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My Dark Knight Page 7


  She clicks her fingers. “Cut right there,” she instructs her assistant, John. “And then pick it up again at the voodoo dance bit.” She looks at me out of the corner of her eye, “Hi, Arielle. We have so much footage, I don’t know how to squeeze it all in, in under just one hour.”

  “Make it ninety minutes, then.”

  “Can we get away with that?”

  “Why not? I think people will be riveted by this story. We can do a special on it. I mean, this is world news. Most people think slavery finished with Abraham Lincoln – they need to know what’s going on right here in New York City. Also, in London and Rome and in so many of the ‘civilized’ cities of the Western world.”

  Cecile wipes a tear from her cheek. “It breaks my heart.”

  Just as she says those words, Prince comes wagging up to her.

  I laugh at his adorable dolphin face. Dogs can smile. “Mention the word ‘heart’ and Prince will be at your side. He has an uncanny instinct when it comes to emotions. He can feel it when people are sad.”

  Cecile holds Prince’s wide head in both hands and kisses him. “You sweet boy, just what the doctor ordered.”

  “By the way, sorry to change the subject, but while it’s on my mind, Dad called.”

  Cecile raises an eyebrow. “Did he now.”

  “He misses you and wonders why you won’t return his calls.”

  “Men,” she sighs.

  “I think he loves you, Cecile.”

  “Think being the operative word.”

  “No, really, I’m sure of it. Every time Dad and I speak, he wants to talk about you.”

  “Look, your dad’s gorgeous. Very sexy, very attractive, but as a human being he has a lot of failings. A lot. One of them being that he clams shut when it comes to his emotions. I’m sorry, Arielle, but I need a man who is more demonstrative.”

  “Well, I’m just passing this information on. Feel free to consider giving him another chance. You know, he is just a guy.”

  We laugh simultaneously.

  “What about co-living with Max? Any better with psycho sis?”

  I tell her about my Mark Finn visit, my wedding gown and Jenny’s snarky comments about my ring.

  Cecile responds, “Clever woman. She has you over a barrel. Buying you with an amazing gown – now she feels she has control over you.”

  “You make it sound as if I had a choice in the matter.”

  “We always have a choice, Arielle.”

  “I wish I could be more assertive like you, Cecile. You think I should cancel the gown, then?”

  “It’s a little late for that now. But don’t have her over to your home anymore. Meet her at a restaurant, if need be – keep her at arm’s length.”

  “I can assure you, there’s no ‘need be’ – I’d be delighted if I never set eyes on her again.”

  We both fix our gaze on John for a moment, as he prepares to show us more footage, and then Cecile says, “So pleased about Valentina Gimenez and that you came out on top getting a female lead.”

  “Girl power,” I joke.

  “You may laugh but it’s true, we women need to look out for each other. When are you going to meet her?”

  “It looks like Max and I are going to Los Angeles in a few days. He’s just waiting to hear back on something.”

  “Well, watch out for her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Valentina Gimenez has a reputation, Arielle. She’s a seductress.”

  “I have confidence in Max – I trust him.”

  Cecile chuckles. “Not him, dummy. You. Be careful you don’t fall for her charms.”

  THE OPERA IS AWE-INSPIRING. A new soprano (whose name I can’t pronounce) has everyone enthralled with her angelic voice. Afterwards, Max and I went for a late supper and came home well after midnight.

  I’m lying in bed unable to sleep. Not even sex has been able to calm my nerves; in fact, it made things worse. Cecile’s film has been playing over and over in my mind. All I can think about is how men control so many parts of the world, and women are their victims. Poor innocent girls, some as young as thirteen, are being sold by their husbands or families in Nigeria – lured away for a ‘better life’ in Europe or The States, being promised lucrative jobs or an education but ending up working for the sex industry. An ‘industry’ it is, with no thought for their feelings or their well being – like cattle, they are being herded in droves.

  How can there be so many monsters in this world? The image of Sula, one of the children in the film, who was later lucky enough to have been saved, is turning over in my thoughts. Her large, doe-like eyes, her long, elegant neck; a sweet child who was abused by hundreds of men out for a cheap thrill. Cheap. As if she were worthless; just two holes – orifices for them to abuse.

