Remember Me

by L'Amour, Nelle

  “Can you tell me about it?”

  She shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry, baby. I can’t.” She quickly changes the subject. “I checked on Maddie. She’s fine. If she wakes up—and she probably won’t—there’s a bottle already made.”

  Nine-month-old Maddie is now on formula, much to my wife’s relief. No more breastfeeding or pumping. I feel entirely the opposite way. I wish she’d breastfed longer. It was so sensual to watch her put our baby to her nipple. To watch the hungry little munchkin suck. Going from one tit to the other. And to gaze at my wife’s still swollen, fertile breasts while sweet, little gurgling sounds filled my ears. Nursing was such a turn-on. Just the thought of it makes my dick flex. I banish any thought of infidelity to the back of my mind. Maybe later tonight when she returns, I’ll fuck her brains out. And share my good news.

  “What time will you be back?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure. Don’t wait up for me.”

  Suspicion again creeps into my veins. My turn to stab the word “fine” back at her, and then almost as an aside, I wish her a happy birthday. A half smile flits on her lips. Bending to give me a peck on my forehead, she slings the purse over her shoulder by its dainty chain, pivots on her heels, and hurries toward the front door. My eyes stay riveted on her shapely ass. It better belong to me. Only me.

  CHAPTER 7

  So many tears have been shed over the past few weeks since meeting with Nicole Farrell. While none of the women I’ve interviewed experienced anything as extreme as Nicole’s rape, their vivid accounts from Greenberg groping their breasts and genitals to masturbating in front of them have shaken me to the bone, forcing me to fight back my own tears. I know what they’ve been through. But Jim Hartley, the head of Conquest News, still won’t let me break the story, and before I left work today, he threatened me again. “Stay away, Skye, if you know what’s good for you. You have no proof. All you have are allegations.”

  Unfortunately, he’s right. Greenberg paid off most of his victims and made them sign confidentiality agreements without giving them a copy. Moreover, not one of them has a videotape, recording, or witness to substantiate their horror stories.

  This story is not just a story that needs to be told; it’s personal to me. These women spoke to my soul. As I began my journalism career after graduating with honors, I vowed to champion the rights of women. To be a voice of compassion and justice for victims like me. If Jim Hartley needs concrete evidence, then that’s what I’m going to give him. I’m not afraid of his threats. I’m not backing down. I’m determined to take Greenberg down. To expose him for the monster he really is. It’s been a long coming. Way too fucking long.

  Taking a deep, steeling breath, I pull my Prius up to the massive iron gate that guards his Beverly Hills villa like a fortress. Rolling down my window, I push a button on the state-of-the-art security panel and announce myself. I feel a camera on me. My breath hitches as the gate inwardly swings open like the wings of a vulture.

  Slowly, I drive up a lit up, winding path that leads to his palatial house. Getting him to invite me here took an equal amount of luck and planning. No one knows about my undercover operation, including my boss or my husband.

  Earlier this week, I stalked Greenberg at the Chateau Marmont bar. Learning that it was his favorite hangout, I went there three times this past week wearing a sexy little black dress, the highest of heels, and a blond wig because I knew from my research that he had a predilection for leggy blondes. And because I didn’t want him to recognize me. When he finally showed up last night at the hotel, he took the bait.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” he began as he plunked down onto the vacant chair next to mine.

  With a seductive smile, I said “hello” in my sweetest voice. Inwardly, I cringed at him for calling me “sweetheart,” but kept my cool. His sickening cigar-breath warmed my cheek, and I felt his fetid heat as he slid his seat closer to mine.

  He was clad in his usual sleazebag uniform. A navy blazer that screamed Brioni, a crisp open-collar white shirt, expensive designer jeans, lots of flashy gold jewelry, and alligator loafers. The buttons of his shirt played tug-of-war with the Egyptian cotton while his belted jeans fought with his unsightly paunch. His lustful eyes never strayed from my cleavage. I swear he was salivating.

  “You new in town, doll? I haven’t seen you here before.”

  “Yes. I just moved here from Marietta.”

