James Conway - In Cold Blonde

“Not really.” Ryan got out of bed, walked into the bathroom, ran cold water into his hand, splashed it onto his face. Ryan didn’t usually remember his dreams and rarely had anxiety dreams, so the stark reality of this one upset him.

“You must really want that money.”

Ryan glanced in the mirror, saw Syd standing behind him.

“I guess I do,” he said turning to her. “You know, I never thought that much about money. Sure my dad had it when I was growing up; we lived in a huge house in Beverly Hills and I went to an expensive private school, but I was just a kid growing up. I honestly didn’t pay that much attention. When I went to UCLA I had my mustang and lived in a tiny dorm, didn’t bother me a bit. And when dad lost his money and Anne and I had to make do with a small studio apartment, I didn’t mind. I was happy. When Anne left, I stayed in that studio for three years, never dreamed of a bigger place, never wanted another car; I was busy at work, happy, satisfied. I only moved to this apartment because the other building went condo. And I like the extra room, but I didn’t lie in bed dreaming of a big house, swimming pool and three-car garage.”

“And now you do?”

“No, not exactly. But suddenly I’m noticing things. As we walked into Tony Roma’s there was a guy getting into a Bentley; royal blue, luscious leather interior. I bet it was fast as hell. And driving home we passed this house on Valleyheart, an old Tudor with outdoor lights illuminating the walkway and trees. It looked so…comfortable.”

“Uh oh,” Syd said. “The infection is spreading Ryan, a new car and house today, a private jet tomorrow.”

Ryan laughed and then said, “You never told me what you thought of Anne’s idea, about me keeping the money and setting up a foundation.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think.”

“Of course it does. I value your opinion.”

Syd considered, not what she thought about his taking the Lotto ticket, but whether she would tell Ryan. She didn’t want to become the bad guy to Anne’s good guy. She didn’t want to become a spoilsport. Nobody likes a party pooper. Still, if he did value her opinion, maybe she could stop him from making a mistake. “Even if I tell you taking the money is a terrible idea?”

Ryan looked at Syd like she was crazy. “It’s not a terrible idea. In fact, it’s the only sane thing to do. If I don’t take it, no one does. The money disappears into the California general fund.”

“So taking something that isn’t rightfully yours is okay because you’re going to use it to help people?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Then why not rob a bank and distribute the money to the poor? Or steal a car and give it to someone stuck taking the bus?”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Yes, it is, Ryan. The ticket isn’t yours! Hey, according to your rules, it’s actually mine. I’m the one who found it in the glove box.”

That caught him by surprise. “Do you want the ticket?”

“Fuck no. Anyway, I found it in your car so technically it’s still yours — if you don’t count the tow truck driver, I mean.”

“So, you think I should just tear the Lotto ticket up, burn it; what? Syd, I’ve been on TV; all my friends think I’ve won millions of dollars, friends I want to help, and you want me to say, hey everybody, actually I just found the ticket on the sidewalk so I can’t accept the forty-seven million dollars.”

“Thirty-four after taxes.”

Ryan smiled. “Thirty-four after taxes,” he repeated. Somehow that brought the argument back down to earth but one fact remained. “Syd, if I don’t take the money, everyone will think I’m a chump.”

“And if you take it, you’re a thief.”

Ryan let out a long sigh. Technically he knew she was right, but god damn it, Anne was right, too. The world isn’t black and white; we have to live in the gray. It wasn’t until then, that moment, that Ryan realized how much he wanted to take the money. But he also wanted Syd’s approval, her blessing. “Don’t you think I could do a better job of redistributing this wealth than a bunch of crooked politicians?”

“Yes.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Syd sighed, knowing she’d lost. “There is no problem, Ryan. Take the money. I know you’ll do great things with it. And, frankly, I’d love to ride in a Bentley and live in that house on Valleyheart.”

“But I want you to be as excited as I am.”

Not going to happen, she thought. But that’s not what Ryan needs to hear right now so she said, “I will be, I promise.” Then something occurred to her. “Did we just have our first fight?”

“I guess we did.”

“Good,” she said slipping into his arms. “I just love make-up sex.”

“Is there any kind of sex you don’t like?”

A montage of images fluttered through Syd’s mind, things she’d had to do as a hooker and hated: being beaten by bondage freaks, getting pissed on, getting shat on, fucking a dwarf in front of a bunch of drunk fraternity brothers, having everything from carrots to dildos to cigars stuck up her vagina, having everything from carrots to dildos to cigars stuck up her ass.

Syd focused on the hazel eyes of the man she loved, her finger traced his dimple. “If it’s with you, sweetie, there is no kind of sex I don’t like.” She kissed him. “Now shut up and fuck me.”

Blake Hunter woke up staring at a huge pair of tits. He rolled over to find another huge pair of tits. Ah, what a way to start the day.

The breasts belonged to two hookers, Emmy and Amy, or was it Annie and Erin? No matter, he was sure those weren’t their real names anyway.

He’d ordered them up at the last minute, sort of a spur of the moment celebratory reward after one of his photographers scored a topless photo of pop sensation, Tiffany Brooks. Mario had been hiding in a tree across the street from Tiffany’s estate for two days, hoping for a shot of her sunbathing topless or fucking the pool boy or just watering the flowers. Something, anything of Tiffany in her new house would be tabloid gold. But she’d never left the house. Then yesterday, she finally came out for a swim. Topless. And a delighted Mario started shooting the first ever topless photos of Tiffany Brooks.

The pictures were worth a fortune. Blake would sell them worldwide through BHPIX, his photo news company that fed the voracious hunger of the worldwide tabloids.

Blake sat atop the paparazzi pyramid with a staff of six highly paid photographers willing to harass, intimidate, lie, cheat and steal to get a marketable shot. Blake also had a network of waiters and waitresses, bartenders, hostesses, valets and salesclerks who, for a cash commission, would call in when a celebrity showed up. Not to mention an army of publicists and agents who wanted their clients photographed.

It was a great business but not the one Blake had hoped for. He’d wanted to be a director. As far back as high school he always had his video camera with him, shooting events at school and small movies with friends.

He went to USC Film School, distinguished himself with a couple of student films and got a job directing a low budget independent movie right after graduation. There was this adorable teenage girl in the cast, only fifteen, and Blake flipped for her. He pursued her relentlessly during shooting, finally getting into her pants the last day of shooting.

And that’s exactly how her mother found her daughter when she unexpectedly walked into her trailer; her daughter’s pants off, Blake’s pants off and Blake’s reproductive organ inserted snuggly in her fifteen-year-old daughter’s reproductive organ.

Statutory Rape.