  It makes me sick.

  Finally, I drift off to a worrying sleep, back to the past....

  I lay down on the futon in just my bra and panties. The room was dimly lit with just a flickering candle. I felt nervous but excited. This was a first. I could hear them mumbling between themselves, discussing me. It was exhilarating to be the center of attention. I lay back, the tequila whooshing through my veins. I told them my name was Jane. Jane Doe. They were from another college, not NYU. I’d probably never see them again but still, I didn’t want to get a bad reputation – didn’t want to be gossiped about. This was going to be a one-off, a secret. I wouldn’t even tell Julia.

  Jane Doe. I smiled to myself – I wondered if these boys believed my silly fib.

  A firm hand touched my ankle, stroking me gently. Then a different hand, a little rougher, on my other calf. “Fuck, she’s got a body on her,” one said.

  I looked at them hazily and saw the blonde one had his shirt off. He, too, had a body on him. He was a football player. They both were. I was in for a treat, I thought. My boyfriend Brad’s body was different from these two – he was lithe and slim. He hated sports – he was too intellectual for that. These guys were hot. Dumb, from the basic way they spoke and the things they’d been saying all evening like, ‘stoked’ and ‘dude’ – their vocabulary was limited, but they were hot, nevertheless.

  One hand trailed up my leg and lingered on my thigh. I felt myself clench inside and I gasped.

  “Turn over,” the blonde one said.

  I turned on my stomach. He unclasped my bra, and I felt some warm oil being rubbed on my back. Four hands were massaging me, and it felt incredible, the knots in my shoulders being kneaded away. One set of hands was working on my upper body and the other traced down to my ass, cupping it, squeezing it; the fingers brushing past my crack. I moaned. This felt amazing. The same hand parted the cleft in my butt and trailed an index finger along it, resting at my entrance. I could sense my moistness gather, my clit tingling with pleasure. The hands moved down my thighs, and then up again, I could feel a hand press against my panties and his finger exploring my opening.

  “She’s as wet as a wetback, dude,” one said and they both laughed.

  Blood rushed to my head for a second, riled by the racist comment – normally something I would have jumped at – but I felt so good, so relaxed, the liquor coursing through my body, throbbing in my groin.

  The other pair of hands moved underneath me, caressing my belly, then cupping my whole mound, the base of his palm pushing in just the perfect spot. I groaned and took his hand, thrusting it against my clit, and I lifted my stomach upwards off the futon and pressed hard back down on it again. I felt so aroused.

  “Jesus, her pussy’s wet,” this one said. He opened my legs apart and slipped his fingers inside me with one hand and peeling my panties off with the other.

  “Turn back over,” the other one said. “I want to suck those hot tits.” He pushed my body so it rolled like a heavy stone. He pulled off my bra. I felt woozy. I was now on my back, my eyes closed. I could smell some patchouli incense coiling in the air, rich and thick. My head was propped up by cushions.

  The blonde one edged fu
rther down the bed and prized my thighs apart with his hands. “Gotta chow down on this pussy,” he told me with a sexy groan. His tongue darted out at my clit and I could feel my body, almost as if it didn’t belong to me, writhing with desire. He engulfed me with his entire mouth and began to lash his tongue up and down my cleft then circle my clit with his flipping tongue. I arched my back up high and moaned, pressing myself against his mouth.

  The other guy was sucking my nipples. Nibbling on them, gently tugging with his teeth. “Christ, this feels incredible,” I whimpered, the alcohol drumming through my veins.

  I flexed my hips even closer to the blonde one’s mouth. I could feel the need building, the need to have an orgasm, as the guy working on my torso flicking his tongue again on my hard nipple making it pucker. He then kneeled up and I saw his erection press towards my face.

  “Suck my dick,” he commanded.

  I could feel the other guy’s finger slide inside me. “Gotta fuck this pussy,” he said.

  Fuck? No! That wasn’t the idea!