  “Where the hell is that?”

  “Ohio.”

  His face lit up. “My dear mother used to love to sing that song.” Crooning the song’s why-oh-why first line, he made goo-goo eyes with me. Pretending I was enjoying his attention, I let him twirl a lock of my wig around his stubby, manicured finger.

  “Why did’ya move out here?”

  “I’m looking to break into the entertainment business.”

  “So, you’re an actress?”

  I laughed lightly. “An aspiring one.”

  He chortled. “You’re a cute one. You’ve come to the right place.”

  I twitched a small, flirtatious smile.

  “So, sweetheart, can I get you something to drink?”

  “A glass of champagne would be nice. Thanks.”

  Looking up from my chest, he called out to the bartender. “Hey, Gus, bring the beautiful lady some champagne—make it Cristal—and a Scotch on the rocks for me.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Greenberg,” replied the bartender with a smile. Though the bar was packed three deep with movers and shakers and wannabes, the attentive bartender catered to the fat pig. Greenberg was a regular here—both a big spender and big tipper.

  While the bartender prepared our drinks, Sheldon’s attention returned to me. I sat silently on the bar stool, my legs crossed, while his leering eyes roved down my body. I soaked him in. He hadn’t changed much since my last encounter with him except for being at least fifty pounds heavier. His facial features were repulsive—dark beady eyes, pockmarked skin, a bulbous nose, a prickly double chin, and rubbery lips. To top if off, the three-time divorced fifty-five-year-old was balding but dyed his hair and sported one of those pathetic comb overs.

  “So, sweetheart, what’s your name?”

  “Lana Monroe.”

  “Lana Monroe,” he repeated. “It fits you. It’s got star-power.”

  I batted my eyelashes. Such a good actress thanks to my college drama courses. Courses that helped me become a dynamic on-air reporter. “Really? You think so?”

  He smirked. “With your looks and body, I know so.”

  “Wow. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Sweetheart, you don’t have to say a thing. Maybe you don’t know who I am.”

  My eyes widened with feigned innocence. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t.”

  His eyes glinted with bravado. “I’m Sheldon Greenberg—”

  “Oh my God! The big Hollywood producer?” Monster!

  With a pompous grin, he puffed out his chest. “Yup, that’s me. You’ve met the right person.”

  At that moment, our drinks arrived. The bartender set them down on the counter in front of us.

  “Let’s toast,” Greenberg said, lifting his tumbler.

  “Okay,” I said, following suit with my flute full of bubbly.

  “To you. And to the beginning of a great career.”

  We clinked glasses and then we each put them to our lips. I took a dainty sip of my champagne while my companion—or should I say predator—downed his Scotch in one guzzle. As the effervescence popped on my tongue, a loud burp burst from his mouth. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he placed the other on my bare thigh. My knee-jerk reaction was to pull away, but I forced myself not to stir as he rubbed my leg. His rough caress nothing like Finn’s. Creeping me out as he turned himself on.

  “Fuck. You’re gorgeous.”

  Before I could utter another word, his slobbering lips were all over mine. In a few suffocating breaths, his foul-tasting tongue thrust into my mouth. My eyes squeezed shut as the s
limy organ thrashed about like a lizard. Pure will held back my urge to bite it. Numbness trumped my urge to vomit.

  By the time his next drink came, I was invited to his house. To explore my potential.

  And now, here I am. Located off tawny Benedict Canyon, the pink stucco villa is majestic. Reminiscent of the nearby Beverly Hills Hotel and definitely built in the mid twenties. For sure some legendary movie star once lived here, and as I park my Prius in the circular driveway, I’m regretful I didn’t research the house. Turning off the ignition, I glimpse myself in the rearview mirror and adjust my blond wig just a tad, making sure the silky locks cascade over my shoulders. Then, I quickly check my purse. My wallet with my driver’s license along with my cell phone is locked inside the glove compartment. All that’s inside is my lipstick, which is actually a spy-tech recording device, and a small vial of mouthwash, which is really unmarked pepper spray. I found both on Amazon. I throw in my car key and with a steeling breath, I sling the bag over my shoulder and step out of the car, ready to provide all the evidence the Conquest Broadcasting brass needs to take the monster down. As the car automatically locks behind me, I clutch my lucky locket and suck in another breath.

