I had to know those things.
"He cried," she went on. "After. Most times. Begged me for forgiveness. And I mean, of course I gave it because what other choice did I have?"
"You had to tell--"
"The weird thing is that at some point, I really felt like I was forgiving him. Isn't that weird?"
"There's this thing called Stockholm Syndrome, where--"
"Oh, I know. I know all about it. My therapist goes on and on... But the thing is, I know all of this stuff about him. And I know that there are more like him out there. Which is sort of a stupid thing to say because of course there are more like him out there, but here's the thing. Here's the thing."
And she leaned forward, the wine totally forgotten now.
"There are more like him. And some of them can be stopped. Before they do what he did to me. Everyone is so focused on punishing them when they get caught. And helping people like me, if we survive. But no one is out there saying, 'How do we stop it in the first place?'"
She was so intense and so committed to the moment that I felt bad for not quite getting it. "What are you saying? What does that have to do with selling your story?"
"It's the money. I want to start a foundation. Or an organization. Something like that. I don't know which. It'll be focused on mental health, but it'll be proactive. It'll be about mass education, telling the world what signs to look for, where the red flags are. And maybe we can even get to guys like him. Get to them when they still have a little shred of self-control left, and they can get some help before they cave to the urges. And we make the world a little better, and this thing I went through ends up not being all bad."
All I could think of was the conversation I'd had with the devil the day Lacey had emerged. How he'd said that her captivity, her torture, were necessary and crucial steps in her personal evolution. I remembered being furious at that thought, hurling a glass against the wall.
But here, before me, was the devil's prophecy coming true.
"You think it's a stupid idea," she said, blushing, and I realized that my expression must have been one of slack-jawed astonishment.
"No, no!" I told her. "You just caught me off-guard. I think it's a great idea. It's just the last thing I ever expected to hear from you -- sympathy for--"
"Not sympathy," she corrected. "Just understanding."
"Right. Right. Of course."
Just then, her cellphone chirped. She checked the screen. "Oh. I have to get ready. They're sending a car for me." She stood up and put her glass on the coffee table, then reached out for a hug. I acquiesced.
"I'm so sorry," she said, walking me to the door. "I wanted to hear about how L.A. is treating you and I just jabbered on and on--"
"It's fine, Lacey. Really." I stepped into the hallway and she almost had the door closed when she pulled it open again and called me back.
"I wanted to mention," she said. "I don't know how you feel about this, but... You know, it's funny because people are still talking about Flash/Back, which is great, but... They keep saying it's life-affirming and uplifting. Isn't that strange?"
I wasn't sure where she was headed. I cocked my head and kept my expression neutral.
She got flustered. "I mean, look, I'm sorry if I'm wrong about this, but... It seems to me that the whole point of the book is that it's sort of a downer. And sometimes we need a downer. Sometimes life is like that. And you don't take it personally -- it just is. That's what I got out of it. That's what kept me focused during my time.." She shrugged. "I'm sorry. Is that wrong? Am I wrong about it?"
It gave me the strength to endure my time, she'd said at Deux Livres.
"You're absolutely right," I told her, gravely, but inside I was screaming Yes! She gets it!
"One more thing," she said, reaching into her pocket for a card. "This is my private number. My mom has it, and my bodyguard, and that's basically it. If you ever want to talk..."
I took the card. How could I not?
Wherein I Blow Off the Book
The book -- the new book -- still waited for me, nearly finished on my hard drive. But I felt an unease and a dissatisfaction every time I edged close to it, so I avoided opening the file, as though some sort of poison lurked in its digital structures, a poison that could flow from the pixels to the touchpad to me.
Instead, I found myself thinking about the screenplay. A lot. I had never had much of an interest in writing a movie, but Del's enthusiasm had wormed into my brain.
