Sex and Violence in Hollywood Read online

  Sex and Violence in Hollywood

  Ray Garton

  For Dawn, my love.

  Acknowledgments

  It seems I get a lot of help from a lot of the same people every time I write a book, while at the same time meeting some new ones on the way. The following have contributed, in one way or another, to the completion of this novel: Scott Sandin, Derek Sandin, Jane Naccarato, Ricia Mainhardt, A.J. Janschewitz, my wonderful parents, Ray and Pat Garton, my wonderful in-laws, Bill and Suzy Millhouse, Bill and Shelly Blair, Pamela Briggs, Gina Mitchell, Kelly Laymon, Rain Graves, and my friends in the Horrornet Cabal—you know who you are—Sheila Winston (don’t deny it, Sheila, you helped!). A very helpful attorney I met through Allexperts.com provided me with a lot of useful information—and then I lost his name in a recent move. You know who you are, too—thank you! Thanks also to my agent Richard Curtis—the prodigal client has returned! And of course, thank you, Dawn, for everything.

  PART 1

  SEX

  “Dahling, how does one get laid in this dreadful place?”

  —Tallulah Bankhead to Irving Thalberg during her first visit to Hollywood in 1931

  “My dear, you’re sitting on it.”

  —Alfred Hitchcock to actress Mary Anderson when she asked about her “best side”

  “There’s a broad with a future behind her.”

  —Constance Bennett commenting on a starlet in the 1930s

  “I’ll never forget the night I brought my Oscar home and Tony look one look at it and I knew my marriage was over.”

  —Shelly Winters on husband Anthony Franciosa’s reaction to her first Oscar for The Diary of Anne Frank

  ONE

  The hot Los Angles sun came through the open window over the bed and fell on Adam Julian’s sweat-slicked back as he pistoned in and out of Gwen Cardell. His loud breathing grew more rapid, punctuated by abrupt, dry grunts and gasps. He propped himself up on his hands, elbows locked, as he pounded into her faster and faster.

  “No, no,” she said. “Slow down, baby, slow—”

  She stopped speaking and gently pushed him off. He was so lost in his pleasure, it took him a moment to realize what she was doing.

  “I’m sorry, what did I—”

  “Nothing, you didn’t do a thing,” she whispered. She put a hand on the side of his head, pulled him down and kissed him on the mouth. “Just roll over. On your back.”

  Adam’s shaggy, dark brown hair flopped around his face in sweaty strands as he rolled onto his back beside her.

  Gwen rose to her knees and tossed her long, honey-gold hair over her shoulders. Looked down at him, licked her smiling lips. Bent forward and her hair fell down in a curtain on each side of her face. Lips smacked wetly as she kissed his flat belly, which rose and fell with his chest as he continued to pant. She spoke between kisses.

  “I’d forgotten...what boys...your age...are like. So quick...so eager to come.”

  It irritated Adam to be referred to as a “boy,” especially in the condescending way Gwen had said it. Normally, he would not let it pass without a sharp retort. But he had no time to think about it. At the moment, his penis was throbbing in time with his heartbeat. So hard it hurt. Behind it, inside him, a thick, wet ache pressed for release.

  She wrapped a hand around his erection and he lifted his head as she threw a leg over and slid down him slowly. “You want me to come, too, don’t you?” she asked, breathing her words as she moved slowly on top of him. “I let it go the first time, but—” She stopped to smile and close her eyes, moan, “—but it’s something you need to work on, Adam, and—ah, ah—there’s no time luh-like the present. Right?”

  He let his head fall back again, feeling far too good to be irritated by anything she said. Almost too good to hear anything she said. She ground on him hard, and when Adam lifted his head again, just for a moment, he saw her hand between her spread thighs. Two fingers moved between fleshy folds with staccato quickness.

  Both of them panted like exhausted dogs and Gwen released a throaty, breathy laugh as the evenly-tanned flesh on her body began to quiver. When she came, loud “ah” sounds burst explosively from her, mixed with Adam’s cries as he clutched her thighs and writhed beneath her, thrust his hips upward desperately.

