi-step process involving soaking them in a paint thinner solution and rubbing the bristles against a rag until they’re blond again with no trace of paint. The final step is rinsing them off with a little soap and water and storing them in a plastic container. I follow the procedure to the letter because the sable brushes are expensive as shit, some costing over a hundred dollars.

  The studio has a small, dilapidated bathroom where I wash up afterward. The paint is peeling and the old fluorescent light casts a dismal gray hue. As I scrub my hands, I glance at myself in the mottled mirror above the sink to make sure no paint has mixed with my stubble. Not a speck. Nor in my thick dark hair, which is getting unruly. I’ve got to decide whether to get it cut or let it grow long again and tie it back in a ponytail or put it up in man bun. Skye prefers it short—and says I look like a Greek god—but in some ways, it’s a lot easier to manage when it’s long. Out of sight. Out of mind.

  As much as I’ve scrubbed, flecks of paint still dot my hands. Sometimes it takes days to get rid of them. Drying my hands off with a towel, I quickly change out of my paint-stained T-shirt into another identical one I’ve brought along from home. Basic black though I wanted to wear a graphic one of my music idol, Bruce Springsteen. The Boss. I also switch from my sweats into a pair of faded jeans. Worn Nikes complete my ensemble. Despite feeling comfortable, second thoughts bombard me. Maybe I should have brought along a suit. From what I’ve learned about Kayla online, she’s A-list all the way. Smart. Cultured. Stylish. Beautiful.

  Brimming with a blend of dread and anticipation, I head out at noon for our lunch. With the LA traffic that seems to get worse by the day, I wanted to give myself plenty of time to get to Fig & Olive, which is located on La Cienega, not far from the Larchmont neighborhood where Skye and I live. In retrospect, maybe I should have stayed home this morning and gone to lunch from there. Time management has never been one of my strengths.

  As soon as I get onto the bumper-to-bumper 10 Freeway, I wish I’d left earlier. An apropos Springsteen album plays on my stereo. The title song: “Working on a Dream.” I listen to the entire album and despite the crawl, I get to my destination a little before one. There’s a lineup of cars waiting to be valeted. All of them high end. Mercedes, Porsches, Jags . . . plus several Teslas, Bentleys, and limos. My old Ford pickup sure as hell doesn’t belong, and I swerve away, looking for parking on the street . . . a spot where my vehicle will be out of sight. After several frustrating laps around the block, I finally find one on a residential side street. I read the sign in front of me carefully. Good. Two hours free parking. After anchoring the truck between two parked vehicles, I hop out and jog over to the restaurant. Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I glance down at the time. It’s almost one o’clock. Shit. I’m going to be late. I pick up my pace, segueing into a sprint.

  Fig & Olive is one of those trendy, hip restaurants catering to the whims and pockets of Hollywood movers and shakers. High-octane wheelers and dealers. It’s a place neither Skye nor I frequent, preferring to dine out at unpretentious neighborhood joints. The attractive hostess fits in with the décor—chic and elegant, in a short, sleeveless black sheath, her lustrous dark hair gathered up in a high ponytail. She smiles at me flirtatiously.

  “Can I help you?”

  I catch my breath. “Yes. We have a reservation for two. It’s under Kayla Phillips.”

  The hostess’s smile widens, revealing a set of perfect pearly white teeth that abound in this plastic town. “Wonderful. Ms. Phillips just called to let us know she’s runnin
g a little late. In the meantime, I’ll have someone show you to your table.”

  “Great.” Relieved, I follow another attractive, put-together woman through the bustling restaurant. Everyone exudes wealth, sex, and power. Men in expensive dark jackets and open-collar white shirts; women in designer dresses revealing perfect tans and toned limbs. All engaged in lively conversation, no one takes notice of me as I head toward a table for two in the center of the restaurant. Soon after I take a seat, a young, good-looking waiter comes by and hands me a menu.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” he asks.

  “Just some water will be fine.”

  Though I’d love something alcoholic to calm my nerves, I don’t want to be drinking in front of Kayla. I have too much at stake.

  “Bottled?”

  “Regular water’s fine.”

  The waiter gives me a dismissive look, but returns quickly with my request.

  “Can I get you anything to start off with?” he asks, his voice as icy as the glass of water he sets down.

  “No, I’m fine. I’m waiting for someone.”

  The insolent server quirks a snide smile and skirts off while I take in my surroundings. The place is filled with Hollywood moguls and celebrities. I immediately recognize Brandon Taylor, the Emmy-winning star of the hit TV series Kurt Kussler. Though he’s dressed casually in a T-shirt and jeans, he’s lunching with a suit—another familiar face—Blake Burns, the head of Conquest Broadcasting where my wife works. At a table nearby, I spot her boss, Jim Hartley, who’s lunching with a voluptuous brunette. There’s electricity in the air. A buzz. The sound of success.

  After several sips of my water, I catch sight of a tall, stunning blonde heading my way. I recognize her immediately. Kayla Phillips. She’s clad in a tight white pencil skirt, a cream silk blouse, and shiny black stilettos. A monstrous red designer bag grazes her arm. Her breezy gait exudes confidence, power, and sex. All eyes are on the statuesque beauty, and on her way, several diners spring to their feet to give her a chummy hug. She’s obviously a regular here.