All The Queen's Men (Fantasy Heights) (5 page)

“It got ugly,” Amanda said. “And complicated. There’s a lot of jealousy. Scott thinks his father is a thug but craves his approval anyhow. Marla wants the same thing, only neither one ever seems to gain any ground.”

The DA said nothing, merely penned a line through
Mercury
on his list of names. Beside Marla’s name, he added a note:
jealousy/possession motive
.

Mr. Hughes didn’t explain. In fact, he changed the subject. “Later that night, you filed a grievance. You want to tell me what that was about?”

She frowned at the DA. There was no way to answer that question without getting herself in trouble with client confidentiality. “Not especially.”

“In general, what was it? I keep hearing you’re a practical sort of person, not given to dramatics. What set you off? It wasn’t Kara, was it?”

Amanda shook her head. Yes, her stint in wardrobe had been awkward. She and Kara hadn’t seen each other since the night before, when Kara had attacked. Amanda had no hard feelings, given the circumstances. Put in Kara’s position, she undoubtedly would have attacked, too.

She’d been in the chair three hours that day while Kara had painstakingly augmented Amanda’s features to resemble some woman from the client’s past. The script never explicitly stated whom, only charted out the rather short but heated reunion.

By far, it had been the most emotionally charged fantasy she’d yet participated in. Naked save for a white robe and slippers, she was driven by Eric to a secluded section of beach near Haynes House. They stopped at a break in the trees next to the mouth of a narrow, carefully tended footpath. She stepped off the cart and shed the robe. Airbrushed with a visual-effect powder, her skin glowed luminescent in the moonlight.

Eric forgot to be a gentleman for a moment, staring openly. “Okay, that is freaky. Hot, but freaky.”

She looked down at her belly, noting that Kara was not above shading in more abdominal definition than she’d earned at the gym. “If you think this is weird, wait until you see what she’s got in mind for my gamer’s gig getup. And um… You might not want to watch this part. I need a head start on the client.”

In the shadows of the trees, she barely made out Eric’s confused frown as she leaned forward to reach into the robe pocket and came out with a bottle of gel lube. The fantasy called for her to be wet from the start, and with a new client, nerves, and cool night air working against her, she would need some help.

She squirted the lube into her right hand, and raised one foot to rest it on the cart’s seat. Eric was still watching as she smeared the gel onto and into her pussy.

“Oh, God,” he whimpered.

Amanda clicked her tongue. “Big baby. I told you not to watch.”

“Yeah, that’s like telling a guy not to breathe.”

“Hey, I can name at least three performers who would be happy lube themselves for you.”

For the second time in two days, she regretted her words the moment they left her mouth. Eric was still in love with Steph, who remained entangled with Robert Warnous. She would probably agree to marry the creep unless someone managed to talk some sense into her.

She said, “I’m an asshole. Sorry. I didn’t think.”

Eric waved her off. “At least you still believe there’s hope. Everyone else has written her off. Anyway, go. Your client is waiting.”

Amanda held out her fist to have it bumped lightly in solidarity, then hustled down the footpath. As she came out the other side of the trees, she scanned the smallish clearing. No artificial light, but the moonlight was bright enough that she spotted her client waiting on a bench, exactly as the script described.

He was older. Mid-fifties, she supposed. Short hair, lean body, dressed in cargo shorts and a white cotton undershirt. He didn’t spot her until she had already crossed half the distance between him. And for the second time since she’d taken this job, she recognized a client. Seeing this one, she nearly tripped. This guy had more effect on the eastern-hemisphere economy before breakfast each day than some nations had over the entire span of their existence.

No way would she have been allowed this booking without the highest security clearance. And no wonder Thomas warned her about having respect for power. The wrong person given access to this client could have disastrous consequences.

She must have gotten better at control, she realized. Instead of panicking or allowing her mind to spin down alleyways populated with confidentiality breaches or shadowy threats, she simply pushed all of it—the client’s name, his importance and the emotional rawness of his fantasy—into a mental vault. None of that mattered. His script had been very exact. She knew exactly what he wanted. She even understood the connection he craved with this melancholy, sentimental fantasy. Anyone familiar with his history would have recognized the role she played. The client had lost his young wife in a car accident just weeks after their marriage some thirty years ago.