  They held their positions for about thirty seconds afterward, silent except for the sounds of their breathing. Then Gwen lay forward and stretched her legs out behind her until her body was draped over Adam’s. Brushed her lips over his, licked his eyelashes, stroked his hair. Rolled off him and snuggled beneath his right arm.

  The enormous bedroom smelled of Gwen’s perfume—probably something obscenely expensive and French, with a name Adam could not pronounce—and the joint they had shared before having sex. The vague sounds of birds singing and a distant dog barking came through the window over the bed. Sunlight spilled through all the windows and fell on the cream and royal-blue decor.

  “You’re delicious,” Gwen said, stroking his thigh. “You know that? Delicious.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “But, I’m, you know...just a boy.”

  Gwen laughed as she dropped her left hand and squeezed his limp penis and testicles. “You’re so sensitive. You need to toughen that skin, lover. The world is full of people like me. Some a lot worse. But not too many. You’ve gotta be ready for us.”

  “My skin’s tough enough,” he said quietly. “I just don’t like to be condescended to. Especially when I’m fucking.”

  She rolled toward him, put an arm across his chest, and smiled, her nose a couple inches from his. “Look, you have to understand that to me, to anyone my age, you are a boy. You’re...what? Twenty-two, twenty-three?” Adam said nothing. “And when you’re forty, like me, you’ll look back on this moment and you’ll smile and think to yourself, yep, she was right.”

  Gwen rolled away from him onto her right elbow and opened a small cupboard door on her side of the headboard. Removed a softpack of Marlboro Lights 100’s, an ashtray, and a lighter. Lit up and took a long drag on the cigarette. Tapped it over the ashtray beside her on the bed.

  “Okay,” Adam said, sitting up beside her. “So if I’m such a boy, why are you attracted to me at all?”

  Her eyelids lowered slightly as she turned to him with a naughty smile. “Oh, you’ll understand that, too.” Turned her whole body toward him, moved her eyes over his body. Stroked his chest with her right hand, cigarette held between two fingers. “So smooth and silky. So fresh and untouched. I have a different perspective, that’s all. My perspective is that you’re beautiful and new and unused. And delicious.”

  “Hey, I never said anything about untouched or unused.”

  Gwen laughed.

  “Then what are you?” Adam asked.

  Another instant of eye contact—a little chilly this time—then she dropped back down beside him, laughing. “I’m a veteran, that’s all.”

  “You mean, you’re not new? You are used?”

  She was silent for a moment. “Are you trying to piss me off, Adam?”

  “No,” he lied. He passed his eyes the length of her long, beautiful body, then back again.

  Gwen’s skin was darkly, evenly tanned, but somehow milky, too. The color of Malt-O-Meal with a little brown sugar stirred in, he decided—but much sexier. There was a smooth, intoxicating curve to her belly, which Adam delighted in nibbling. There were the inevitable stretch marks from bearing a child—she said she had a daughter from a previous marriage who lived with her dad—but they were negligible. Not much was real in Los Angeles, but Gwen’s body was. All but the breasts.

  He reached over with his left hand and gently stroked one. Brushed fingertips over the erect mocha nipple. “You
have beautiful breasts,” he whispered.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, blowing smoke through a smile.

  “I bet they were beautiful before the augmentation, too.”

  There was a long silence. She took another puff on her cigarette.

  Adam had been surprised to find that Gwen had breast implants. He had felt them the first time they had sex, the day before yesterday. The day after his birthday. Most breasts with implants did not move properly, stood erect when the body reclined. They lacked the smooth, flowing fleshiness of natural breasts. Saline implants were an improvement over silicone, but they were still implants, still unnatural. He found those unmoving mounds of taught flesh disgusting. But Gwen’s were not like that. He had become quite good at identifying “reloads,” as he and Carter called them, but Gwen had fooled him. Until he touched them.

  “Okay...you are just trying to piss me off now.”

