Grab the Groom Chapter 1 Continued
“Thanks. Be a minute.” Brad turned back to the window.
“This final girl’s B-level, more the ‘entertain the investors’ type than camera-ready,” Suzanne said.
Brad sighed. “We’ll let her know. Find out how much entertaining she’s willing to do.”
Suzanne cleared her throat, but neither man asked what was on her mind. “I’ll tell her to keep waiting.” But she didn’t leave the room.
Meanwhile, back at the manor…
Contestant #1—Diana
Diana hadn’t waited for the other contestants to travel from L.A. She’d gotten on a plane to France as soon as she’d gotten the email, complete with electronic contract saying she’d made the cut. Hot-footing it to the show’s location on her homeliest cousin’s mileage—Zelda wasn’t going anywhere fun, anyway—her goal was first pick of accommodation before the other girls arrived. They all thought they would win the show, and any little advantage, like better sleep in an out-of-the-way room, could tip the scales in her favor.
But really, nobody had a chance against her. No, sir, Diana wasn’t there to be Miss Congeniality. She planned to fight for the win, tooth and nail. She had pride in being a lone wolf.
Maybe really a lone fox. Sure, all the potential contestants she’d met at the auditions were good-looking, but only one was truly sexy—a tall brunette named Isabella. Not that the ‘ho had been friendly or introduced herself. Snooty bitch.
From the first try-outs, the cutesy, high-pitched voices—as well as the undercurrent of bitchiness—drove her crazy. Well, maybe not the bitchiness, but the squealing put her in a bad mood that only meaningless sex could relieve. She sighed, missing the Golden State’s opportunities. A heroic teacher of underprivileged barrio youth—that’s how blonde all-American Diana sold herself to that gay director. It would play well on TV when she was intro’d and again, once she won.
If the show’s executives thought Diana would wait to get laid until The Groom was in play, they were sadly mistaken—a girl had her needs.
She was a dedicated teacher, just unable to resist the best L.A. had to offer. L.A., where a romp with a group of high school cholos, fortunately not “too young for their teacher to seduce,” attracted no condemnation. Just the proud appreciation of the boys’ fathers. And it wasn’t like the kids complained. Those boys, with their dreamy, long-lashed dark eyes, full of disinterest in English composition. “Hell, all they want is for us to write how crappy our ‘hood is! That shit get old!”
The best, the creamiest one of all was in her two-p.m. composition class. His lack of interest in creative writing was balanced out by a lot of interest in creative fucking, access to mighty good Molly, and a papa proud he was gaining useful experience with a teacher, an older, golden-haired gringa!
She’d driven him in her BMW convertible to Griffith Park, hiked to the HOLLYWOOD sign, and spread the blanket on the ground. Afterward, she’d dropped that sticky blanket at the drycleaners.
Diana had only arrived at the manor yesterday but, sad to say, already found this French manor’s maintenance staff even less motivated than her students. She’d called for extra towels and a carafe of plain hot water—to brew her hibiscus facial—and they hadn’t been seen again. Perhaps her room was too out of the way.
The staff members were not only incompetent, they were unappealing. The damp climate and depressed economy had left the young men wan and unhealthy, with pallid, acned cheeks.
The effect of her last sexual gymnastics had worn off. The producer and his weird little partner were arriving any day now. There was no time to wait if she wanted a final, secret romp.
Wandering about, Diana happened upon two youths moving dividing panels. If they’d been around before, she would have noticed. Her attention made them glance about with nervous energy, speaking some sort of native patois—the local equivalent of the street Spanish in L.A. Who cared? Like she was going to chat with them!
They were stalwart and handsome, with velvet skin uncrinkled by age, smoothly covering muscles that writhed like snakes with the effort of lifting.
“Bonjour, jolie demoiselle!” one said.
Anglais! All the time in Anglais! How else will we learn?” the other said, elbowing his friend in the side. He turned to her with a charming smile. “Please, very pretty lady, help us to practice the English. We are not very acomplis.”
Fortunately, she was able to communicate enough to convince them to sneak up to her room, located at the far end of the third floor, for private lessons. She slipped away, back to her quarters to wait, like a spider in her web.
But spider or not, the web needed to be alluring, and this place was a real pain in her ass. She was barely visible in the round mirror above the dressing table. The bulbs in the ceiling’s petite chandelier were probably 40 watts at most.
Something irresistibly drew her to the wall’s elaborate sconces. The sconces didn’t seem to have bulbs in them, so they must be some fancy French technology gussied to fit the “ancient”—and musty—décor of the place. Mildewed wasn’t conducive to romance. Lacking Glade plug-ins, she doused two of her silk thongs with perfume to drape over the sconces—the heat would fill the room with scent intense enough to drive any male wild with desire. Then she turned the little tab on the fixture. There was a small hiss in response.
Five minutes later, it was almost time to let in her guests. But at the onset of a severe headache, she decided to get rid of the migraine by taking one—just one—tab of the Ecstasy she’d hidden in her birth control pack. Well, not so much “get rid of the headache” as remove herself from caring about it.
The perfume smell was a bit much, even without heat. She never could stand smells with a migraine. She grabbed the thongs as quickly as she could, stuffing them in a Ziploc.