I wasn't entirely sold on Del's direction (the metafiction, some of the changes, even some of the things he kept) but who was I to say so? At almost every turn -- every time we got together to work -- he would check in with me, ask me what I thought of this notion or that twist. Some of them were quite good, and I was able stifle my envy only by reminding myself that his good work had been inspired by (and was, in fact, impossible without) my own.
Some of the ideas, though, just didn't work for me. They seemed either too Hollywood or too outré. Del, I realized, understood Flash/Back, the same way Lacey did, but was changing it anyway. It wasn't quite a Hollywood feel-good ending, but I could see it heading there. Still, I enthusiastically endorsed his vision.
"I really appreciate your honesty, Randall," he told me one afternoon during a beer-break. Like Kiki, he had a balcony. Unlike hers, it overlooked what appeared to be a shopping center. Still, the breeze was cool and the sun invigorating and the beers refreshing as we sat out there. "A lot of authors don't understand that things have to change for the movie. Even so, I think the studio is going to be antsy about some of this stuff, but with your support, they'll go for it."
Del and I had agreed that we would only work on the screenplay when we were actually together, whether physically or electronically collaborating. That way there would be no "issues" later over whom had created or contributed what. Taking notes to bring up at the next writing session was fine. That system made eminent sense to me.
But...
But as time went on and as I felt more and more comfortable with the screenplay format and the screenwriting process, I started to spin off my own ideas. They didn't fit into the framework Del had established, so I felt no guilt in fooling around with them in a separate file in the special screenwriting app I'd had to buy. It was just an exercise, really. Just loosening up the screenwriting muscles, keeping them limber for the big work I did with Del.
Kiki would occasionally look in on me as I mucked about with the faux screenplay. She'd spent her career reading them, of course, and she had all kinds of suggestions for improvement. She would lean over my shoulder as I typed, occasionally giggling in my ear or sucking in a breath that said, "Um, no."
"You're getting good at this," she said at one point.
"Really?"
"Yeah. I've read a fuckload of these things, Randall. I know a good one when I see it."
"Is that a metric fuckload or English standard?"
"Metric. You wish it was English standard."
The longer I lived in L.A., the more I became addicted to "buzz." Everywhere Kiki and I went, the buzz seemed more intense, more concrete. Fi had expertly managed to extricate Kiki from her MGM contract, and the movie version of Flash/Back was greenlit and fast-tracked, two Hollywood terms I had always found crass and overwrought, but which now -- I confess -- filled me with glee.
At a party at a producer's house one evening, someone said the words "Oscar-worthy" in my presence for the first time.
"We haven't even finished the script yet," I joked. But lightning filled my gut at the thought, I admit.
"Doesn't matter," a publicist said. "You start the buzz early. You set the expectations and the standards high from the beginning so that you're at the starting gate. Too early isn't early enough."
In the car on the way home with Kiki that night, I put a hand on her bare thigh, deliberately not moving it, thinking of how good it would feel to slide it up and under her dress, thinking of how good it felt knowing that I could, thinkin
g of the Oscar.
"Is it even possible?" I asked her.
Regarding me in a slightly pitying fashion, she said, "Sometimes I forget you're new to the business. This is how they do things, Randall. The studio is totally aiming for the Oscars. They're putting all the pieces in place. A book that came out of nowhere to suddenly glom onto tremendous buzz. A real-life sob story hook. An actress known for shitty popular movies making her first 'quality' picture." Here she bowed a tiny bit, as best she could while sitting. "Will it happen? Who knows? But...possible? Hell, yeah."
"So I should buy a tux," I said, somewhat kiddingly, but thinking of my acceptance speech.
"We'll get you something appropriate to your status as my arm candy," she joked.
And that's when it hit me -- the movie might win an Oscar. Kiki might win an Oscar. The guy who wrote the final screenplay -- Del -- might win an Oscar.
But I wasn't going to win an Oscar. I probably wouldn't even be mentioned, except on the red carpet when they shot Kiki and me arriving. I knew how Hollywood worked; it would be "And here's nominee Kiki Newman, with her escort, Randall Banner. Hey, did you know he actually wrote the book this movie is based on?"
