Wrath White - Orgy of Souls

“I do try.”

Amon walked past Jacque and onto the set with his chin pointing skyward, glancing at the photographer who once again averted his gaze. Samson took the opportunity to make a dash for the stairs before Jacque could speak to him again. Unfortunately, Jacque still caught up with him.

“Leaving? We’ll go down together, okay?” Jacque smiled from ear to ear, batting his fake eyelashes. Everything about him had the veneer of artifice—from the eyeliner tattooed above his cobalt blue contact lenses, to his collagen injected lips, to his anorexic liposuctioned body, to his perfumes and makeups that were so expensive that one bottle of face cream could have paid a month’s rent in most San Francisco apartments.

“Fine.” Samson mumbled back, making no attempt to hide his disgust for the man.

“Good. I’ve been meaning to talk to you. We’re going to be working together a lot and I know we haven’t gotten along well in the past. But with us both selling drawers for the same company at a couple million dollars a shoot, I just thought we should get a bit closer. I mean, this contract could make or break both of our careers. We need to get along or we’re both going to wind up on the street. So why don’t we just kiss and make up? How about I take you out to dinner tonight? Anywhere you want to go. It certainly would not hurt my reputation to be seen waltzing around town with one of the world’s most beautiful men, and it just might help us get a little closer.”

“How close exactly did you want to get?”

Jacque looped his arm through Samson’s and led him out of the elevator into the parking garage, whispering in his ear, “As close as possible, handsome. As close as possible.”

“Fine.”

The date went well. The appetizers—escargot in mushroom caps smothered in garlic butter, little crackers with smoked salmon and imported Beluga caviar covered in green onions and sour cream—were heavenly, and the lobster was superb. They sat across a candlelit table in one of the most exclusive restaurants in San Francisco.

“My dad kicked my ass and then kicked me right out of the house when I told him and my mom that I was gay. I don’t know why he was so shocked. I used to make dresses and things for my sister and me and then I would take pictures. I wanted to be a designer back then. We would play runway and practice our model walk. I know, I’m one of those gay stereotypes that make other gay men furious. They like to pretend that flamboyant faggots like me are some straight male invention, but we exist. We’re here and we’re queer, as they say.”

He took a long sip of Cristal and stared at Samson over the glass, waiting for some reaction.

“So what’s up with all your little boy toys that follow you around the set? Are you dating any of them?”

“Honey, I’m dating all of them. I may not be quite as lovely as you, but with a little cosmetic surgery here and there, I can still turn a few heads. Besides, I’m rich and that makes me infinitely attractive.”

“But no serious relationship?” Samson smiled seductively, flirting almost instinctively. He traced a finger around the lip of his champagne glass and then bit his bottom lip. Jacque’s breath hitched.

“No, nothing serious.”

“Ever?”

“I’m not one of those gay republicans who get married, adopt kids, and open joint bank accounts. For me, anonymous sex is part of the allure of the lifestyle.”

“Yeah, that’s a pretty good line. How long have you been telling yourself that? Do you believe it yet?”

Jacque laughed. “No. I still haven’t really convinced myself.”

“I didn’t think so. Everybody wants to be loved, even the worst of us.”

“And that’s why I hated you the first time I laid eyes on you. You are far too intuitive for your own good. Models are supposed to be pretty little empty-headed things. You think too much.”

“Yet still, in the end, I’m just another pretty little empty-headed thing like all the rest, no matter how much thinking I do.”

They finished off two more bottles of Cristal before stumbling out of the restaurant and falling into a waiting limousine. Jacque pawed all over Samson before the door to the limo was even closed. Samson endured the photographer’s attentions and even returned his kisses.

“You know, I didn’t think you were gay. I mean, I figured you’d probably slept with a designer here and there to get into a show like everyone else, you know, gay-for-pay maybe, but I didn’t think you were really into guys.” Jacque stroked the erection in Samson’s expensive jeans.

“I’m not gay. I’m not attracted to guys in the least. Just ask Amon.”

Jacque paused.

“So then you want something from me in exchange… but what? I mean, you’ve already got the underwear contract. Despite all of my yelling and threatening I couldn’t really take that away from you. So, what?”

“I want your soul.”

“My soul,” Jacque smirked, “I did tell you that I wasn’t into commitment, right?”

Samson knew the proposition sounded ridiculous on the face of it, but to those who didn’t believe in things like souls, it struck them as little more than telling Santa what they wanted for Christmas. “And I told you that I wasn’t into guys but you’ve still got your hand on my dick.”

“So I do.” Jacque said with a giggle.

“So, if you want more, you’re going to have to sign a contract.”

“Honey, I don’t sign anything unless my lawyer looks it over first.”

“That’s fine. I’ll leave the contract with you. You can get back to me when you’ve made up your mind.”

Samson rapped on the partition that separated them from the driver. The partition lowered and the driver peered back at them through the rearview mirror, his reflective sunglasses doing little to mask his disgust.

“Yes, sir?”

“Drop me off at club Requiem.”

“Can I come with you?” Jacque asked. He was so intoxicated that he appeared as though he were about to faint.

“No. Go home. Sleep it off. We’ll talk in the morning when you’ve decided.”

Nkosi’s room allowed a measure of privacy, an oasis of dignity against the encroachment of an intractable trespasser. Like all of the rooms, a large bay window faced the rising sun. Painted a neutral taupe, not falsely cheery nor hope-crushingly dreary, the room was an austere testimony to Nkosi’s life. Samuel sat next to her bed and watched her for nearly an hour as she slept before she knew he was in the room. She waved meekly for him to draw near. Her breathing had grown shallow, her voice no louder than a whisper, lost in a swirl of semi-consciousness.

“Don’t you want your mirror?”

“The way I look? My eyes so big and hollow, like I’m already dead and I’m staring back from the other side.”

A Bible lay open on the stand that used to hold her meal trays. It mocked him. The deceitful strength that so long buoyed her had fled in the night. She couldn’t walk, her thin frame no longer capable of supporting her. She convulsed as if gripped by a terrible chill. Her weak voice, once so vibrant, unnerved Samuel.

“I hadn’t heard from your family. One of the nurses had to call me.”

“I just wanted to hide from everyone. No one should have to look at me.”

A paralyzing fear gripped him. He avoided meeting her eyes because every time he did, he became afraid. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her to be strong, that she was having a bad day; hope stuck in his throat. She didn’t have much longer—the disease consumed her so quickly, yet she stared at him as if he was supposed to have the answers.

“I don’t know,” he said finally.