Command Performance (4 page)

Mason shrugged. “Couples break up. Like I said, we might not make it past a few dates.”

“But won’t everyone assume she broke up with you because you’re too subversive?” Nell asked.

The table fell silent. “So what are you saying?” Mason scratched his forehead. “I’d have to go out with her for more than a few dates?”

“That’s why I think you should just be up front with her—” Jeremy started, but the women waved him down.

“I think she’s pretty, and you already said she’s a nice person,” said Nell. “I think you should be your gallant, sweet self and date her for a while. Six months maybe. That’s not really that long. Introduce her to people and get her into those movies she wants to be in, for God’s sake. Make her so famous that when you break up with her, she won’t even notice until her publicist points it out.”

Mason thought a moment. “It might work. Maybe we can help each other out.”

“But don’t phrase it like that,” said Nell. “It’s so unromantic.” She cut her eyes at her husband. His answer to that was to wrestle her out of her chair and over his lap for a few wild spanks while she shrieked and laughed uncontrollably. Mason watched in jealous amusement. What he wouldn’t do for a fun, kinky relationship like theirs. It’s not like he could grab Mireille Durand and turn her over his lap, even after they’d been dating for a while. Jesus, why couldn’t he just find a nice, perverted woman to settle down with?

Because his goddamned PR problems had to be fixed first.

After dinner, Kai broke out the champagne, and soon the loaded glances were flying. Nell’s impromptu spanking had set the tone for the rest of the evening. Mason’s problems were forgotten, replaced by an undercurrent of sexual energy. Jeremy, Nell, Kai, and Constance had been having foursomes for a while. Just before the ball dropped, the couples discreetly excused themselves from the sunken living room to file upstairs to the Chandlers’ play space.

Mason looked over at Sats and put down his champagne. “I suppose we should leave and let the fabulous four do what they do best.”

“You could stay, you know. Join them. They wouldn’t mind.”

“Ah, but I’d be a third wheel. Or fifth wheel, I suppose. Maybe you and I can...?”

Satya sobered and shook her head. “New Year’s resolution. No more casual sex.”

“Oh, come on. Really? Why?”

“It’s time for me to stop. Not that I haven’t enjoyed it, but it’s keeping me from moving on and doing the things I should be doing. Like finding a real guy.”

“I’m a real guy.”

She took his face in her hands and squeezed his cheeks. “You’re a mirage. A fantasy.”

“Yes, to everyone but you. You let me be real. I need you.” He hated how desperate he sounded, but it was true.

Satya was unmoved, of course. “Don’t overreact, Mace. It’s time for you to move on too. Jess left you two years ago.”

“Thanks for yet another reminder.” How could she be so glib about all this? Because she was Satya and she was heartless. “You should have told me last time that it was going to be the end.”

“Why? So you could engineer a big dramatic send-off? Make me orgasm until I passed out and then woke up to proclaim that I could never live without your cock?”

“Well, yes. That would have been awesome.” He ignored her snort, his mind racing to untangle Satya’s unexpected withdrawal. It was out of left field, and it hurt. “Is it because... God. Were you just doing it for me? Pity sex, to help me feel better?”

“No. Of course I wasn’t.”

Mason looked deep into her eyes, searching for answers. “So you started wanting more?”

She flinched, just a little, but he saw it. “Maybe. I guess so.”

“More in general, or more from me?”

“Mason.” Satya rubbed her eyes in a rare show of distress. “Okay, maybe I daydreamed about you and me together. Sometimes. But remember, I walked in on that sicko party Kai threw here a couple years ago. I saw firsthand what kind of stuff you’re into, and it’s never going to be my thing.”

“Yes, okay, I was at a swinging party, because Kai and Constance happen to enjoy swinging. And my ex-wife, hell, she raised it to a whole new art form. Yes, I was there. That doesn’t mean I have to have it to survive. What did you actually see me doing there?”

Satya thought a moment. “Fighting with your wife.”

“Exactly. And about an hour before that I was pouring a sob story in Constance’s ear, rather than fucking her. Although I seem to recall that I fucked her after the sob story.”

“Ugh. That’s my sister-in-law you’re talking about. My brother’s wife.”

“They weren’t married then. Anyway, it’s their kink, they enjoy it.”

“And you enjoy it.”