It broke her heart a little, but she understood. All she had to do was deliver. He was supposed to be reluctant. She was supposed to be wanton.

She approached the bench at a slow pace, allowing him time to look his fill. His eyes lingered on her breasts for a time, then down her legs and up again to focus on the V of her pubis.

She moved closer then, and began to follow a more active part of the script to the letter. She raised her hands to her breasts, cupping them for a moment, pushing them together and leaning forward. She heard the client’s breathing change in rhythm and depth, quicker now, more shallow. When she relaxed once more and began to play with her nipples, he breathed through his mouth, his arousal growing more and more obvious.

Hearing and seeing it worked on her, too, especially when she thought of what was coming.

She let one hand trail down her navel. She ran her hand side to side, playing at the start of her slit, flirting with the idea of rubbing herself for him.

Everything went perfect until then. The script said she was supposed to reach down for his hand and draw it up between her legs, pressing his hand into action. Instead, he reached between her legs on his own. He cupped her mound and straightened his middle finger, delving into her vagina and the abundant lube.

He murmured out a syllable or two. He didn’t speak English, so she was unsure what he’d said, though the intent was clear enough. With his other hand, he hooked her behind one knee and pulled until her foot rested on the bench beside him. That way, he had better access and a better view as he slowly drove his finger inside her, then back out again.

Her own breath began to turn shaky when he leaned forward to press a light kiss to her navel. He was very gentle, but the stir of a breeze around her and the outdoor exposure were quite effective, in their way. She did feel wanton. Untamed somehow, and the spike in arousal made it very easy for her to move them onward.

She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed, guiding him until he lay on his back along the narrow bench. Through it all, he continued to bang her, taking longer, deeper strokes now that caused a flare of pleasure at every pass.

He hummed a pleased sound when she swung her leg over the bench, straddling his body. Only then did he take his fingers away to plant his hands between her legs, just at the top of her thighs, guiding her forward and down so she was squatting over his mouth.

He held her right where he wanted her, exploring her folds with this tongue. She turned her face up to the moon, focusing on the feel of his tongue, rocking slightly to grind her clit against him. A slow burn inside grew in depth and heat, lighting her up inside. She let it expand and multiply for a while, until the jittery sweetness reached danger levels. She wasn’t supposed to come on his mouth.

Quite forceful now, she moved and shoved his hands away, sending her own to the waist of his cargo shorts. She unbuttoned and unzipped and tugged until his cock was free. Long but narrow and nicely hard. She gripped him, worked the tip a few times before reaching between her legs to borrow some wetness. With the gel and her own excitement in abundant supply, her hand came away good and wet. Her client groaned out a guttural, pleased sound as she gripped his shaft hard again and began to pump, exerting rough pressure around his glans. She felt him grow ever harder and saw his torso begin to stiffen. A caution signal surfaced in his eyes. She traced the tip of him along her slit, getting him lubricated before taking him inside.

Up and down, she grinded on him harder than she ordinarily would. And his approving grunts told her she was doing exactly what he wanted, allowing him to be more passive, the more reluctant party. She reached back with one hand to rub his balls, stroking and grasping, rubbing them against her buttocks every time she rode him down.

His hands stole upward to pinch at her nipples, having an effect like striking a match to gunpowder. And he spoke, then. It didn’t matter which language he used, she understood the command. She focused all her attention on the glittering pressure building inside her pussy. She squeezed at him with her inner muscles, intensifying the pleasure, and sent her over the top of orgasm like fizz from a bottle.

Seconds later, he followed, and she knew there was no time to waste. In those afterglow moments, the danger of spoiling the illusion was at its highest. As soon as he’d stilled, she straightened her legs and climbed off him, swinging her leg back. After a moment to steady her balance, she was ready to leave.

