Money Shot

way open and went right in.

The room at the end of the hall was mostly empty, except for a large wrought-iron bed with a bare mattress covered in plastic. Sam stood against the far wall, beside an empty fireplace. There were two other men I didn’t recognize, but I didn’t get much of a look at them because Jesse was right by the door looking delicious, dark hair tousled and blue eyes smoldering, ready to go. He wore leather pants that hung so low on his lean hips that you would have seen his pubic hair if he hadn’t shaved it off. His sleek, lanky torso was bare and sheened with sweat that highlighted the symmetrical perfection of every muscle. He stepped up to me, gave me an appreciative once- over and smiled.

“Angel Dare,” he said. “Wow. You look amazing. This is gonna be awesome.”

He reached down and squeezed his most famous feature through his tight leather pants. Then he punched me in the face.

3.

I wasn’t out cold, but it hurt like hell and everything went red and swimmy. I could feel rough hands on my body, wrenching my clothes and throwing me down on slick, crinkly plastic. Scratchy rope around my wrists and ankles and my first semi-delirious thought was, Bondage, are they crazy? You can’t shoot bondage and sex in the same scene!

Then the pain kind of tightened and focused down to a nasty throb in my left cheekbone and temple and I was able to see again, to put my mind to the task of moving beyond the holy shit phase and into working out exactly what sort of trouble I had gotten myself into. I should have known something wasn’t right about this set-up as soon as Sam gave me the Bel Air address. Nobody in porn ever goes over the hill for anything if they can help it.

Near as I could figure, I was tied in a sloppy and unimaginative spread eagle, face up. My shirt and bra were shoved up under my chin and my skirt was torn up to the waist. I had no idea what had happened to my panties. Jesse stood over me to my left with the kind of lobotomized expression men get when they have their hands in their pants. Behind him was one of the two strangers. Thick and dead-eyed with skin the color of boiled potatoes and a build like a rhino on steroids. He was wearing tight leather gloves and did not have his hand in his pants. He had Sam by the arm, holding him near the bed like a naughty kid about to be punished.

“They have Georgie,” Sam said, his voice barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

The rhino gave Sam a casual cuff to the side of the head that would have knocked him to the ground if the guy hadn’t been holding him up.

“Jesus!” Sam said.

“Shut up,” the rhino said, mildly, like he was ordering a beer.

Sam squeezed his eyes closed and hung his head.

I was about to say something really stupid that involved the rhino’s mother when the other guy came forward, sliding slowly into view on my right. I knew then that the rhino was the least of my worries.

This guy was the type you don’t even see. Invisible, just a guy like a hundred other guys. Medium build, brown hair, forgettable features above a forgettable shirt and a forgettable tie. But once you did notice him, once you saw past the bland, everyman veneer, once you looked in his eyes, you saw this was a very bad man. He gave off a powerful alpha vibe that all the other men in the room deferred to without hesitation. There was no question that he was the boss.

“Where is the money?” he asked.

I didn’t even bother to say what money or anything at all. I just squinted at him, silent and furious and wondering what it was going to take to get out of this in one piece.

The boss tilted his chin toward me.

“Ask her,” he said.

Jesse smiled and gave me a tight right to the belly.

I had a few panicked seconds where I was sure I was about to puke. My body fought to curl up around the pain, but my limbs were tied so I stayed splayed, drowning in nauseous agony.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, or tried to. What came out was more of a breathless wheeze with no consonants.

“A girl came into your office with something that didn’t belong to her,” the boss said. “A briefcase. She left without it. It isn’t anywhere in your office or your house. Where is it?”

It all came back to me in a sickening rush. That girl. The anxious blonde with the Dracula accent who came to my office just before lunch, about six hours before Sam’s call. The one who was looking for one of my models, Zandora Dior.

“Lia,” she said her name was, sitting there on the other side of my desk and seeming lost inside an extra large Lakers t-shirt.

Her big green eyes were evasive, her body language tense and urgent. Her frosted blonde hair was obviously expensive, and her thick fake nails were fresh and glossy, but her body was undernourished, toneless and skinny-fat and her skin was bad, broken out around her tiny rosebud mouth. She wore no make-up but I could tell that she would still doll up well enough to shoot for another six months or so. The t-shirt was as long as a dress, nearly covering the tight black skirt beneath and making her look like she had forgotten her pants. The briefcase sat between her big feet. I barely noticed it.

“Do you have ID?” I had asked her, sizing her up, looking at her pale, childish legs and the expensive high heels that were way too dressy to go with the t-shirt. I saw nothing but trouble. “I can’t even take test shots of you if you don’t have an American driver’s license.”

“I am not wanting work,” she said. “I am wanting Lenuta Vasilescu. In the movies, she is Zandora Dior.”

I looked the girl over again, wondering what this was all about.

“Zandora’s featuring,” I said.

Lia frowned like she had no idea what I was talking about.

“She’s out of town, featuring.” I elaborated. “You know, dancing. On the road.”

“When will she be back?” Lia asked.

“Monday,” I replied.

“Oh,” Lia said, looking down at the briefcase and twisting her skinny fingers in her lap like a child. “Can I please have her phone number? We are friends together as children in Brasov. It is very important. I need to speak to her right away.”

Maybe because she knew Zandora’s real name, or because she was obviously Romanian too, or maybe because she looked so small and desperate, like a bird with a broken wing, I impulsively felt like helping her out. There was no way in hell I was going to give her Zandora’s private cell number, but I also wasn’t going to just tell the kid to fuck off with her sitting there looking like she was trying really hard not to bust out in tears.

“Do you want me to give her a message?” I asked.

“It’s...” The girl swallowed hard and looked away. “It’s private.”

“Tell you what,” I replied. “Why don’t you write her a note with your phone number and whatever else. I can fax it to the club Zandora’s booked at and then she can call you.”

“Okay,” Lia said. It was clear that she was not happy about it, but in too much of a hurry to argue. “Can I have paper?”

I gave her a blank sheet out of my printer and a sparkly purple Daring Angels pen. She leaned over my desk and wrote fast and hard, like she was trying to engrave the words into stone. She was clearly writing way more than a phone number. In fact, I didn’t see anything that looked like a phone number at all. Just a crowded block of looping, girly script infested with strange hooks and squiggles. Even upside down, I could see she wasn’t writing in English.

I felt a little weird sending Zandora a note I couldn’t read, but after all, it was only a note. Even if it turned out to be some crazy stalker shit or who knew what else, Zandora didn’t have to respond. It wasn’t like I was giving the girl Zandora’s number or even letting her know which club would be receiving her mystery message. But it should be enough to placate the anxious blonde and get her out of my office. Her wounded bird routine was starting