CON TEST: Double Life

  “Maybe they sell trillions, but you’re so wrong.”

  “Really! What then?”

  “Real estate. Every fast food joint has burgers. Theirs are not special. McDonald’s invests in real estate at some of the most profitable intersections in the country and around the world. At Hollywood and Highland is a McDonald’s; in Times Square; and, in the most rural boondocks, you’ll find a McDonald’s.”

  “Okay, I get it, but I want to be independent,” she said, and rested her head on his chest.

  “And you can be. When I am struggling for a plot twist, or the plot that I thought was good is not, you never see it again. Not because I can’t argue a justifiable purpose for it, but because you have found a flaw. And if you found a flaw, so would my readers. And with you being my number two fan after money, I aim to please.”

  “That’s good. I need to be pleased,” she said and pressed her lips to his.

  The kiss was long and sensual. Lundin kissed him as she used her hand to throw the heavy comforter off them. She planted kisses down his chest. Circling his nipples. Down the corridor separating his six-pack, leading to his navel. She spent a little time there before she was massaging her tonsils with his erection.

  Having spent a considerable amount of time there, she rotated—with her mouth wrapped around his tool—and planted her pelvis in his face. He palmed her ass and positioned her precisely where he wanted her. He inserted his tongue inside of her and made it the best 69. He pulled her body closer to his face, suffocating himself inside her treasure chest. If death could have resulted from that, then the coroner needed to be summoned, because he was not fighting off his attacker. The equal pleasure was salacious, but…

  …he placed his hand on her rib cage and lifted her body up. He popped out her mouth and his penis fell to his stomach with a thud. The head fell perfectly inside of his belly button. He slid his body between her legs and got on his knees. The curve in her back and the mammoth bun that her ass resembled was enticing. Readying to be entered doggy-style, Lundin rested her forearms on the bed, along with her head, and severely arched her back. Her breasts followed suit. He entered her slowly and gently, remaining on his knees. Hands perched on her hips. She threw it back, and used body language that indicated that she wanted it beat up. He lifted his knees off the bed, placed his hands firmly on the bed and his body formed an awkward letter-A. Using his feet for leverage and his strong torso, he pounded inside of her crazily. Her head turned from side to side wildly, and she moaned uncontrollably. She grabbed his ass and pulled him toward her. She wanted it harder and deeper. Their bodies had a special language that only their bodies spoke.

  He laid his chest on her back, wrapped his arms under her shoulders and locked her in like on a roller coaster ride. He launched a more fierce attack. Sweat poured from their bodies and forced their bodies to talk out loud. The romance was like domestic violence, and Lundin was not afraid to let out obscenities that would have sent her mother into cardiac arrest. William always remained quiet and innocent, but he was a polished XXX stunt man with a highly praised role.

  William’s inner spiritual sexual god whispered to him and he sped up. Lundin climaxed, and he let his big gun spit loads of bullets all over her ass. The warm liquid heated her ass and she rubbed it in like lotion. She fell limp and he fell on top of her.

  When their heart beats gained normalcy, William turned Lundin around to face him. He told her, “This is the only reason that you keep me around. I’m a good boy with solid virtues. The sexy high school geek, with the perfect SAT score, and a vicious stroke.”

  Lundin laughed. “You’re such an egotistical pooch. And good, but don’t flatter yourself, crazy.”

  “So, do you like good?” He asked. “What happen to the nice guys finish last theory?”

  “What’s this about, Blackey?”

  “I’m not shopping for compliments. I have gotten them since the nurse first spank me. As a pre-teen, girls used to tease me for being a nerd. By fourteen, I was the cute boy with the green eyes, but a nerd. After I lost my virginity—at fifteen, by the way—it was ‘he has pretty eyes, and a big Johnson, but I’d only fuck him on the low, because he is a nerd’.”

  “I see.”