The book is always swallowed by the movie. The movie is always bigger than the book.
I enjoyed the ride home less than I thought I would.
Wherein Kiki Finds Out
One day, while I was taking a day off from the screenplay, noodling around on Untitled Manuscript out on the balcony, the devil dragged a chair next to me and plopped down. Without looking at my screen, he said, quietly confident, "Almost finished." Not a question.
Truth. Yes. Almost finished.
"Pretty much."
He held out a sheet of paper. I didn't have to look at it to know that it was our contract.
"What if I just don't finish the book?" I whispered. "You couldn't take it then, right?"
The devil smiled the patient smile of an indulgent parent. "Looking for loopholes? It's a pretty simple contract, Randall. Not much room for loopholes."
"But--"
"Remember, I told you at the beginning: This isn't like the myths and legends you people tell each other about dealings with me. This isn't a story. This is real. You've sold me your soul. Done."
"But what if I don't? What if I don't finish the book?"
The devil shrugged. "Then the contract applies to the next book. So--"
"--I would have to never write another book again." It was tempting. Between Flash/Back and Down/Town, I stood to make millions over the next couple of years, to say nothing of what I could make with the movie rights. And the foreign rights. Did I really need to write more books? What if I retired and just spent my days with Kiki? Would that be so bad?
"You know it would be," the devil said.
"I thought you couldn't read my mind," I mumbled.
"I can't. I'm smelling your fear and desperation and it tells me everything I need to know. This is one reason why I picked you, Randall -- your obsession. You know finishing this book concludes the contract, but you'll do it anyway. Because you believe this is an amazing book, and you won't let that go. You won't let it go unpublished. Your commitment won't let you. More importantly, Randall? Your ego won't let you."
"Is it going to hurt? When you take my soul?"
"Couldn't say. Never had one, so I don't know what it's like to lose one."
"But you've done this before. You've taken other people's. Did it hurt them?"
"They're not exactly chatty--"
"Did they scream?"
A small bowl of grapes glistened next to my laptop. The devil twisted two of them free and rolled them in his hand like Queeg's ball bearings before popping one in his mouth. He sighed heavily.
"Some of them. Not all. Not sure they screamed because it hurt, though. It's not like they were writhing in pain or anything." He suddenly perked up and said, brightly, "Writhing in pain! Hey, did you ever notice that if you subtract the H, for hell, from writhing, it becomes writing?"
Writing in pain. "No, I never noticed."
"I would think you would have. Being a writer and all."
Just then, Kiki poked her head outside. "When did company come? I didn't hear the buzzer."
The devil cleared his throat and favored Kiki with a winning smile. "Good afternoon, Ms. Newman."
Kiki stammered, caught off-guard for the first time since I'd met her. She nervously rubbed her thigh. "Hello," she managed. "I didn't realize--"
"I'll be going now," the devil said. "It was good to catch up with you, Randall." He tipped his hat to Kiki. "Ms. Newman."
I'm not sure exactly how he left. To walk out the door, he would have had to have brushed by Kiki, and I know that didn't happen. All I know for certain is that an instant after the hat-tip, Kiki and I were alone on the balcony, staring at each other. She had gone deathly pale.
"I didn't know," she whispered, still rubbing her thigh. "I had no idea..."
"It's all right," I told her, lying easily and without conscious thought or decision. "It's all right."
I went to her and took her in my arms, a stupidly self-conscious male reaction, but she melted into me willingly, and I felt her tremble.
Or maybe that was me. A quaver of realization. The devil was right. I was going to finish this book, come hell or high water. Literally.
Wherein Kiki and I Cope
Together, we finished off two bottles of middling wine and several shots'-worth of excellent whiskey. At some point, Kiki handed me some smallish pills and told me to chase them with the whiskey. I asked what they were.
"Don't worry about that."
I didn't. I had enough to worry about.