  “No, I mean it, they’re beautiful.” He was quite sincere. “I was shocked when I realized you had re—um, implants. They’re...well, it’s an almost perfect job.”

  “What do you mean, almost perfect?”

  “Well, it’s a job, that’s what I mean. It’s a job, so it’s not perfect. That’s why I said I bet they were beautiful before the augmentation. I bet they were perfect.”

  She sat up then, crossing her legs Indian-style. Looked at him with a suspicion that was almost angry. “What the hell are you trying to say?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  “You mean, there’s no point to this rambling?”

  Adam shrugged with one shoulder and sat up with her. “Well, only that you probably didn’t need them in the first place. You’re beautiful. Your body is beautiful. You just did that for other people, I guess. Like everybody else in this town. In show business. But you didn’t need it. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Gwen smiled a little too suddenly, as if relieved. Pulled him toward her and kissed him deeply. Lips and tongue worked their way down to his shoulder. “You’re such a sweetheart,” she said, words garbled. “Saying that...and talking. You know, most men don’t like to talk after sex...but you do. You’re going to make a lot of women...very happy...I’m sure.”

  Adam said, “Mmmm,” and smiled as she took his nipple between her teeth, sucked on it. He felt himself growing hard again.

  “Just remember,” she said. “Always ladies first in bed. And maybe you should start...working out.”

  “Working out?” he muttered, frowning.

  She sat up and kissed his face gently, again and again. “You’re a little scrawny, hon. That’s all.”

  He chuckled as he leaned his head back and shook it slowly. She never stopped. Maybe she simply could not help herself. “You wanna do it again?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  “Mmmaybe...you?”

  “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Okay,” she said, pulling away. “Go. But don’t be long.”

  He started to get out of bed.

  Gwen smiled. “Can I come in and hold it for you?”

  His eyes widened. “What?”

  “Your cock. While you pee. Can I hold it for you?”

  Adam slipped off the edge of the enormous bed, landed on the raised dais on which it was centered. Gwen was about to take another pull on her Marlboro, but laughed instead.

  He peered over the edge of the bed, got to his feet. “You want to, um...hold my dick while I...”

  “Why not?” she said with a shrug. “I’ve never done it before. I think it would be fun. And very sexy.”

  Adam was surprised to find that the idea excited him. He reached out with his right hand and said, “Cigarette.” She handed it to him and he took a long, deep drag, let the smoke out slowly. “Okay, I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to go if you’re holding my dick, but I’m willing—”

  He swallowed his words and Gwen’s smile fell away when they heard a sound through the open window over the bed. A familiar sound. The purring engine of a mint-condition 1958 Ferrari 250 Testarossa.

  A surge of panic in his chest and stomach made Adam take a deep breath. But he let none of it show. Just raised his eyebrows a little when he said, “I guess I’ll have to take a piss somewhere else. Your husband is home.” His quiet, calm voice did not give away his thundering heart, or the fear that suddenly clutched his throat.

  Gwen crawled toward him and got off the bed, stood in front of him. “Yes, I guess he is,” she said, grinning as she slid an arm around him and plucked the cigarette from his fingers.

  Outside, beneath the second-story window, the Ferrari’s engine was killed.

  “You know, if he smells that cigarette, he’s going to know you’ve had sex with someone,” Adam said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  The Ferrari’s door opened, and a moment later, slammed shut.

  “Because that’s the only time I’ve ever seen you smoke cigarettes.”

  “Such an observant boy.”

  He took the cigarette from her hand. “There’s that boy shit again.” Took a quick puff.

  Outside, footsteps sounded on concrete below.

  Adam’s already full bladder seemed to shrink.

  “Do your parents know you smoke?” she asked. Her shoulders bobbed with silent, secret laughter.

  Adam nodded and smiled, handed the cigarette back. Tried to stir up some saliva in his suddenly dry mouth. “Yeah. Very funny. I’ll see you around.”

  He quickly gathered up his clothes and hurried out of the bedroom.

