Kamikaze Lust (30 page)

I could only imagine the number of paychecks, credit cards, second mortgages that paved these roads to Rome. Me, I was on the porn-star package; all expenses paid. I fought another flash of the plane, turning instead to the tranced-out tourists dipping into their plastic coin buckets and bowing before the quarter slots as if they’d hit Mecca. It was a religious thing as far as I could tell, you pull, you pray.

RR cashed a few bills, and we practiced pulling and praying until the doorbells started giving me a headache. “What next?” I said.

He lifted me up against a dollar slot machine, slipped his knees in between my legs, and kissed me under the blaring lights of the casino. I tried to shut my eyes, be in the romance, but felt accosted by the ringing, the shouting, the clink of quarters jiggling in their containers. The fantasy hadn’t kicked in yet. I pulled my head back.

“Ever play baccarat?” he said.

“I’ve never played anything.” Because of my father’s OTB habit, I would have worn the same pair of sneakers through four years of high school if it hadn’t been for Aunt Lorraine. She always saw to it that I was taken care of. The thought of her hit me harder this time; here, where the fun never stopped. I grabbed the back of RR’s neck and kissed him to make everything else start melting away.

He lifted me from the slot machine, and on the way to the table explained the rules of baccarat. “All you need to do is remember the numbers.”

“I’m a verbal person.”

“Change your thinking,” he said.

Sitting down, I noticed a sign that said twenty-five-dollar minimum and almost gagged. “This is the James Bond game, isn’t it?”

“You know more than you think.”

“The name is Rod. Robbie Rod.”

“All right, if that’s who you want.” He set down two stacks of chips in front of me. “Are you ready to play?”

“Yes,” I nodded. It was a dull game, but for its high-rolling stakes. We simply bet on who would come closest to the number nine. I didn’t like the other players betting on my hand, it upped the pressure to win, and when I felt pressured my performance faltered. I finished a glass of champagne and ordered another.

“You should bet higher,” RR said.

“But I’m losing.”

“You worry too much, it’s kind of endearing, but enough already.”

“It’s your money,” I said, and he smiled. I put down a couple of chips and bet on the dealer. RR did the same. Not only was it his money, but now I had him following my bets. And he was supposed to know the game. My teeth chattered against the champagne glass as I sipped. The dealer drew an eight, beating everyone at the table. I won! The dealer slapped down the chips in front of us and screamed: “Winner!”

“I like that, could you say that again!” I shouted. The player next to me rolled his eyes. “What?”

“It’s etiquette,” RR nudged me. “You don’t talk like that to the dealer.”

I shrugged. “It was a joke.”

“Just play.”

Gamblers had no sense of humor. Dad used to come home with OTB tickets hanging out of his pockets and swear on his life he wasn’t gambling. The more Mom jeered at him, the more sober his contention. He hadn’t been near the place, how dare she even suggest it.

I finished another glass of champagne, and this time played three chips, with RR following my lead. I lost. Everyone at the table smiled. I felt as if the walls were screaming: Loser! I needed another drink, I needed more money. I wanted to win again.

Thankfully, RR pulled out another roll of chips. As if he were dripping with cash. Maybe he was. I had no idea where his money came from; apparently he hadn’t seen a movie through in years. What if it were his second mortgage I was running through? His vacation fund? He was going to kill me.

Yet the more scared and guilty I felt, the more liberal I became in my betting. I was convinced I could get it back, save his house, his car, his credit rating. With a stack of chips in front of me, I even went for the near-impossible tie. RR looked at me as if I were crazy. This was the all or nothing play. Just before the dealer flipped, he pushed out his pile of chips and tagged along again. Oh shit, I thought. My head spun like a slot machine.

I almost fell off my chair when the dealer and I both came up with seven. “Winner!” he shouted. I jumped up and down as our chips multiplied. RR in an uncharacteristic burst of passion grabbed me and hugged me. The bells in Caesar’s Palace sung simultaneously. “I am never leaving this casino!” I shouted.

My streak held out a while longer; no more big wins, however. The hotel comped us bottles of champagne, a steak dinner, and a limo home in the hopes of keeping us under its roof until we started losing again. I would have obliged, but RR made us quit. I’m not sure whether this was instinctive or because he had time on his side. There were no clocks in the casino. No windows. Nothing to distinguish one hour from the next, morning from evening.