  “Then by college every rich bitch wants me as a trophy piece. And then there’s you. A dime by any man’s standard. The body that women run to buy. And a nurturing, loving character to attract any bad boy—”

  “Let me stop you there,” Lundin said, and rolled on top of him. “Bad boys are shallow, problematic, and many are illiterate. You, however, are a real man. No dad around to mold you, either. You were not peer pressured into throwing away your thinking cap for guns and drugs and ultimately jail. That’s a bad boy. I’ve seen you in a physical fight, and even though you know karate, you did not use it and kick the guy’s ass. You’re like Bill Cosby meets Jack Bauer. And you even know five languages rather fluent.”

  “Virtually, a perfect assessment. I just wanted to confirm all of that before I told you that I bought us a new home in Malibu on the beach.”

  She raised off him and looked at him as if he spoke one of those foreign languages.

  “Why the dumb look? I bought a five bedroom, with a list of amenities that would shock Oprah.”

  Lundin sat up on the edge of the bed, and said, “Will, that is the best…I can’t even describe what I am feeling right now.”

  “You do not have too. Closing will take about a month, but the place is ours.”

  “When can I see it?” She asked, and lay on top of him.

  “Tomorrow. Oh, wait. I have to go to the elderly home tomorrow. I can’t disappoint them.”

  “We will work it out. But what’s with all of the bedrooms?”

  “Who knows? Maybe they will all be nurseries?”

  “You’re crazy!” She said, and rolled on her side of the bed.

  “Maybe. Let me check.” He was smiling.

  “Check how? What’s with the grin?”

  “Can we go round two?”

  She slithered back on top of him and kissed him. She indicated that she was down for a round two.

  “See, I’m not crazy.”

  FIFTH TEEN

  William swung his BMW into the Robertson Boulevard traffic. Mid-morning shadows darted in and out of his sedan at their discretion. He had thrown sunglasses over his eyes and pulled down the visor to avoid the blinding sun. He let down the window and allowed the warm smog to pollute the vehicle.

  In the office complex underground garage, he found his space and rested there. He remained in the car and listened to Floetry. The songstresses filled the luxuriant vehicle, and he relished his authority as a writer. He often wanted to move his office inside his car. Or better yet sit in the vehicle inside his office, turn the front into his desk area, and the back into the sofa that he relaxed on. He disliked having that serenity, while Lundin was engaged in a game of office charades.

  In the devilish office, William continued to whisper the lyrics to the last song that he heard in the car. Too bad, he could not hear the ladies croon “Say Yes,” or any other R&B artists as he wrote. Their familiar melodies and lyrics distracted him. He found himself singing the lyrics, or completing sentences with lyrics. He usually listened to classical music. That relaxed him and helped him let the words fly onto the screen, but soon they had to be replaced, as well.

  William sat at his desk and the telephone rang. It’s too damn early for this shit, he thought. Cold calls annoyed him. A solicitor was sure to get a tongue thrashing. He ignored the ringing sound, and pretended that he was dreaming. That didn’t work.

  He snatched the phone off the cradle. “William Fortune.” His tone was polite, despite his irritation.

  “Wheel of Fortune,” Jewel Blacksmith, his agent said. “How are ya?”

  He wasn’t expecting a call from her, but he was happy that she had called. Most of her calls were pleasant, except when she bludgeoned him with insults about his wordiness. She would say,
“Your target audience would not understand your characterization and complicated plot twist.” Was she calling his target audience dumb? Was she locking him into a box set aside for black authors, restricting them to writing about drug dealers with a Benz living in the projects? He ignored her and kept his plots as they were and the result stumped her. Him too!

  William’s favorite author was James Patterson and William desired to introduce his world to a broader sense of literature. He wrote about identity crimes, as Patterson did the serial murderer. Jewel had discounted his number one fan. Money. Hadn’t she known every author wrote for money? Money for them or money for the publisher. And that money represented an audience.

  “Hey, Jewel,” he said, cheerily. He was usually that way with his silent partner. He recalled how she took as much a chance on him as he on her. He wasn’t bad for her first client when she left a top New York agency and headed for LA to spawn her own agency. She garnered his first book deal with a major publisher and now she was a literary baller. “How’s everything coming along with the baby?”