“Maybe. When I’m in the mood for it.”

“And that’s okay. But that’s why we—me and you—have to end. I’m not going to change who I am, not for you or anyone else. And I could never ask you to change for me. There are things I like about you and things I hate about you. I don’t want the things I hate about you to ruin both our lives.”

It was Mason’s turn to flinch. “Wow. Harsh.”

“Not harshness. Truth. I’m not into the things you’re into, and you deserve to have the things you’re into. I deserve a man that’s a better match for me.”

Mason pouted. “A man for you to verbally abuse and trample all over. Poor fuck. I pity him already.”

She flicked him upside the head. “You’ll always be one of my closest friends. I knew you back when you were Darwin Kulik, with a mullet from hell and an epic overbite.”

“Shh.”

Satya laughed and hugged him. He breathed in the smell of her, his secret lover. His friend and co-conspirator for so long.

“I’ll miss fucking you, Sats.”

“Ever the romantic.”

“I can’t believe you’re deserting me now, when I’ll be dating Miss Wholesome Durand and feeling unsatisfied and horny as hell.”

“She might not date you,” Satya said. “Did you ever think of that? She’ll be good for your image, but you’ll be bad for hers. Maybe she won’t even have you. And if she will...” Satya waved a finger in his face. “Try to develop a normal conscience. Unlike these degenerates here, most women don’t appreciate sharing their partners. If you start dating her in good faith—and I think you should—it would be really jerky to continue fucking me.”

“I hate you when you’re right.”

Satya smirked. “Then you must hate me all the time.” She looked over her shoulder at the Chandlers’ wide screen TV. “The ball’s dropping.” She turned back to him and ruffled his hair. “And I wish for you...I wish for you the happiness you deserve. This scandal will die down. Hang in there.”

“And I wish for you the perfect man. A real winner you don’t hate as much as me.”

They clinked their glasses together.

“New Year’s wishes,” said Mason. “They have to come true, right?”

“They have to.” Satya nodded her head. Her certainty made him feel a little better, but not much. He watched her leave a few minutes later with a mixture of misery and frustration. He followed soon afterward as the noises from the play room started to escalate. Moans, rhythmic impact sounds, excited screams.

Mireille Durand. He’d have to get her number and set something up. Something very photo-worthy and public. She was sweet and cute, and seemed like a nice person.

Hell, he hoped this worked.

Miri was nervous enough without her father glowering at her from the living room.
Breathe. Breathe.
Damn, she couldn’t breathe. She blamed it on the industrial-strength shaping undergarment under the gauzy, floor-length, jade-colored gown she wore.

How about those drinks,
Mason had asked when he called the week before. But not drinks at a bar or restaurant. Mason Cooke was taking her to the Golden Globes. “There’s a bar there,” he said. Like she needed some motivation to attend with him besides the fact that it would be the most exciting event of her life. Mason’s publicist called, and then Miri’s agent, and then Mason’s studio’s stylist was knocking at her door with a truck full of designer gowns. There had been a week of fittings, consultations, hurried calls from Mason checking that everything was going okay.

She had dreamed of him every night, drawing heavily on her memories from the set. She didn’t dream about Mason’s character raping her though. She dreamed about Mason kissing her hard, pressing against her and holding her down. Not in violence, but in passion. In her dream, the feel of him was so vivid, so palpable that she almost believed he was in bed with her. She felt some tactile memories very specifically, like the scrape of his stubble across her jaw and the warmth of his skin. Beyond that, she had a vague sensation of him making love to her in a dreamlike way. Or almost making love to her. She felt the hardness of his cock in her dream, and yet she sensed a calm, genial softness as well, to take all the fear away. Why would she be afraid of him? In her dream, she couldn’t remember. To her disappointment, she always woke before she reached any kind of release, and she’d stare at the ceiling in the dark, dazed.

Don’t think about that now, you sex-starved wanton.
Miri paced. With the girdle, she couldn’t sit down anyway. Mason was late, but then they didn’t live anywhere near his posh Malibu address. Miri needed to get her own place. It was on her to-do list once the second wave of her career took off.

“Watch out for him,” Peter Durand intoned for twentieth time. “You think he’s a nice guy, but I know better.”

“Dad, you realize I’m twenty-four.”

“I don’t care. Be on your guard. If he wants to take you to any parties afterward, you say no and come home.”