  * * *

  In his bedroom, Adam slipped Evil Dead 2: Dead by Dawn into the DVD player and flopped onto his bed to watch.

  He could not believe he was fucking his dad’s new wife.

  Maybe it’s because I hate him, he thought. Then: No, not maybe.

  He liked Gwen, and would even if they were not having sex. But they were, and it was incredible, and he liked her even more for it. She had a cool Grace Kelly beauty, but there was something more beneath it, something Adam had only glimpsed when she let her guard down. Gwen gave the impression of someone who knew a secret that no one else in the world knew, and of someone who would always keep it to herself.

  The fact that his dad was married to her did not concern him at all. Adam could not muster a particle of guilt for his relationship with Gwen, and he had tried. Because he hated his dad so much. For killing his mother.

  TWO

  Adam took a seat at the dinner as Mrs. Yu served the meal.

  “Ah, you come eat, Missa Adam!” Mrs. Yu said excitedly, grinning. “Dat nice, dat nice. I get you prate.” She hurried out of the dining room.

  Gwen smiled at him and his dad turned to him slowly.

  “Decided to eat with us for a change?” Michael Julian asked.

  Adam shrugged. “I was hungry for a change.”

  Mrs. Yu returned and hurriedly put a plate and utensils and a linen napkin before Adam. She patted him on the shoulder and said, “We have tie-tip tonight. You rike.”

  Mrs. Yu had come to America from China with her sickly husband decades before Adam was born. Mr. Yu had been run over by a truck and killed shortly after they arrived. Michael had hired her when Adam was just a baby only because everyone else he knew had Mexican and South American servants and he wanted to be different. Michael always wanted to be different. He had specifically sought out a Chinese maid, and would settle for nothing else. “When was the last time you saw a Chinese maid, huh?” Michael sometimes asked of anyone within earshot. “The Courtship of Eddie’s Father, that’s when. These days, they all speak Spanish.”

  Adam never pointed out that Mrs. Livingston, the housekeeper on The Courtship of Eddie’s Father, was Japanese. He knew if he did, his dad would only say, “Chinese, Japanese, what’s the difference.”

  Michael Julian had declared his independence in the face of trendiness by hiring a servant of different ethnicity from everyone else’s. Had it been possible, Adam was sure his father would have hired an extrate
rrestrial. The ultimate in cheap immigrant hired help. If you could keep them from eating the cat.

  “Well, it’s been a while since you’ve joined us at the dinner table, Adam,” Michael said. “Did the projection bulb blow out at the Nuart, or something?”

  Adam said nothing. Mrs. Yu continued to place food on their plates.

  “How are things?” Michael said. “What have you been up to, if anything?”

  “Not much,” Adam said. “I’ve been doing some writing.”

  Michael stopped eating, looked across the table at Adam. He seemed on the verge of smiling as he leaned forward slightly, almost imperceptibly. “Writing? A screenplay?”

  Adam shook his head as he cut his meat. “A little poetry. A short story.”

  Michael rolled his eyes and sighed. “I’ve told you. How many times have I told you?” He picked up his knife and fork and went to work on his dinner. Stabbed and cut his meat as if it had offended him. “If you’ve got some talent at writing, put it into a screenplay, for Christ’s sake. Anything else is a waste of time. Publishing is falling apart. Nobody has time to read books anymore, let alone poetry.” He shoved a big bloody piece of meat into his mouth and chewed as he talked. “But a screenplay...if everything works and it gets produced, it’s on the big screen, bigger than life. Then, it’s on the shelf at the bookstore of the twenty-first century, the video store. Each produced script is...it’s like a little piece of eternal life.”

  Michael Julian was a big man. Broad shoulders, thick arms, and a round belly. When Adam was a little boy, he remembered his dad being lean and muscular. But these days, his body was a sloppy, lumpy mess. As large as his body was, though, his head was too big for it, and he had no discernible neck. His head appeared to sit between his shoulders without suspension, as if he were always shrugging.

  “If you can write poetry and short stories, you can write a script,” he went on. “Just write what you know, then add the honey.”