  “Well, if you must know.”

  “I do.”

  “The baby’s a male and becoming quite active. He’s full of machismo, too. Always craving all these weird foods,” she said, and chuckled. “And how’re you coming along?”

  “Better before you called,” he said, laughing. “I just got into the office, pencil in hand and ready to flow when you called,” he lied.

  He had no intention of writing that day. He had to put a character that misbehaved in check. His fictional bad boy, the identity thief, was not making wise decisions and considering William was in control of the actions, he had to fix them. Justice Lorenzo had acted irrationally and stupidly while handling the Walmart loss prevention and the Woodbridge policeman. The narration was banal and needed to be re-written. Justice was far too tight to admit that he had actually known Amir and leaving all of his cash in the car was too cocky. William had slept on it and surmised Justice’s behavior was noxious, lackadaisical and needed to be erased to reflect his stellar, sly attributes.

  Jewel said, “That’s nice to know. I just got a little insider trading information from a friendly producer at Sony. Don will be sent packing unless he can come up with a killer box-office smash. He has two weeks to submit a beat sheet that flies and I was thinking that you could help.”

  William respected how she used you and not we. “Jewel Blacksmith! Of course you do not expect me to go to jail for insider trading?” he said sternly. “And end up like, Martha?” he joked.

  “Fortune, you’re insane,” she said, giggling. “You will get full credit for the screen play, which Don will help you adapt from your current nameless manuscript. Sony has contracts with a few appropriate men to portray Justice Lorenzo.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “Catch? What catch?”

  “Jewel!”

  “He would present you to the Sony execs as if he tracked you in the Himalayan Mountains, where you agreed to meet him only if you could get the actor of your choice and some directorial control.”

  “Am I still a writer that hibernates in the mountains somewhere while he writes?” he asked, laughing.

  “No, that one died. You’re doing jungles now.”

  * * *

  Astonished, William walked over to the windows and stared blankly as society ebbed. His heart pumped maniacally and his vision was blurred with tears of joy. Blood roamed through him quickly and abrupt stoppage would have resulted in a stroke.

  He sat at his desk and began to write out a schedule to complete his manuscript and his Sony block-buster. He pondered, is it time to reveal Justice to the world? Isn’t that what he wanted?

  SIXTEEN

  Shaunte Omni clicked and then clacked in her Jimmy Choo’s through the maddening crowd of hungry humans on the sidewalk of Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles on Gower Street in Hollywood. She reached the entryway to the restaurant and swung the door open. She ran late for her lunch date. But her mind was vexed with the idea of her career finally coming together. Over the last month the pieces seemed almost inchoate: writer’s struggling with a screenplay, her lead role being born.

  Her slim, 5’7” frame was coated with bright tawny skin. Her D-cup breasts peeked out of her low, empire waist blouse. The designer jeans enveloped her ass, proving it fat and plentiful. At times she disliked her oversized breasts, though. They seemed too large for her frame. Despite an overwhelming number of flattering comments she received for her figure, she desired a breast reduction.

  Lundin and Margaret watched Shaunte skip through the restaurant.

  “Here is this happy bitch now,” Lundin said to Margaret.

  Roscoe’s was a restaurant swimming in wood. Very boring. Framed photos of celebrities lined the walls, most of them signed, and that was a highlight. The food was lively enough to carry the legendary reputation.

  The three women embraced in a group hug and gave each other air kisses. None of them wanted smudged make-up. Hungry men looked at them and wished the kisses were blown their way. Their friendship commenced at an audition for one of the lead roles in Girlfriends. None of them got it. After the audition, they retreated to Roscoe’s and have been meeting there once a month since. They talked on the phone constantly through the day, clubbed together on girls night out, traveled together, and loved each other as sisters.

  “So, ladies,” Margaret said. “What’s new? Well, besides your new hairdo, Shaunte?” She asked, running her hands through Shaunte’s luxuriant weave. Sultry, sassy, half-Asian, half-black Margaret Goode had adorable doe-like brown eyes. She had short, chestnut hair with dizzying swoops and swirls. Margaret took her father’s strong African features with the exception of her small boobs. She otherwise had curvaceous measurements to rival any black woman.