  Two burly, intimidating guards stand outside the house. Clad in muscle-hugging black jeans and T-shirts, they look like they were plucked from the World Wrestling Federation. What’s more they’re wearing holsters around their chests. Shit. They’re armed. Trying to stay relaxed and upbeat, I introduce myself. One of them, with the stoic demeanor of a soldier, speaks into a walkie-talkie.

  “Sir, Miss Monroe is here to see you.”

  “I’ll be right there to let her in,” responds a gruff voice, unmistakably Greenberg’s. “Check her bag in the meantime.”

  To my horror, one of the guards frisks me while the other snaps open my purse.

  “What are you doing?” I grit.

  “Security precautions,” says the guard, rifling through my bag. My pulse accelerates as he examines the two items inside. I inwardly sigh with relief when he puts them back intact.

  A few minutes pass by. My body stiffens as the first guard’s mammoth hands crawl down my body, not overlooking my inner thighs, while his almost twin, done with my purse, gives me the once-over. I put a sweet smile on my face, but their expressions are anything but friendly. Small talk with these guys is out of the question as I wait for Sheldon to come to the front door. Finally, the oak door swings open. Sheldon, with a smug grin on his face, hovers over me in his other uniform. His monogrammed navy bathrobe. Belted below his paunch, the velour garment stops just below his knees, bringing my attention to his thick hairy calves. Matching velvet slippers complete the “ensemble.”

  “Hi,” I say in my best breathy voice. I can tell from the lustful expression on his face that he likes what he sees.

  “Come on in, sweetheart.” He waves me in before I can say another word.

  “I don’t want any interruptions,” he tells the two guards before slamming the door shut behind me.

  “So sweetheart, can I get you something to drink?” he asks as he ushers me through the house, one hand splayed on my ass. His totally inappropriate gesture repulses me, but I don’t let on.

  “Your house is magnificent,” I say, taking in my surroundings and not knowing where he’s leading me. Antique furniture and artwork fill every nook and cranny of the vast mansion.

  He snorts. “It’s just leftover shit from my last wife. I wanna dump the crap. Start over fresh. Well, except for the paintings.”

  In contrast to the dark, baronial furnishings, the colorful, large paintings on the wall are contemporary. I recognize some of the artists—there’s a Chagall, Pollock, and Schnabel. In my research, I read that he’s a major collector and owns one of the largest collections of contemporary art in the world.

  “Maybe you can help me . . . you know, redecorate.”

  “Sure, that sounds like fun.”

  I cringe at my trite words as he leads me to a grand, well-stocked bar. Bottles of the finest liquors line the shelves along with expensive, glistening crystal. I watch as he pours himself a Scotch and sets the tumbler down on the gleaming surface.

  “How ’bout some champagne?”

  I eye a silver ice bucket holding a bottle. “Just some water, please.”

  “C’mon, gorgeous. Water is for paupers. Let me pour you a glass of champagne. It’ll help you relax.”

  Not responding, I let him pour me one. While his back is turned, I slip out my lipstick from my purse, and as I apply it, I activate the recording device. One click of the base. I quickly put the tube back inside. Just in time.

  “Let me take your purse,” he says, handing me the bubbly.

  “I’d prefer to hold on to it.” I clutch my small bag. Thankfully, he doesn’t oppose me.

  “So let me propose another toast.” I raise my glass as he does, his eyes cast down on my cleavage. “To those killer tits.”

  You pig. I smile, clinking my glass against his, and take a sip of my champagne while he guzzles his cocktail.

  His eyes stay glued to my tits and then suddenly he gropes one mound with his free hand. “Mmm . . . nice.”

  I squirm. “Sheldon, I’d rather you not touch me that way.”

  “Relax, sweetheart.” Ignoring my request, he squeezes my other breast. It hurts like hell, my breasts still extra-sensitive and swollen from nursing, but I hold back a yelp. “What size are these knockers?”