  The other one shoved his penis in my face. I held my breath – the reality of what I had got myself into suddenly hit me. I needed to get out of this situation. What had I been thinking? I had to get away! But my arms and legs felt so floppy, I couldn’t move.

  I heard him say to his friend, “Wait up, dude, she’s gotta suck my dick first. I wanna come inside her mouth. I want her to lick her sweet tongue all over my cock and suck it till my hot, creamy cum jets out to the back of her throat. Then I’m gonna fuck her, fuck that tight, horny little cunt – fuck it till she’s begging me to stop.”

  “Dude, I’ve gotta bone her first – she’s got my dick so pumping and hard – gotta fuck that wet cunt – gonna make that cunt come all over my cement-hard dick.”

  I need air. I need space.

  “Wake up!”

  I don’t want to open my eyes. I don’t want to see.

  “Darling, wake up!”

  I dare to peel open my eyes and see Max’s concerned face staring at me. I let out the breath I’ve been holding in – my lungs expire with relief.

  Max shakes his head. “There’s something wrong. I don’t understand. Why all of a sudden these nightmares? Baby, what’s wrong?” He grips me tight and covers my face with kisses.

  “Just a bad dream.”

  “You were moaning – muttering in your sleep. Everything seemed fine at first, your lips were even curved in a smile but then you started thrashing about the bed and crying out. Tell me about your dream, Arielle, baby. Maybe if you speak about it, these nightmares will go away.

  “I can’t remember,” I lie. “I don’t remember. Please just hold me, Max.”

  6

  LOS ANGELES HAS NOT let us down. The sky is so blue that just looking at it makes you feel warm and happy, as if you’ve never had a problem in your life. The palm trees line Sunset Boulevard, the leaves shimmering in a gentle breeze, as we cruise along in our rented 1960’s Cadillac convertible. It’s powder blue. Only in LA.

  Living here must feel like being on vacation every single day. People are easy in Los Angeles and constantly in a good mood. They don’t call it La La Land for nothing. Beneath the veneer of perfection lie secrets and a dark interior, but why delve deep when you can savor the trappings of glitz? At least for a little while.

  Sunset Boulevard is a winding road, over twenty miles long, linking the urban streets of downtown to the grand and glamorous residential avenues of Beverly Hills, Bel-Air, and Brentwood. It continues to the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu, passing some of the most beautiful properties that money can buy. Why take the freeway when you can soak up the ambience of the old-style Hollywood allure along this stretch? Gloria Swanson immortalized this place with her 1950’s film, Sunset Boulevard – I imagine the debauched parties that were held in the exquisite homes here, the deals, the passion and the back-stabbing divorces that followed.

  Max’s left elbow rests languidly on the sill of the open window, a content smile on his handsome face as the wind laps his dark hair – neither of us speaking, just enjoying the music; a golden oldie, Hotel California.

  We’re headed to Valentina Gimenez’s house in Topanga Canyon, an interesting choice for an abode, once famous for being an artists’ colony. She has invited us for lunch. I don’t know why, but I’m feeling nervous.

  We arrive at our destination, although it’s not quite as elegant as I had imagined. Our low automobile has trouble on the bumpy, pot-holed driveway, which crosses a creek where frogs are croaking – not your typical Hollywood mansion. Who is this woman? Everybody has been raving about her acting abilities and her brooding beauty. I’m already intimidated by her.

  Max parks the car in an opening where the driveway seems to come to an abrupt end. There are no houses around, or at least, none that I can see.

  “Did we make a wrong turn?” I ask him.

  “This is where the GPS directed us,” he answers, looking around. There are some lemon trees and rolling, scrubby hills in the distance and exposed bedrock. I even see a vegetable plot and beyond it a sort of shack. There’s a black vintage Porsche, dusty from passing along this makeshift driveway, no doubt, parked in a corner.

  Just then, a figure appears from behind a hedge. A sunbeam of light catches her, and she’s wearing a long, black dress. She’s slim and when she walks she glides as if she were not part of this world. For a second, I think I must have seen a ghost. But it must be Valentina Gimenez.

