Blood Red Carpet

May 21, the next day. The TCL Chinese Theatre.

Another night, another red carpet.

Following yesterday’s debacle, I’m in a shitty mood. I wasn’t originally going to attend this movie premiere. The Kill Artist, starring Eric Simonds as Gabriel Allon, Israeli spy extraordinaire, has promised to be nothing more than another blockbuster thriller riding on the coattails of its superstar cast.

But then Sean Corolla showed up with his exclusive invitation, lamenting his lack of a ‘plus one’ to bring along, so here I stand, suited up on the big stage, smiling and schmoozing with the celebrities in attendance.

Cameras flash as I stroll down the corridor, gawking faces staring at Sean Corolla next to me.

“We love you Sean!” somebody cries out, and he turns and waves and smiles in their general direction.

“Hey, how’d you make it in?” Hailey Westberg asks me, running up to me from the side in three inch heels. She’s wearing a golden, glittery dress that shows off her figure nicely, though I make the effort to meet her in her eyes, and not her tremendous rack. She is Tiffany’s friend, after all. “Even Tiffany couldn’t swing an invite to this one!”

“I don’t think she wanted an invite to this one after everything that went down,” I say, glancing over my shoulder to see if anyone’s listening. It’s just Sean nearby, so nothing to worry about.

“Did she give you all the juicy details about Eric too?” Hailey says animatedly. “I thought the two of you weren’t so close anymore, have you made up?”

“You could say so,” I laugh, although the irony of the situation makes me wince inside. While everything was fine between me and Tiffany, we had to pretend to be apart so that the Simonds and the Rotshchilds would fall for my plan. But since that plan fell through, it feels like things have gotten worse between us.

I’ve failed Tiffany. She’s going to have to sleep with Bob Simonds now to rescue the deal. And knowing him for the slimy waste of a human being that he is, he might not even give us the deal after that.

That’s the real reason I’m here tonight. To make things right.

“So you and Sean, you two are tight too? Best buds?” she says, nudging me in the arm.

“Hell yeah we are,” Sean says, giving Hailey an appreciative nod.

He’s freshly on the market and making it very well known.

“How’d the two of you meet?” she asks me, ignoring him.

“We bonded over some mutual trauma,” I say, trying not to get into the specifics. “Do you think they’ll let us hang around for when Eric shows up? I wanted to get a word in with him.”

“Nah, he’s the star of the show, security will have pushed us into our seats waiting with our popcorn before he shows on the carpet. We’re the small potatoes tonight,” she says, beaming a dazzling smile to a photographer on the sidelines.

True to her word, the men in black begin to usher us towards the end of the red carpet as a stretch limo pulls up to the street. Eric Simonds exits from the vehicle, looking dapper as hell in his tuxedo, a (what must be fake) firearm tucked into his waistband, nailing the James Bond look to a T.

“Are you ready for the show tonight or what?” he says, throwing his arms up in the air.

The roar of the crowd in response is feedback enough, and my backward glance confirms that a topless woman has jumped the security cordon to rush towards him. He laughs as he signs the top of her tits with the Sharpie she’s carrying between her teeth before the security ‘escorts’ her away with a firm hand.

Though I try to dawdle, the guards by me keep me moving forwards, and I enter into the theatre proper. The doors block out most the noise and the flashing lights. While Hailey runs ahead to grab herself a big box of complimentary condiments, I meet eyes with Sean.

“Eric’s got the Merrygold twins to himself these days, doesn’t he?” I ask.

“That sonofabitch,” Sean mutters under his breath. “I didn’t tell you about the foursome we had together, did I?”

I shake my head, but I gesture for him to go on, intrigued.

“It was the day before the Getty Ball. Eric and Madison were out at some club that evening, flaunting their new relationship, and they got blackout drunk. I was in bed with Morgan when they got back to the mansion, and Eric wanted to get some of both the girls, and I got mad at him—he couldn’t just take my girl, you know?”

“Of course not,” I say sympathetically.

“So I told him if he wanted some of Morgan, I would get some from Madison. He got mad, tried to beat me up, we tussled for a second, but I mean,” he flexes and shows off his arm. “Eric’s a pretty boy, he might be the popular boy, but he knew he couldn’t take me. Next thing you know, we were all fucking each other—guys fucking girls, I mean—and then, crap, then it got weird…”

“You mean a foursome’s not weird enough?”

“I mean, I got my tail, I came, I was happy, just lounging on the side, but Eric, he was still there, hammering away, grunting, but he wouldn’t cum. Then he told them to use their hair, like, a fucking foot-job or tit-job but with their hair, and I don’t know why I watched but… shit, he was pretty quiet before, but the moment that blonde hair was wrapped around his cock? So much moaning and grunting and he came in like ten seconds…”

“Hey, we don’t kink shame around here,” I say.

“Yeah, I was gonna bring it up with him the next day, at the Getty Ball, but then I figured, he was so drunk that he probably didn’t even remember,” he laughs.

I’m about to answer, when a familiar voice booms out from behind me.

“Claude Ashworth!” Eric Simonds cries out. “So good to see you here. You and I, we need to have a chat.”

I spin around, startled, thinking he might have overheard Sean, but all he’s got is that regular cocky grin on his face.

“What’s up, Eric?” I say.

“Let’s take a walk, shall we?” he says, nodding at me.

I meet eyes with Sean again, but he just pats me on the back, heading off to the concessions.

“Sure,” I say to Eric, walking alongside him down a corridor to a more secluded part of the theatre. “Don’t you have journalists to say things to, paparazzi to satisfy, a billion people wanting to talk to you?”

“Sure,” Eric chuckles as we walk pass the entrance to the cinema room. “But I made some time just for you, once I saw that you were here. You’re quite a person, you know that?”

“I have my moments,” I say neutrally, trying not to let anything leak as he pushes open the door to the men’s room.

He holds the door open for me and I follow him in.

The metallic door clangs shut, and I swear the lights flicker slightly as it does so.

“Quite the person,” he repeats, nodding.

He reaches his hand down to his waist and draws the gun, pointing it at me.

I freeze.

“You stole Tiffany from me,” he growls in a low voice, a dark look in his eye. “I know what you’re gonna say. That you’re not involved with her, that you’ve never fucked her, sure. Whatever. You still took her from me.”

I bite back my comment about his father getting a piece of her.

I back up slowly, trying to get myself out of here, but my back hits cold metal. The door is shut.

“And you tried to fuck over my dad’s company. You’re gonna pay for that,” he says, stalking closer to me, until his hot breath is up in my face. “Nobody fucks with my dad’s company.”

“Your gun’s a fake,” I say under my breath, trying to steady my breathing. “You haven’t got—”

He pistol-whips me, and I spit out a mouthful of blood after I recover from the shock. I hold up my arms, I need to fight back. I try to throw a punch, but he ducks to its side. He’s slow, that blow should have connected, but I only just got my perk, my body hasn’t had the chance to recover yet, I’m slower…

His next punch is an uppercut clean to my jaw. My head snaps backwards and upwards. There’s a crack as I hear my head colliding with the door.

I feel my body slumping down, no, no, this can’t be, I need to fight back, but my eyelids are drooping, I see Eric Simonds dusting off his palms as he tucks the gun back into his waistband, and then the world goes black.