His Dark Secret - Part 1 (Erotic Romance Serial Novel) (5 page)

“I’m sorry I have to do this, but
I’ve got to make a meeting right now. Dealing with the creative team on a side
project. Miserable stuff, but it’s got to get done.”

“That’s okay.”

Scott smiled, leaned in, kissing
me on the forehead.

“Thanks for being understanding.
Feel free to eat anything out of the fridge. I recommend the bacon and eggs,
but skip out on juice or milk if you’re feeling sick. Stay as long as you want,
you have free reign in here.” By this time he was in the other room, almost at
the front door I wagered. “Oh, and leave your number on the counter so I can
call. I’d like to see you again.”

I heard the door slam, and I was
alone in Scott Rushmand’s apartment. Everything was so confusing; my head
couldn't string together two thoughts. I stripped out of the ridiculous outfit
and showered. I was sore, especially between the legs and where Scott had
spanked me, so the shower was a relief. Hot water on my skin, breathing in the
steam, my head felt a little better.

I toweled off and fell back on the
bed, closing my eyes, trying to organize everything that had happened. Last
night, I had had sex with a movie director that I had just met yesterday and
let him tape me. It was great, but this was new. This was a big step into
something, personally. Before the previous night I had only ever been with
Jamison, and never in such a way.

I went over the details of
everything we had done and felt both embarrassed and excited. Scott hadn’t been
forceful, but he had made an effort to control me, and I had given in. I had
enjoyed struggling under the physical and metaphorical bonds, that there was a
pressure, something to push up against.

I grabbed water from the bathroom,
and began to dress. While slipping into Jenny’s cocktail dress, I remembered
how Scott had looked at it, me, the night before, in the bar, with that big,
genuine smile. And how he had held me, both soft and strong at the same time,
able to pick me up at a go.

Shaking my head, I slipped on my high
heels, headed into the suite. This wasn’t good. I couldn’t be getting involved
with anyone right now, a small pang of fear shot up my spine as I thought about
Jamison, how he had treated me. Most likely Scott wouldn’t be abusive, but he
could hurt me in other ways. Cynthia came to mind, how she had gone out of her
way to make me feel small, to demean me. Maybe it had been to get Scott’s
attention, make me less in his eyes. But he had chosen to defend me, take me
home last night. But for how long would he continue to choose me? Jenny’s
admonitions about the “Hollywood type” echoed in my mind.

But through all the fear, the
uncertainty, I knew one thing: I wanted to see Scott again. I searched the
kitchen, passing on the food for the time being, and found a notepad. I jotted
down my name, number, and after a second thought, I wrote a little message.

“Thanks for letting me into your
world. Hope to see you soon.”

The next two weeks, I didn’t see
him, or hear a single word from him.

Jenny was encouraging at first.
“These Hollywood guys, everyone’s always busy. He’s probably working on so many
projects right now, he can’t spare time for himself.” But I remembered not long
ago how she’d told me these same Hollywood types would toss a girl to the side
after using her, and I grew progressively more sullen over the days. Jenny
stopped trying to encourage me, didn’t give me an “I-told-you-so-routine,” she
just worked to distract me. She treated me to the Museum of Contemporary Art,
which helped lift my spirits.

What didn’t help was when I got a
message from Mythic stating that shooting would begin again a week from Friday.
It had been over a week since the night I’d spent with Scott, and the prospect
of seeing him again, having to wear that outfit in front everyone, was too much
to handle. While a small part of me wanted to see him again, even if just in
passing or in a professional setting, the rest of me was still hurt by his
silence.

During this time I had gotten a
job, working a few days a week at a frozen yogurt shop, Kiwi. The work was
easy, just arranging toppings on one of our four flavors. If we got a rush it
could be stressful having to deal with screaming children and uppity couples
just looking for you to make a mistake. But I was making money and able to help
Jenny out with the bills.

It was the day after I had gotten
the message from Mythic. Business was steady, and I was busy filling out
orders. Over the tables a TV was tuned to an entertainment news channel,
dishing out the latest Hollywood gossip. I wasn’t paying much attention, the
last I’d listened in they were following some new starlet on Venice Beach. I
had just finished helping out a family of five when I heard Scott Rushmand’s
name announced. I moved to the edge of the station, paying attention to the
news. A pretty, black haired announcer in a professional gray suit was
following the story.

“Famed Producer/Director Scott
Rushmand, founder of Mythic Studios, might be in some trouble. Rushmand is at
the heart of a new scandal involving an unknown woman.”

A picture of Scott came up behind
the announcer, his crooked smile leering out of the set. My heart sank and my
face grew hot with anger. He had gotten my hopes up that something more might
happen between us, and in less than two weeks he was already messing around
with some bimbo. It was exactly as Jenny had warned me. I imagined him
whispering sweetly to a girl who looked strikingly like Cynthia, as he tied her
to his bed and had his way with her. A masochistic part of me continued to
watch the story played out.

“An unknown source posted a video
onto a discussion board around 1:00am last night, and it was soon linked to
from over two-hundred websites. In the leaked sex tape, Mr. Rushmand and the
woman get into some raunchy S&M situations.”

A hollowness expanded like a
sinkhole from the bottom of my stomach and the hair at the nape of my neck
began to prickle. No. It was impossible!