Outside, night flashed electric. Like degenerate dignitaries we stepped into the house limo and set out for the proverbial dark, desert highway. Watching the strip shrink behind us, I thought it was probably morning in New York, one day since I found Tina Macadam at Shade’s apartment. It seemed like weeks ago when I kept to the facts, minutes when I let emotion seep through the cracks.

An attempt to banish Shade from my thoughts found me looking out the window, but the emptiness mimicked my heart. I leaned back against the spongy vinyl seat. RR’s arm stirred behind me. “Tired?” he said.

“Wired, actually.” I bounced back up, turned toward him. “So, how much did I make?” He smiled. “Come on, tell me, tell me.”

“A couple thousand, after you cut the losses.”

“Come on, really.”

“We were playing hundred dollar chips.”

“Jesus, you’re serious!” All night long I’d had no idea of the stakes, the chips were like Monopoly money to me.

“Beginner’s luck,” he said. “I promise you, it won’t last.”

“What does?”

“Now you’re talking.” He pinched my cheek, then looked out his window.

We were deep into nothingness. I could see the outline of a few black mountains surrounded by heavy clouds, inky air; space so empty I thought it counterfeit as a casino theme. It occurred to me then that I’d given up not only my notions of time and money, but any claim to place as well. For all I knew, RR and the chauffeur had made a pact to drag me into Death Valley and rape me or kill me or rough me up and sell me into the sex industry. It was almost anti-climatic when we pulled into the gravel driveway of his house in Boulder City, not too far from the Hoover Dam. He said you could hear the water crashing sometimes if you listened closely.

Once inside, the track lighting revealed a split-level spaciousness and too much glass. One entire wall was made of sliding glass doors. The others, painted sparkling white, housed shadows of numerous large cactuses that sprung up from the carpet, a garden of spikes and shafts arranged in ithyphalic absurdity. Did he have any idea what his walls reflected? Or was it just me? My fear of the priapic in general, his world-famous piece in particular. I shifted my gaze from the wall to his furniture, which betrayed a penchant for clean slick surfaces and seemed more about function than comfort—a lot of leather and lacquer and chrome that reminded me of an upscale law firm. I’d never seen so much space with so little personality.

He led me upstairs to a monstrous room, empty but for a platform bed with black sheets, a black Formica bureau, and a giant-screen television attached to a rack of VCRs and audio equipment. In the corners were two stereo speakers, each about my height. It was a teenage fantasy room, only without the rock-and-roll posters or magazine clippings of supermodels. The one photograph on the bureau was a framed picture of RR himself, a bit younger, in a suit and tie, shaking the hand of George Bush, the presidential seal and American flag behind them.

He dropped my bag. The weight of it hitting the floor exhausted me. At the click of a remote music filled the room. Slow, melodious chanting that sounded like a troupe of monks I’d once heard in California. I sat down on the edge of the bed and felt my body sink into the deep swish of water. I burst out laughing. “You have a waterbed!”

“There’s nothing more comfortable,” he said. Then he kissed me, and though I’d wanted to shower and brush my teeth and could barely steady myself on the bed, I kissed him back. Maybe it was the lure of the oscillating waves, the dreamy reverence of the music, or the lights that dimmed at his fingertips, but the room as much as my presence there suddenly made sense. I submerged myself further into the bed, giving over willingly as RR undressed me.

He touched and probed and tongued as if it had been a while since he’d been this close to another human body, although I sensed him stirring as he came to the space where my pubes were beginning to bud again. “You’re shaved?”

“Long story,” I said, again feeling Shade’s presence as much as I felt his.

“Wait a minute, did you do something for Alexis? Did she put you in a scene?”

“No.”

“I’m serious, did she?” He gripped my arms tightly and sneered as if we were back in the smelly airplane bathroom.

“No, I swear.” I curled my fists and pushed out against his hands, those beautifully manicured fingers I’d first noticed in the Korean restaurant, the night he drew Silver Ray out of her cloister into his dirty-blue
mise en scene.
His thumbs dug into my biceps, waves rippled beneath us. I conjured all the strength I had into my arms and pushed harder, grunting and sweating like a weightlifter until he let go, laughing. My entire body throbbed.

Still on top of me, still goading me, he sighed. “I really like pussy hair.”

You asshole, I thought, but for some reason I smiled. I reeled him in by his belt loops, feeling the disparity of my skin against his jeans. “Take these off,” I said.

