I recalled the photographer, some fashionista with a vague foreign accent. She'd had a little pink spray bottle, filled with oil and water, and something she called her secret sauce. Between camera-clicks, she'd spray my chest and abs, and hint that later, she'd like a private shoot of more than my torso.
I recalled the model who'd been reaching around me. Her hands were cold, and she smelled like smoke. After the final shot, she'd reached down to grab my crotch. "Oops," she giggled, giving me a long, lingering squeeze.
An hour later, I'd fucked her silly.
I mean, why not? That's what I did, right? I was Lawton Fucking Rastor. I was good at fucking. I liked it, too. Thinking about it, my muscles grew tight. I didn't like it so much anymore – at least, not the empty kind with girls I'd forget before the wet spot dried.
Now, standing in Chloe's kitchen, I felt some of my sanity slipping away. I looked long and hard at the poster. The movie had a title. It was clever, too. In a low, quiet voice, I read it out loud. "Riding the Rastor."
It was funny, right?
Bishop spoke. "Lawton—"
"I'm not done," I snapped. With my eyes still on the poster, I zoomed in on the smaller words. "What happens when a good girl goes bad?" I took a deep breath and kept on reading. "Very, very bad."
"C'mon," he said. "Don't do this."
I waved him off and kept on reading, but not out loud, not anymore – because the words died in my throat before I could say them.
Watch in all its naked glory as the innocent neighbor girl is spectacularly corrupted by the resident bad boy, Lawton 'Horse-Hung' Rastor, every girl's wet dream, every parent's worst nightmare.
Disgusted, I looked away. Near a notebook computer, I spotted a disk inside a clear, plastic case. On the case, I saw three simple words. Rastor Sex Tape.
I stared at the thing. Was it the tape starring Brandy? I gave a low, bitter laugh. Or a new one starring Chloe, the Nice Girl Next Door?
As far as a setup, it would be easy enough. I'd given her a key to my house, along with the codes to everything else. Had she been setting up cameras when I wasn't looking? Did she have a partner? A backer? A sleaze-ball producer who'd make her a star?
I reached out and grabbed the disk. I hurled it, case and all, across the kitchen. It slammed into a cupboard and tumbled to the floor. From across the room, I looked down at the thing. The case was cracked, but the disk looked undamaged. "Fuck," I muttered.
Again, Bishop spoke. "You want me to handle it? Just say the word."
I heard myself laugh. "Handle it? How?"
"Search the house, destroy what we can." He paused. "If we have to, we'll pay her off."
I didn't want her paid off. My fingers flexed. I wanted her to pay.
But somewhere, in the back of my mind, I knew that was just anger talking. Anger and betrayal and everything in between.
I had loved her. I shook my head. What a crock.
I turned to Bishop. "No. I'll handle it."
His voice was careful. "How?"
"I don't know."
And I didn't. Yeah, I had plenty of money. I could pay her off easy enough, assuming money was the thing she wanted. But that was no guarantee, was it? What if, like Brandy, the thing that Chloe really wanted was instant fame?
Bishop crossed the kitchen and picked up the disk. "You want me to play it?"
I almost laughed. "Why?"
"Because," he said, "it might not be as bad as it looks."
"Yeah, right."
He turned the disk over, as if searching for hidden text or maybe a label. "It could be just a copy of the Brandy thing," he said.