A picture took over the screen and
the ground fell out from under my feet. The image was surprisingly clear for a
camcorder. A brown haired girl was kneeling in a doorway, illuminated from
behind. She was wearing a gold thong with metal tassels and a burgundy ribbon
top so shear they had censored her nipples. Her hands were raised above her
head and she was looking directly into the camera. They were my own hazel eyes
looking out at me.

The story was still going, but I
wasn’t watching the TV anymore, I was looking around the shop, mortified,
hoping not to be seen. None of the customers seemed to have been paying
attention, but the other girl working the counter was looking directly at me.
Her brown eyes were wide with shock.

“Is that-“

I didn’t bother to let her finish.
I rushed into the back, throwing off my apron and grabbing my bag. I didn’t
want to go back through the front, so I took the side door to the street. I
don’t know how I got onto the right bus, but I did. I was paranoid, convinced
that every passenger knew about the sex tape, that in an instant I would be
recognized. I tried to make myself as small as possible against the plastic
seat.

I made it to my stop without any
issues. Walking to the apartment, the breeze playing against my skin, I began
to relax. Maybe no one will notice, I thought to myself. These scandals they
pop up and blow away, dozens of them in a week. And they may have my picture,
but they don’t know who I am. I’m not famous so why bother following it up.

My delusions were dashed as I
walked into the courtyard of the condo, which was filled with people. Cameras,
recorders, notepads in every hand. A primpy blonde caught sight of me, and they
all descended.

“Ms. Jane!”

“Ms. Jane can I get a statement?”

“Harold Tremont, Bloggertainment,
can I-“

“Samantha how was it?”

“What’s with the costume?”

“How long have you known Scott
Rushmand?”

Bulbs were flashing and their
words were like a torrent crashing down on me. I forced my way through them,
tears streaming down my face as I rushed up the stairs to Jenny’s apartment. I
fumbled with the keys, dropping them. My mind blocked out the noise, the
shouts, the lights, just concentrated on getting the key in the door. Just get
inside, I told myself. It’s safe inside. The lock clicked and I slammed the
door behind me.

Jenny was sitting on the couch, a
confused expression on her face.

“What’s with the crowd out there?
You’d think somebody had died.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She noticed the tears streaming
down my face and crossed over to me.

“Sammy, what’s wrong?”

She grabbed onto my arms, and I
tried to push past her, but she wouldn’t let me. I was shaking so hard I could
barely control myself. Her face was tense with concern and worry.

“What’s going on? Are those people
out there for you?”

Face hot and wet, something was
welling up inside me. I heard myself start to yell, “I don’t want to talk-“ but
was stopped short when my phone began to ring. I opened my bag and checked the
number. It was a private number. On the third ring I answered.

“Who is this?”

A man sighed on the other end, a
sigh very familiar, reaching out to me over the days of the last week.

“We need to talk.”

I was half asleep when a knock
came to the door of the guest bedroom. I had been dreaming, dreaming something
wonderful. The larger picture, the context of everything escaped me. I turned
over trying to trace the details in the cracks of the ceiling. There had been a
large space, a field in the valley of a mountain. There had been a stream that
ran from the mountain, small and clear. There were no trees but tall grass, and
everything had a golden-green hue. Another image, another place and I was
standing at the top of a parking structure, big and open. The sun shone white
in a sky that arched down blue over everything. Someone had been there, a face
I didn’t recognize but the presence felt old and familiar. Comforting.
Everything detail spoke comfort to me and I sunk deeper into that warmth.

Another knock at the door and I
was brought to the present:  the stale odor of the lived in room and the
hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. I turned over, facing the door, the
side of my face pressed into the pillow. “Come in.”

I heard the door open and the
steps of someone entering. There was no need to turn over and see who it was
since no one had been in the apartment for days except Jenny and I. The springs
of the mattress shifted as she sat down next to me. She was stroking the hair
back from my face, just as my mother had when I was small and scared back in
Elgin. While the biggest part of me was filled with fear and shame at the idea
of my mother finding out about what was happening to me here in L.A., a small
part wished she could be here right now to comfort me, make it all better. But
Jenny had been doing a good job in making up for this absence.

I had spent the better part of the
week locked away in the apartment, keeping to the dark of my closed-curtained
bedroom. Though initially shook-up, Jenny had taken control of things quickly,
keeping out the paparazzi, getting me to eat now and again, but mostly keeping
me company.

Everyday after work she’d come in
and would talk to me. Anything that crossed her mind, from the funny looking
bus driver she’d seen three days ago to an anecdote from our days back in Elgin
became the perfect topics of conversation. She’d distract me before mentioning
a word about the scandal, and even then only to illustrate how it was
diminishing. I ticked off in my head the bits of good news she had brought,
markers of the time that had past: a day since the last reporter had left the
apartment complex, two days since the scandal had faded into the background of
the entertainment news, eight days since I’d run out of Kiwi, my world
collapsing around me.

I sat up in bed, hugging my knees.

“What time is it?”

Jenny replied, “It’s just a little
before eight.”

“I slept all day again?”

“No, it’s still morning. Thought
you should have a good breakfast today, get out of your room like a normal
person.”

“I don’t feel like a normal
person.”

“I know, honey, that’s why I’m
getting you up. Just sit on the couch and I’ll get everything ready.”

I gave a disgruntled sigh as I
followed Jenny into the living room. Everything was bright and clean, all in
direct opposition to my mood. I sat down as I’d been told, and Jenny brought a
tall glass of orange juice.