“Not yet.” He kissed me again, and it was fast and deliberate. I matched every shift of lip, tooth, and tongue so he’d feel it. Before Shade I’d never liked kissing so much, now I couldn’t get enough of it. My senses were on epileptic, and I was relieved that somebody else could do this to my body. Somebody so different from her.

I felt a finger slip up inside of me and cried out. “Settle down,” he said.

“I hope you have a condom this time.”

“You need a new line, Silver.”

“As far as I’m concerned that’s the only line, you’re a porn star.”

He propped himself up on top of me. “Apparently, so are you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Are you always this impatient?” He pulled out his finger so quickly it stung and left me wallowing in its absence. Leaning over me, he yanked open a drawer next to the bed. It was literally filled with condoms and jellies and oils and lubricants. I wanted to burst out laughing again but thought better of it. This was his idea of foreplay, perhaps: showing me how wellprepared he was. Like a Boy Scout. Or the proud man shaking the hand of a president. It was sort of endearing. He removed a few condoms, some oils, a small container of Astroglide, and set everything down on the night table.

“There we go,” he said, grabbing the tube of oil or lube and squeezing the sticky liquid over my breasts and stomach. The smell of rainwater and lemon made me want to sneeze. RR slid on top of me, and we plunged further into the water. I felt like a slippery squid, an eel, a star-fucking starfish. He clamped a hand over my mouth and spoke into my ear. “Are we having fun yet?”

Unable to speak, I nodded no.

He moved his lips from my ear to my mouth and kept his hand there when we kissed. A finger from his other hand slid inside me. I bit his lip. He growled; I tasted blood.

“So that’s what you want? To play porn star.” He added a finger, and the back of my neck tingled. I was sweating from my temples, terrified he might rip me to shreds before I got his cock in me, that is if I could ever get that cock in me. I squealed a few times at the pressure of his fingers, but the harder he pushed the more I craved. I kept opening for him, expanding. “Tell me, Silver,” he said, and it was a voice I hadn’t heard before, lower and more guttural. “Tell me how badly you want me to fuck your bald porn-star pussy.”

Pain shot up my vagina, but I didn’t want him to take his hand away. He shoved me against the headboard, practically suspending me in the air with the weight of his arm. Looking down I saw the top of his palm inside me and said, “Oh fuck!”

“That’s right, baby, fuck.” He twisted his hand and I felt a knife slice up my spine. I screamed, tried to steady myself against him but could only grab a few strands of his hair before falling forward. He caught me with his left hand and the two of us, miraculously, were sitting upright on a waterbed, with his hand buried in my vaginal canal. “Let’s go, I want to hear you say it.”

“Fuck you!” I shouted. Lost with his wrist against my clit, his fingers ballooning inside me. I thought I might pass out from the pain, took a few quick breaths, then felt dizzy. He grabbed my neck with his free hand, tilting my head backwards. “Not you,” he said. “Me. Fuck me.”

“Fuck you!”

“Me!”

“You!”

“Bitch!” I was stunned silent. That last word reverberated in the tones of the ancient monks. Our eyes met. He started to pull his hand away. I grabbed it and pushed it further into me, remembering how bad it felt before when he’d yanked out only one finger.

“Oh, excuse me,” he said. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

I nodded.

“Then say it, and say it so I really hear it.”

“Fuck me,” I said.

“Not good enough.” He glared, and I liked his anger, his arrogance, the way his eyes shifted to slits, and I wanted him to fuck me hard and not stop fucking me until I felt trashier than he kept saying I was. This is where I belonged, where I could perform: Silver Ray with her porn-star ass in the air. So I spoke this time as nasty as I could. “Fuck me, RR. Fuck me like I’m your porn star.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, pushing me down and carefully moving his fist inside of me. And there was pain, not the pain that comes from a paper cut or broken bone, but more like electroshocking surges of energy, the flicker of a light burning low, alluvial glow slamming into the bottom of the goddamn Hoover Dam. Damn. Robbie Rod made me a star. He of the polluted talk and snarling lips…made me feel strong in the sexiest Silver Ray way, made me want to scream so loud that Shade would hear me back in New York and know I was with somebody else. And know it was good because it wasn’t her, wasn’t anything but Robbie Rod deep-cunting Silver Ray deep into the Nevada night with the cameras rolling and the soundtrack pounding on and on and on.