“Okay. Whatever.”

“I’m serious. You have no idea what goes on at those parties. Drugs and sexual depravity.”

She noticed he didn’t mention alcohol. Hypocrite. Miri looked out the window again.

“I know you’ve seen the stories about him,” her father persisted. “Don’t they worry you?”

“Those stories are hardly ever true, and even if they are, who cares? We’re going to the Golden Globes, not some orgy or whatever.” Miri could hardly believe she’d said that word to her father.

Neither could he. He stood and strode over to her. “You might not care, but I do. This town ate your sister alive—”

“I’m not my sister. When are you going to get over that already?”

He paled. “Never. I’ll never get over it. And I won’t lose you too.”

Miri pushed past him and shut herself in the bathroom, wobbling for a moment on her heels.
Breathe in. Breathe out. I can’t breathe.
Her father was suffocating her, slowly but surely. She looked in the mirror, adjusting her dangling diamond earrings. Loaners, via Mason’s stylist. A diamond choker and bracelet completed the stunning set. Her light blonde hair was done up in a twist with some spiral tendrils falling loose. She looked very retro, Victorian almost, with her gauzy draped dress and soft up-do. The stylist knew his stuff, because the jade color of the dress really brought out the green in her eyes. He had done her makeup too before he left a short while ago. He’d promised her it would last all night. The drawback to long lasting makeup—she could barely move her face.

Where was Mason? What would he look like? What would they talk about?
Why was he taking her to the Golden Globes?

The doorbell sounded. She hoped it was some minion of his, not the megastar himself. She was ashamed of their pedestrian little house because she knew Mason Cooke must live in a show place. And her dad...

She reentered the living room to find Mason and her father eyeballing each other. Mason was tall, tuxedoed elegance, his black tie shining, his dark hair styled just so. Her short, burly father sized him up with his arms crossed over his chest. Miri tried to sweep across the room gracefully while blushing to her ears. She resisted the urge to pick at her hair, to rub her face in nervousness as Mason turned to her.

And then he smiled.

Oh, that smile. How could he be the sexually deviant monster of those stories with a smile like that? His handsome charm was so Hollywood, so blinding, she almost didn’t notice the large bouquet of flowers in his hand. He waved it sheepishly, then looked at her dad and back at her.

“Hi, Miri. Ready to go to the prom?”

She burst out laughing and then cringed as the full body girdle of torture dug into her ribs. She crossed and took the flowers, a riotous tissue-wrapped arrangement of roses, lilies, daisies, and carnations. “Wow.” It was all she could come up with. “Wow.” He was so tall, so overpowering there in their living room-slash-foyer.

“Wow is right,” Mason said. “You look amazing.” He glanced at his watch and then at her dad again. “I’d love to stay and chat, but we’re running late. Maybe your dad can put those in a vase with some water?” He took the flowers from her and shoved them at her father. Miri thought she saw a vein pulse in the older man’s forehead, just next to one of his more impressive scars. Before her dad could open his mouth to reply, Mason reached for her elbow, guiding her to the door.

“You have your clutch? Damn, but those diamonds look lovely.”

And somehow he had her out the door and down the walk before her father could do much more than call out goodbye. He frowned from the porch as the limo pulled away from their sad brown stretch of lawn.

Mason raised his eyebrows and gave her a woeful look. “I think your dad doesn’t like me.”

Again, Miri burst into unreasonable—and painful—laughter. She held out an arm. “Please don’t make me laugh. I can hardly...even...breathe.”

“I wasn’t trying to make you laugh. Literally, I sensed his hatred.”

Something about his offhand tone, his combination of humor and hurt feelings sent her off into more breathless peals of laughter. “Stop...for real...”

He watched her with twinkling eyes and a subtle quirk of his lips. “Don’t pass out. Or die. Although I think these limos all have defibrillators now.”

She put a hand over her heart, praying for calm. He was killing her—with his good looks, his deadpan sense of humor, his charm. He fell silent a moment, allowing her to collect herself. She opened her clutch, a tiny useless bag that held only three things: a tissue, lipstick refresher, and a compact mirror. She had to sacrifice the tissue already to dab at her eyes. Finally, she eased back against the seat and chanced a look at him, hoping he wouldn’t start her laughing again.