  “Girl, one of the stylist on the set I’m working on gave me this style,” Shaunte confessed.

  “Oh! How’s The Game coming along, Shaunte?” Lundin asked.

  “I’ve done two episodes with Eve. The last one guest-starred Chris Brown singing in a wedding scene,” Shaunte told them. “But that’s not the best part. Those two performances gave me the two credits needed to be a member of the Screen Actors Guild. I’m in!”

  Lundin and Margaret screamed their congratulations in hushed tones.

  “Ladies, I’m not done.”

  “Do tell all,” Margaret said, excitedly. Shaunte’s gossip was always of the most delectable flavor.

  “I’m going home for Memorial Day weekend. Not that I believe in war vets all of a sudden, but that’s when I’ll be on break from my new job.”

  “The Cheesecake Factory giving you a vacation is by no means a lead story for Extra,” Lundin joked.

  “Well sure it is. They work her like a slave,” Margaret said sadly, and then burst into laughter.

  The ladies were interrupted by the waitress who took their orders. Everyone ordered three chicken wings and waffles with two sides. They ordered the orange and lemonade mixed drink, dubbed Sunrise.

  “Go ahead and laugh. Laugh girls. Laugh! Laugh! Laugh! You see, I quit the factory.”

  “Quit!” Lundin and Margaret chorused, and garnered stares from other patrons.

  Lundin was married and very financially secured without William’s money. Margaret, the babe that she was, had an exorbitant modeling contract secured by Lundin, as well as a different rich man on three continents. Shaunte, on the other hand, shared an $1,800 amonth condo with another struggling actress. Certainly, her The Game stipend was not enough to quit her job.

  “I’m in the upcoming movie version of Dream Girls 2 starring Beyonce and Jennifer Hudson again.”

  “Shaunte, that’s fantastic.” Lundin exclaimed, joyfully.

  “You did it for all of us,” Margaret told her.

  “Auditioning was so much fun, but I kept it a secret to surprise you two at the same time. And see this outfit. The shirt and jeans are from the House of Dereon, Beyonce’s clothing l
ine.”

  “Damn, we’re all moving on up,” Lundin said.

  “So you two are still going to New York at the end of the month?” Shaunte asked.

  “Yes,” Lundin replied. “Retta leaves on Monday, and I’ll take a red-eye on Thursday.”

  “So, we all have to party Sunday or Monday before you leave,” Shaunte said, as the waitress dropped their food off.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Margaret said, soiling her waffles with syrup.

  SEVENTEEN

  William rushed into the nursing home and was greeted by a nurse. She informed him that the residents that he was scheduled to meet had a change of plans due to his tardiness.

  “They abandoned you for Bingo,” she told him smiling.

  “I haven’t,” a well-dressed woman said. “I’d love to hear the rest of your story young man.”

  William was flattered that the silver-haired, white woman had a genuine interest in hearing about Justice Lorenzo. He told her to meet him in their usual meeting room. He needed to apologize to the rest of the group for his lateness.

  After his apology, he walked into the meeting room and found Ms. Doherty. She sat studiously on a cushioned leather chair. He sat next to her and pulled out his reading materials. He read to her for a half-hour before she arrested him.

  “What seems to be the problem, Wilford?” she asked, calling him an alias to keep his identity private. “You seem a little…displaced,” she said hesitantly.

  “You sound like a psychologist, Ms. Doherty,” William said, smiling.

  “That’s Dr. Doherty. With a doctorate from Stanford and over 40-years of practice, I’ve earned it.”

  “OK, Dr. Miriam Doherty, you have me. I’m stressed and my manuscript is the culprit that created the stress. I lack a solid ending and I have a deadline to meet.

  “That’s no need for borderline personality disorder. Especially, a fine young man like yourself. Save that type of behavior for your characters, Wilford.”