  Steeling myself, I deflect his question. “Sheldon, you have something you want me to audition for?”

  The sleazebag scratches his balls. “Sweetheart, let’s take it slow. I’ve had a shit day. Goddamn fucking network executives think they know it all. I told them to fuck off. No one tells me what to do.”

  “I’m sorry.” Fucking arrogant asshole. His reputation precedes him.

  “Come with me, sweetheart. First, I need to see if you can take direction.”

  My pulse again speeding up, I let him usher me to a massive burgundy velvet couch. Taking a final sip of his drink, he sets the crystal tumbler down on the gilded coffee table in front of it.

  “I need to de-stress. Give me a massage.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Sweetheart. I’m surprised at you.” He swipes at his comb over. “You’re looking for your big Hollywood break and you’re fucking questioning me?”

  Mentally, I smile. Fingers crossed I’ve got it all recorded. “I-I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting—”

  He cuts me off. “Fucking do it, babe. We don’t have all night.”

  Impatiently, he snatches my champagne flute and sets it down next to his depleted tumbler. My heart hammers—is he going to disrobe? I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when he doesn’t and instead plops down on the plush couch. He rolls over face down onto his potbelly.

  “I like it hard, doll,” he mutters under his breath.

  “Me too.”

  “Sweetheart, now you’re talkin’ my language.”

  Without another word, I bend down and start kneading his upper back. I happen to excel at giving massages because I love getting them from my husband so much. A sudden wave of guilt sweeps over me, thinking that the only man I should be touching is my beloved Finn. I’m doing my job, I tell myself. It’s just a job. No different than an actress’s.

  “Fuck, baby. You’re good,” mumbles Sheldon, cutting into my second thoughts. “I’m fucking loving this. Don’t stop.”

  For the next fifteen minutes or so, I silently continue to knead his meaty body. It’s hairy, laden with moles, and he stinks. Muffled grunts, groans, and “oh yeahs” spill onto the cushions. Suddenly, he lifts himself and sits up. His hideous comb over has fallen into his hooded eyes. He brushes the greasy strands off his forehead.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  “I need you to do the rest of me.”

  “Okay, lie down again, this time on your back.”

  He snorts. “Seriously, sweetheart?
”

  Before I can blink an eye, he unbelts his robe and exposes himself. Unprepared for the sight of his revolting penis and hairy balls, I swallow hard, my heart leaping into my throat. What’s wrong with me? I’m an investigative reporter. I’ve witnessed fatal gun wounds, stabbings, and gory accidents. Mass destruction by fires, hurricanes, and earthquakes. Mass murder by bombs, gunfire, and arson. I’ve possibly seen every atrocity known to mankind, but I can’t stomach the engorged, veined, purple monstrosity before me.

  “Sheldon, I think you should—”

  “Shut up and get down on your knees,” he orders, his voice deep and belligerent.

  “Shel—”

  “Do it. Suck my dick.” His voice grows several decibels louder with anger. “That’s if you don’t want your career to be over before it starts, sweetheart.”

  Oh God. I pray that my secret recording device is getting all of this. “Sheldon, this is sexual harassment.”

  He snickers. “Harassment, my ass. Nobody gets ahead in this town without giving a little head. So, Lana . . . ”

  His voice trails off as I fall to my knees, the cold marble sending a chill up my spine. He squeezes the base of his erection with his hand and aims it at my face. Bile rises to my throat. I think I may vomit if I open my mouth. I will myself not to get sick as my mouth forms a wide “O.” Maybe if I close my eyes and don’t look at it, I can give him what he wants. He doesn’t give me a chance. On my next frantic breath, he presses his hand on my scalp and forces me to go down on him. Nausea fills my chest as my mouth clamps the bulbous crown, the repulsive taste of it mixing with the equally repulsive scent of his sweaty balls.

  “Suck me,” he growls, pressing my head harder.

  Slowly, reluctantly, I glide my mouth down his shaft as I fight the sick feeling rising fast inside me. He lets out a hiss.