She started to, but then her client sat up. He grabbed her hips and held on, not allowing her to walk away as she should.

She faltered, but didn’t fight him. A sense of sympathetic dread rolled up through her torso as he pulled her close to press his forehead to her belly once more.

His hands shook. Then his shoulders. He was crying, silently.

It was too much. She felt horrible for him and angry at whichever screener allowed him to repeatedly play out this script. It wasn’t good for him. He shouldn’t be allowed to do this anymore.

With a good head of steam going, Amanda eased away from him as gently but firmly as she could manage.

Eric waited at the tree line. He hurried to keep up with her as she rushed past him.

“What happened?” he asked. “Did he hurt you?”

“No. But who the hell approved this script?”

“No idea. Why?”

She didn’t answer him, simply crammed her arms into the robe sleeves and ignored his offended look as she took over the driving. She floored it all the way back to wardrobe. After showering off, she dressed and stormed down to Beverly’s office. Helping herself to a computer terminal, she pulled up the info on the fantasy. The culprit was right there, listed at the bottom of the screen.
Script approved by: SW.

Steph Watson.

“What the hell is wrong with her?” she’d asked the empty office aloud.

It took her ten minutes to fill out a grievance. She’d just hit send when her cellphone rang.

Thomas. She had a bone to pick with him, too.

He sounded tired. “What’s wrong? Eric said you stormed off set.”

“I’m fine. I can’t talk about it.”

“Screw confidentiality. Tell me what happened.”

“Nothing you need to worry about. I’ll take it up with Steph.”

“What’s the matter with you? Why are you mad at me?”

It hadn’t occurred to her yet that she actually was mad at him until she heard the outrage in his tone. “Hmm. Maybe it’s because you told me you didn’t want me to leave until we did the table thing, but then you told Josh a completely different reason.”

Thomas sighed. “I’d hoped that one would slip past you. Guess I should have known better.”

“Yeah. You should have. But… Look, I… Why are we fighting? And when are you coming home?”

Silence for a moment, then: “I don’t know. Derek’s parents are out here, raising hell about when the coroner might release the body. And we just found out that Yvette’s been out of the country for at least six weeks. So basically we don’t have the slightest fuckin’ clue who’s in charge at DriveRate anymore.”

Mr. Hughes dragged Amanda back to the present by tapping his pen on the legal pad.

She snapped back to attention, trying to remember the question he’d asked.

He asked, “Hello, are you still with me? Why did you file a complaint?”

“It’s nothing I can talk about. It was just the nature of a role I played that night.”

The DA frowned. “What, exactly, did you take exception to?”

God. Didn’t ‘no’ count for anything anymore? “Without going into detail, I felt the emotional context was harmful for the client. It was exploitive, like we were preying on a weakness for money.”

“You think no one is ever exploited in this place?”

“Not like that. I mean, I know this place isn’t exactly a bastion of emotional stability, but until that night, I had never taken part in a fantasy that didn’t leave a client feeling better than when they got here. I guess it shook my faith in the screening process. And in Steph.”

Mr. Hughes’s features soured. “I see. And for what it’s worth, I agree. Steph is much different now than she was before Robert Warnous appeared on the scene. And the change is not for the better.”

Amanda knew that. She agreed wholeheartedly that Robert Warnous was to blame for some of Steph’s recent nonsense. But she would be wise to stay off the subject as much as possible.

With a weighty sigh, the DA glanced down at his list. “Okay, let’s talk about the next day’s meeting. The one where Scott Milazzo revealed his findings.”

Lord, what an overwhelming morning that had been. The same management group, minus Mercury, had assembled again. Scott explained that he had definitively ruled out Ridley Pierce as a possible DriveRate operative. She simply had never been anywhere near a computer terminal during periods of suspicious activity.

“Wait a minute,” Marla had interrupted. “How can that be? She admitted going to DriveRate seminars, and you all saw Thomas. He threatened Ridley that day at the mixer after Amanda told us about auditions. Remember? When Ridley told Derek he was the first one she’d fire once she was running Fantasy Heights?”