Sleepiness pulled at her, especially her eyes, which longed to close. She’d lie down for a just a minute, waiting for her two eager swains to knock. By then the E would kick in and she’d be ready to go. She’d never had a bad reaction to the stuff.
Her head was so muggy, she couldn’t think straight. Sure was warm in the room. Hot, not warm. Hotter than hell. Hotter than L.A.’s hills in the summer sun. She longed for a cigarette, but the odor might turn them off. Who knew if a beautiful woman should smell like an ashtray, even in France?
Just a short nap to recover, to let sleep cool her down. Her last pre-show bang should go out in a flame of desire. Maybe she’d have that cigarette; a girl’s got to please herself first. But where was her lighter? She scrounged in her purse. Her head was heavy as a stone.
The two workers knocked on the pretty American lady’s door. Discreetly, as the management restricted them to the building’s first floor. Discreetly, as ghosts were said to roam the ancient convent. The tales of lonely nuns longing for satisfaction of their thwarted desires had been part of their upbringing, the local version of Grimmer Than Grimm’s fairytales. No one had ever seen a specter, but you couldn’t be too careful.
It was chilly near the door. Clammy, if they were being particular. Almost made them want to turn back. Almost. But the building was old and drafty.
There was no answer to the knock. “Lucien, you moron,” one boy said, cuffing his companion on the head. “For this we risk the only work we have?”
“But such a woman, with those big American breasts, up so high!” the one named Lucien exclaimed. “And I can smell through the door—like the boudoir of a high-class courtesan!”
“As if a sophisticated lady would be interested in an ignorant, callow youth like you!” the first said.
“And you?”
“Shut up!” was the answer. He sniffed the air. “Mon Dieu! That is not just perfume—that is the gas!”
Lucien shoved his shoulder against the door, but it didn’t give. The other lad grabbed the knob and turned. The door opened. Coughing, they rushed in and shut off the valves on the ancient fixtures.
Shaking, they inched toward the bed, where Diana lay face up, her eyes wide with mascara…and wide open. She was very still. Glancing at each other, they raised their left eyebrows and cried out, “Merde! She is dead!” and rushed from the room.
Halfway down the servants’ stairs, they remembered their positions as new hires at Couvent de la Mer. Not to mention the crappy local economy. “We must return,” Lucien whispered. He pulled a handkerchief, lovingly ironed by cher maman in celebration of him landing a position at last, used it to wipe the knob and, inside the room, the fixtures of all prints. “See, unlike you, I watch le CSI!”
Mabel DeVine levitated out of the way, letting the two young men pass. After the Great War, there’d been so many like them, dark and muscular, with a burning gaze. But she’d only had eyes for Maxim, her beloved husband. Max had made her Countess de Summer. She’d finally had a real “de.” Not bad for a girl from Bedrock, Arkansas.
She sighed. “Maxim, my darling…” Another sigh nearly dislodged the binding on her breasts—threatening her sporty physique. “Where are you, Max? Are you in Heaven or in Hell? Whatever, our property’s got to be protected.”
The youths turned back toward the room’s door. One wiped the doorknob with a handkerchief. Mabel passed between them, trailing the smoke of Gauloises and the scent of her signature perfume, narcissus and orange blossom. That odor replaced the lingering smell of coal gas.
“Sacre bleu!” The young men shivered and stopped, turning their bodies back-to-back, like swordsmen defending from an unseen enemy. “What can that be?”
“Max, my darling, look at these weaklings, neither one half the man you were.” Mabel circled the workers.
“You see anything?” the one named Lucien asked. The other shook his head.
Mabel floated above them, against the ceiling of the hall, until bumping into a light fixture, knocking her tiara askew. She settled onto a chair to ensure the safety of her coiffure. “Oh, Maxim, remember our safari, back in ’34? Even when a rhino charged, you stood your ground.” She’d only had eyes for him, as he played for her at their campsite, diamonds flashing on his snowy cuffs above the piano keys. How romantic he was, insisting they bring the instrument! “I Only Have Eyes for You,” the last song he sang to her.
The next day that damned rhino gored him. “Brave, you were, Max, but a crap shot.” She shook her head. “I would have drilled that beast.”
But that song! Swoon! She continued to swirl about and, though the two workers saw nothing but the faintest haze, they froze in place, their backs still against each other. Mabel concentrated her insubstantial being into her eyes, until that was all there was of her. The young men reached back to grab each other’s hands, squeezing assurance into their bodies.
“Lucien, I feel like something is watching us.”
Lucien shivered. “I feel it too. There, in the corner, near the ceiling, a shadow!”
“Le fantôme!” They broke apart and raced toward the stairs. As they ran, the taller one squealed. “We never come to this corridor again!”
“Fuck!” Mabel grumbled. After eighty years of effort, all she could evoke was foggy grayness, cold spots, and subliminal fear. To be seen, a star needed to shine brightly!
In a swirling mist, Mabel streaked down the hallway after them, screeching to a halt when she saw herself in a mirror. A white-blond, marcelled curl had escaped from under her headband. She tidied her hairdo and lit another ciggie.
Ah, perfection again! No sense having regrets, not while there was work to be done, more competition to dispose of with what little encouragement she could make.
One down, twenty or so more to go.
Show more +Chapter 3 coming soon!
(But you can get the book above)