The ping of the elevator echoes across the courtyard. Ben Chalmer crouches forward, so the screen hides half his face. But as always Tony glances neither left nor right as he steps from the elevator and walks along the breezeway.
Ben knows he isn't being rational. What if Tony saw him? A man at his desk, a laptop in front of him, staring out the window. What would that Neanderthal think?
Damn scribbler! Bet he makes a killing with his BS.
Yeah, right.
Tony flicks a cigarette over the balustrade, then knocks on Isabella's door. Eight p.m. sharp – leave it to Tony to waste no time. Isabella got home twenty minutes ago.
The door opens. Tony disappears. Acid boils up from Ben's stomach.
He pops two Pepcids, slams shut his laptop. No way he'll get anything done now.
He leans back in his chair. The courtyard lies in shadow, the sky is Kool-Aid pink. A translucent image of himself hovers in the window: a man in his forties, a tired expression around the mouth. He pushes his ash-colored hair into place.
Back in Santa Monica, he could watch the sun melt into the Pacific. No chance of that here, in the center of God's ashtray. Welcome to Smell-A!
But you want to be close to her, don't you?
Seven months and five days ago (a Wednesday) he was clicking through those websites – to avoid tackling that all-decisive second act. He knew the real thing was not for sale. He was done with this. What made him change his mind? Not Isabella's pictures: generic, face blurred. Her text? He noticed irony. On the phone she was matter-of-fact. Her voice was soothing.
Three hours later he knocked on a door in a Hollywood apartment building. The usual lag of time while he sensed the eye behind the peephole. The door swung open. He stepped into the hallway, feeling the familiar thrill. Isabella emerged from behind the door.
His breath came up short. This girl could never have nurtured a bad thought. There was a dimple in her left cheek. Her large brown eyes shone with curiosity, no judgment in them. Her throat moved as she swallowed, the long neck looking fragile. All of her looked fragile. She was a head shorter than him, 5' 8" maybe, above average for a woman of her race. But her build was more slender than he had judged from the pictures. The image of a roe he had seen grazing by a lake a couple of weeks ago on trip to Big Bear flashed through his mind. A strand of her dark hair fell in waves down the side of her face, lay in a curl atop her bosom.
"Hello," she said quietly.
"Hi."
He stretched out his hand, placed the strand behind her ear, letting the tip of his thumb linger on her temple. Her mouth opened in a smile to reveal a set of large perfect teeth. She closed the door. Then she took the envelope from his fingers and without even looking inside threw it onto a side table. She pulled him into the bedroom. Three candles burning on a low table, their flames reflected in a dressing mirror. A scent of coconut and lime emanating from them. Jazz on the stereo. Sinking back onto the crisp linen, he recognized Charlie Parker's
Lover Man
– how appropriate! Isabella leaned over him. Her areolas shimmered through the lacy brassiere. He reached underneath her arms and unclasped it. Her full breasts spilled across his face as he raised his upper body. Her skin was taut and finely grained like that of a ripe pear. He could barely feel the implants. Oh well, this was La-La land, and anyway, he was no purist. Nothing wrong with improving on nature, particularly if perfection was the outcome.
She grasped his wrists, pushed them into the cushion. "Let me."
Her lips moved down his sternum and across his abdomen. They paused below his navel, tracked sideways, then down again. He moaned in anticipation as she kissed the inside of his thighs, then her mouth closed around his scrotum, and he gasped. She held his testicles between her teeth, her tongue playing with him. Suddenly her eyes were looking down into his.
"You like that?"
He nodded.
She grinned, while a fingernail ran up his penis. "I can tell. We're getting some life here."
She took him in her mouth, all of him, like he did not exist. The colors of the surrounding objects began to run. Later he thought his heart might have missed a beat or two. But he did he did not empty himself, not at this point. She would not let him. Her fingers were curled around his scrotum, choking off the spasm. Her mouth moved up and down on his penis, consuming him repeatedly, but release was denied him.
He whimpered.
She knelt up, her left hand still holding him. Her grip was both firm and gentle.
His manhood throbbed in the empty air. She gave its head a playful touch with her right index finger. "Now it's ready for me."
She reached underneath the pillow, pulled out a condom. She tore open the packet with her teeth, positioned the condom between her lips, pushed its tip out with her tongue, and placed it on his penis. Her touch was so light this time, he barely felt it.
She positioned her elbows beside his rib cage. "You'll never forget this."
She held his manhood upright, then lowered herself onto him. A warm resistance gave way as his penis advanced into her. Slowly she sank back, engulfing him. Like her hand had held his scrotum, with a calm but sure softness, she now enclosed his manhood.
"You won't come," she stated.
Then she raised and lowered herself, only a little and with patience. Their eyes locked. When she knew that he would do as he was told, she began to move faster. Her womanhood gripped his penis as she moved up and down. On each upward movement, she exposed a little more of his shaft, so that soon, at the maximum extension of the movement, only his tip was still inside her. Once she paused there, his penis yearning to be swallowed again. He began to raise his lower body, but she pressed down on his abdomen with her fingertips.
She shook her head, winked, and resumed her movement.
Soon his bowels were turning fluid. "I think I can't...." She reached behind herself, and her fingers were again around his scrotum. But this time they were not gentle, pulling his testicles away from his body with steady force. He squirmed underneath her, her back arched, her flesh shivered around him, and he thought he heard a tiny gasp, like air rushing away from a closing door.
She lay down beside him, pulled off the condom. Her hand gripped him and gave a fast shake. He emptied himself with a force that allowed for no residue to be left.
"Geez....you want to go clean up?"
When he came out of the bathroom and lay down beside her, she put a hand on his chest. "I enjoyed you."
"Thank you." He nestled his face in her hair. "I was not expecting that."
She snorted. "I know. Guys underestimate me."
"Won't happen again, at least not with this guy."
They lay in silence for some minutes. She broke it by telling him it was only her second month in this biz. He laughed. What was he laughing about? Oh, the generosity of the gods. She made a face, like she couldn't handle poetry. It was exciting, she said, a nice break from the books. She wanted to become an attorney, specialize in family law. He leant over to kiss her mouth. She submitted, even opened her lips a little, before turning aside with a giggle.
He hardly slept till Isabella's next workday, only a little better after that because she gave him a new appointment. It became his ambition to make her happy: to see her eyes light up as the wrapping fell under her fingers to reveal a Louis Vuitton bag or a Cartier watch. Then to feel those soft lips touch him....
The ringing of the phone wakes Ben from his reveries. He checks the display, hesitates, picks up.
"Ben, I waited the whole effing day for that rewrite...."
"It's...in the works."
A smacking sound as Phil draws on his cigarette. "I'm meeting the suits tomorrow! The hell you think I should tell'em? Sorry, gentlemen,
Monsieur artiste
wasn't kissed by the muse?!"
"I'm almost there."
"Keep hearin' almost. How about you do us all a favour? Look up deadline one of these days!"