Roughly twenty minutes after taking the pills, I wasn't so worried any more. The whole thing seemed funny all of a sudden. I couldn't stop giggling, which seemed inappropriate, given the circumstances, but I still couldn't stop. Kiki didn't mind. She lounged against me in bed, where we'd spilled some wine and whiskey, but it didn't matter -- Kiki had assistants and maids and cleaning people to take care of such things.
Nothing mattered.
We were giants.
"We're giants," I told her.
"We are," she said, and licked my shoulder.
Some new, alien variety of warm, fluid energy suffused my entire body. Where Kiki licked me, it went hotter, more intense. I felt as though all of my movements were in slow-motion, but that was all right. Even though my mind was moving at its usual speed, it was distracted by the pattern of slats on the A/C vent in the ceiling, by the twist of the sheet around my ankle, by the slight electrical buzz in the air. I had never noticed it before. Was it always there?
Everywhere Fi touched me, I was hot. When I touched her, the pads of my fingers went deliciously cool.
Wait. Not Fi. Kiki. I lifted my head, an effort that seemed almost infinite, and looked at her.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Why?" she asked, dreamily.
"Did I just call you Fi?"
"I don't know. I'm pretty high."
"Me, too."
"I bet if you came in my mouth, I would get even higher," she said, stroking my cock into hardness. I was harder than ever before in my life. Harder than a teenager in the morning. I was a rod of titanium.
Languidly, she made her way down the bed, never releasing me, for all the world appearing to pull herself along with my cock like a mountain climber with an ice screw.
"Hello," she murmured, speaking directly to my cock. "Hi, there. I'm Kiki." She placed a quick kiss on the head, a kiss I felt all through my body. Everything was shimmering and shivering. "I'm going to eat you up," she said. She slid me into her mouth and took me more deeply than ever before, her nose almost touching my pubic bone.
She gagged and pulled away. The room started spinning, in the best way possible. My body had faded away, all its nerves and sensations funneling away into my cock, which seemed to coruscate with sparks of delight.
Kiki took me in her mout
h again, tried again to deep-throat me. Gagged again and pulled back.
"Careful," I whispered. I had more to say. That I meant "careful" she not choke herself. That she didn't have to deep-throat me. And more. But I couldn't speak.
"I need it," she said, and her voice was clogged and I looked down and as she took me in her mouth for the third time, I saw tears in her eyes. She widened her mouth into a painful O, cords on her neck standing out as she tried to devour all of me, take me deep, deep. Gagging again, coughing as she pulled off of me.
"Don't hurt yourself," I managed to say through the haze.
She gazed up at me, her eyes clouded with tears, her cheeks smeared with them, my cock in one hand and poised at her lips, simultaneously the sexiest and most devastated thing I've ever seen. "I need it. I need you. All of you. In me. I'm empty, Randall. Hollow. And you're not. Not yet."
She climbed up me, my cock dragging along her body with exquisite bumps of pleasure, and kissed me, hard, insistent. Angry, almost. I kissed back, brutal, hands roaming, squeezing her ass hard enough to leave bruises. She ground atop me, squirming, squealing into my tongue as she rode through an orgasm, then pulled partly away, gasping.
"I want to fuck you in the ass," I told her.
"You can't do that," she said, her lusting eyes belying her words.
I spun her over on her stomach with an animal ferocity and strength I didn't know I possessed. "Really?"
"You can't," she said.
I pushed into her with near-impossible slowness. "Tell me I can't again," I commanded.
"You can't," she groaned.
"Can't what?"
"You can't fuck my ass," she gasped as I fucked her ass with joyous abandon.
Wherein I Waken to a Surprise
The next morning, I awoke on the kitchen floor. The refrigerator door was open and a carton of milk had spilled all around me, soaking me. I was naked and a platoon of demolition experts had wired my skull with explosives and began depressing their plungers in sequence, sending a ricochet of unbelievable pain through and around my head as I tried to stand.