  She grins at us and calls over, “You made it! Shows you must be in the top four percent of the intelligent population – you’d be amazed how this place has most people flummoxed.” Her accent is vaguely Spanish but obviously she has mastered the English language with a word like flummoxed. I look at Max to see if he’s as bowled over as I am by her beauty, but he seems nonchalant as if seeing stunning women is part of his daily routine. He walks over to greet her, and she immediately offers both cheeks.

  I do the same. When I kiss her, her skin is soft as down, and she smells delicious, of flowers and sweetness; femininity seeping from every pore. I step back and my breath hitches. Her thick, wavy hair is almost wild, like a teenager who hasn’t brushed it in days. The dark locks hang down her bronzed back, her shoulders are strong but slight, her breasts pert but not large – you can see straight away that she isn’t wearing a bra. Again, my eyes flit over to Max to gauge his expression, but he seems unimpressed by her. Her teeth are flaming white and her smile stretches across her face – a Julia Roberts sort of smile, warm and friendly.

  “You know what? I’m starving,” she cries, “I skipped breakfast. D’you mind if we eat something straight away? I’ve prepared some tapas to nibble on. Then I have a home-baked pizza cooking away in my wood-fired pizza oven.”

  I lick my lips. “Wow, you have a special pizza oven?”

  “Made by hand by an Italian guy who lives nearby.”

  “Count me in!” I say.

  “Where are you guys staying?” she asks.

  “In Santa Monica,” Max tells her, edging towards the old Porsche. Is this car yours? It’s a 356B, isn’t it? Let me guess, 1962?”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Poor thing, she needs a wash,” Valentina says with a laugh, and then links her arm in mine and pulls me towards the gap in the hedge from where she emerged five minutes ago like a dark angel. “Boys – always obsessed by bits of metal. Sniff about her, Max, why don’t you. Take her for a spin if you like – the keys are under the matt. Meanwhile, I’m going to feed your fiancée some snacks and give her a Bloody Mary. Come join us when you’ve finished with your testosterone boost. Anyway, I want to have your beautiful Arielle all for myself for a while and talk shop. Go for a drive, Max – take my car along the coast.”

  Max laughs out loud. “I can see you’re desperate to get rid of me.”

  “Just for a little,” she says, tossing her dark mane. “Come back in half an hour.” She pulls me close and walks me away from him. I look behind, and he winks at
me in amusement, settling himself in the driver’s seat of her classic car.

  “See you in a bit,” he calls out, but Valentina ignores him and rakes her gaze over me from my head to my toes. I’m wearing just a dress and some flat Greek sandals. A frisson of nervousness shoots through my body. No woman has ever looked at me this way before.

  Once through the secret entrance in the hedge, I set my eyes on her house; a glorified barn made of wooden clapperboard, and with a garden surrounding it of roses and more lemon trees. There’s a little tree house looking like something out of Robinson Crusoe and a hammock resting between two small oaks. Beyond, I see a swimming pool, the water shimmering and breaking up into fragments of wavy light from dark blue mosaic tiles. The place is magical and from another world. The antithesis of ‘Hollywood’ or how you imagine it should be.

  “He’s cute your husband-to-be,” she notes. “Very sexy British yet with a body like an American movie star – before and during filming, you know, when they’re in perfect shape.” She throws her head back and laughs. “He’s very Alpha male. I bet he’s a great fuck.”

  My mouth hangs open at what she just said. I’m speechless. I’ve known her for less than ten minutes. I reply simply, “Yes, he is.”

  “Of course, that’s something I don’t do anymore, but sometimes I miss that, you know, I miss that hard rod between my legs. But the whole man thing is such a bore. The pride, the bullshit, and they just don’t smell like we do. There’s nothing like a woman’s touch to make you feel like you’ve come home.”

  At the words ‘woman’s touch’ she places her hand on the small of my back, letting her fingertips linger on my butt. I think of Cecile’s warning and know that this woman is just beginning. I feel scared but thrilled, and mostly, curious. Not even Max came on so strong when he met me.

  Why is this woman making me feel as if I have no control? As if she’s running the show? What happened to Arielle the ball-buster? Is it because Valentina has no balls at all that I am at a loss for words?