‘A million,’ Sam said.
Alex blinked hard, staring at the man standing on his doorstep.
‘A million even.’
‘Don’t fucking fuck with me.’
‘For a screenwriter, you sure resort to the same lines over and over, don’t you? Come on, man. We need you to spice up that dialogue. ‘Fucking fuck?’ What kind of shit is that?’
Alex backed up until he hit the wall behind him, letting his agent into the apartment. Then he sat down hard on the floor, not even looking around for a chair. His mind was spinning so fast that he felt as if it had taken the room with it. Nothing seemed clear in his line of vision; everything blurred.
‘Ten per cent for me. Fifty per cent to the government. You’ll clear maybe four hundred. Next time, you can expect to see a little more. Once you’re in, they have to pay. They’ll want to see the others. All the stupid screenplays you’ve been sitting on all these years. You’ll probably make more deals in the next few weeks than you ever will again in your life. That’s how it always goes. One script hits, and boom.’
Well, he’d be able to pay the rent increase. That was for sure. And at that thought, Alex started to laugh. And once he started he couldn’t stop.
* * *
Sasha felt that she was being dealt more than her fair share of bad days. Mentally, she was so distant on stage that the management actually noticed and fired her from the strip bar. The news stunned her, and even though she was certain she could get another job quickly, she couldn’t shake off the dizzying feeling of being knocked down too many times.
She responded to the news as she always did when she was depressed, by taking herself out for a drink. To wallow, she’d chosen a tiny bar on Ocean Boulevard habited by surfers and skate rats. The casual atmosphere, complete with a splattering of sawdust on the concrete floor, made this the last place she’d expected to meet the owner of Zebra.
Dashiell ignored her ‘unapproachable’ scowl, coming towards her table with two bottles of imported beer and handing one over. He didn’t try to speak over the music, and he seemed not to notice the fact that she hadn’t bothered with make-up, with doing anything to her turbulent curls. She was wearing clothes she’d simply picked up from the floor of her closet, an old pair of jeans and a black long-sleeved T-shirt with the words ‘Tony’s Pizza. Had a Piece Lately?’ on the front.
Together they listened to the heavy beat of one of Santa Monica’s many garage-style trios. But when the band took a break, he said, ‘Alone?’
‘Jess isn’t here.’
‘Not what I asked,’ he said, ‘or why I asked it.’
Sasha suddenly felt as if her heart was beating in her throat. What was this man doing here? Yes, they’d had several good times together, a crazy fling when he’d seemed to be dallying with her while waiting for her roommate to fall in love with him. Yet they’d made a pact that nothing would come of it. She would never hurt Jessica. Not intentionally. She wouldn’t have let things go this far if she’d been thinking clearly.
Dashiell said, ‘I hate it when a pretty girl looks sad for no reason.’
Sasha didn’t have a response to that. She felt sad. That was why she’d come to the bar. To feel better. Even if it was only as long as the alcohol was buzzing through her system. But running into one of Jessica’s admirers wasn’t part of the plan. Not until he said, ‘I’d like to make you look happy.’
‘How are you going to do that?’
‘Just give me a try.’
She remembered how Jessica spoke about Dashiell. That he was always out for a conquest, constantly keeping a track record in his mind. But maybe what she needed tonight was to be conquered. To have her misery physically knocked out of her and replaced by pleasure. Even if it was the most fleeting kind.
Dashiell looked at her again and put his hand on top of hers. She felt the passion between them, remembered what it had been like to be in bed with him. He knew how to touch a woman, how to talk, how not to talk. Like right now, the looks he was giving her told her everything that she needed to know.
Sasha said nothing as Dashiell took her hand and led her from the bar and into a moonless night, to his vintage truck, waiting right outside. They didn’t speak as he drove towards his place in Hollywood, didn’t say a word as he sped along Wilshire to Doheny. Didn’t even speak in the elevator on the way to the top floor. He unlocked the door, kicked it open, and carried her to his living room, where the only thing she had to think about was his body on hers as they moved together.
It was good, as it had always been good. Every time they’d connected. But this time was different, yet again. Unlike the occasions they’d spent outdoors, when they’d seemed to share power, or the time when she’d directed him for her X-rated movie, Dashiell took charge, holding Sasha in his arms, pressing her up against the wall in his living room.
He lifted her legs and helped her position them around his naked waist, and he entered her forcefully, driving in deep. Each thrust made her forget her misery. Each time his steel-hard cock slipped inside her, brought her closer to bliss.
Sasha leaned her head back and closed her eyes. As if in response, Dashiell licked in a line down her neck, pressing at her pulse point before nipping her there. Biting her. She felt alive in his arms, and she sighed as she grew closer to climax, letting Dashiell know the moment when he should set her down on the sofa, push her thighs wider apart, slip one finger up and down her clit. Stroking her. Teasing her.
Taking her there.
But he wasn’t satisfied with simply making her come on his couch. As she trembled with the power of the climax, he was lifting her again, this time spreading her out on his bed, taking both of her hands in one of his, holding them over her head. She looked up at him while he tied her down, and the spark of anticipation made her thoughts come slower. All she could focus on was the fact that Dashiell had a hook in his wall, hidden behind a pillow, and that he was now sliding a pair of handcuffs on her wrists and capturing her to that silvery hook.
‘Bound for pleasure,’ he said, explaining himself, and then making the statement come true in the slowest, most decadent way possible.
* * *
So many of the girls Dashiell had dated – not just fucked, but dated – knew his history, his finances, and couldn’t keep thoughts of money or power out of their minds. Sasha hadn’t seemed to care about any of that from the beginning. Could her attitude be for real?
He looked at her, sleeping peacefully on his mattress, her hands free of the cuffs and now tucked under her chin, and he had an instant flash of their lovemaking. The sweet smell of her arousal, all around him, filling his senses. The way, when he’d reached down to touch her clit, to stroke it with the ball of his thumb, she had sighed and bitten into her bottom lip, hard enough to leave marks afterwards, deep indents in the soft flesh that he’d kissed to take away the pain.
The rush of the experience echoed through his body and he shuddered at the thought of pleasure he’d experienced less than an hour before. She was a fucking dream in bed, that was for sure. Yet there was something again that was different about her. No personal agenda. She hadn’t seemed like she was trying for anything, striving forward, lost in a future pleasure. No, she’d been right there with him, every step of the way. Enjoying it as it unfolded.
That’s what made her the most special. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, he slipped away from the bed. He felt ready now to really take care of business, and he knew exactly what that meant. He was going to talk to his advisors and sell the paper.
For Dashiell, at age 40, it was finally time to grow up.