Chapter 1

"I see that there is evil
And I know that there is good
And the in-betweens I never understood"
- Ben Folds

Alex's Story:

My name is Alexander Hilt. What I'm about to tell you is true. You may not want to believe it - not that I would blame you. You may say that it couldn't happen, that things aren't really like that. I promise you that by this tale's end, your mind will have changed - you will see that power and greed corrupt, that fame and beauty are fleeting and that love is just an illusion to sell Valentines Day cards. But let me begin...

Our story begins roughly a year or so ago when I began work as a delivery driver for one of the local delivery companies. You see, I live here in Hollywood, the land of dashed dreams and five-dollar hookers. The only place on Earth where other worlds are made on screen for our enjoyment and lovers torn apart for our bereavement. I came here looking for that place, hoping to strike it as rich as the thousands of gold miners had done before me not even 150 years hence, by selling my script to a studio. That's the old joke out here, everyone has a script. But like most jokes, there is always truth behind the punch line. Indeed, I hadn't even lived here a week and had already run into half a dozen people who each told me they had a screenplay they wanted to sell. As time wore on and I couldn't even get a meeting in with a two-bit agent, let alone my foot in the front door of a studio. And as it usually tends to do, the money I had traveled to California with quickly ran out, without a fresh supply to keep it alive and kicking.

Thus it was my girlfriend Petty who told me that if I wanted to afford to live in the cheap apartment we already had anymore, I'd have to get a real job. You might be thinking that Petty is a funny name for a girl, but then again Petty wasn't your normal woman. We had met on the airplane ride to Los Angeles, both of us heading out there to pursue our own foolhardy dreams - she being a songwriter, the third most popular profession behind "actor" and "writer" in Hollywood. She had planned on looking for an apartment when she landed but because we hit it off immediately - sharing that same kinetic spark that people who were meant to be together often feel - she moved in with me into my dumpy one bedroom studio flat that I had secured only a week before arriving. I'm not exactly sure where her name came from, but when she's 5'6, 115 pounds, long flowing blond hair and almond colored brown eyes, you tend to kind of forget little things like that. It was so spontaneous the way we got together, we both swore it was fate or some other worldly force. Even to this day, with so much having happened, I still think I believe that.

But back to my story. The morning began simple enough, a few routine deliveries around town. I worked for Jose's Parcel Express. Jose was a sweaty Mexican guy who owned the company, his office always smelling of cheap cologne and for some very odd reason, fish sticks. Jose had an "in" with a lot of the businesses around town, primarily because a few of his delivery drivers did little side jobs for him after hours - things like bodyguard protection, immigrant smuggling and breaking knee caps. The whole nine yards, if there was something dirty going on in this part of California, Jose had something to do with it or at least knew someone who did. I could have very easily gotten into helping him out with jobs like that. The money certainly would have been nice - some of the guys made upwards of $500 an hour - and I had the build for it. My 6'3, 240 pound frame was perfect for hauling boxes around all day and it kept me in shape. But I never really wanted to turn to dirty work so quickly after moving here. Pride kept me from admitting defeat, even having logged six months on the job before all my trouble began.

After crossing off the deliveries that first fateful day, I scanned the list to see what else I had left to do. My heart skipped a little as I saw that I had to deliver two big screen televisions to the third floor office of Antamount studios. Antamount was one of the up and coming independent studios here in Hollywood, not owned by any media conglomerate. A few years back, one of their low budget pictures had scored major box office success and thrust their founders into the middle of the Hollywood scene. Since then, they had been churning out film after film, some better than others and even a few taking home that little golden man everyone out here wanted on their mantle come March of each year. I had read in Variety that Antamount was in talks to finance a $300 million dollar adaptation of some best seller with another studio and I had dreamed wistfully while I read the article that if only I could get inside with a copy of my script, they might consider financing it as a way to make some supplemental money for this blockbuster epic.

Ah yes, my script. It was by no means an ordinary screenplay - it's characters were adaptations of my life growing up out in the mid-west, a drama really. But here's the kicker: while it used modern day language with it's characters, it was a period piece set during the start of the Russian revolution. I had labored over it for many months, changing dialogue and characters, spicing in enough wit to make it not too dark when the inevitable climax - a viscious game of Russian roulette played out by the two kids of the story - came. Petty and everyone else I had shown it to thought it was good, but out here I learned painfully that "good" didn't get pictures made. Nevertheless, I always carried a copy of it with me when I was on the job, stowing the 120 plus pages in a folded manilla envelope in the front waist band of my work pants.

Yanking my dolly from the back of the delivery van with a metallic clank, I grunted as I lifted the sets on top of each other and set them on the hand cart, looking around for an easy way to get them over the curb of the street. Spotting a handicap ramp, I wheeled it up just in time to avoid being side swiped by a recklessly driven BMW SUV that came clipping around the side street out front of Antamount's monsterous building. Pushing the cart inside, I felt blessed as the hot, dry air outside faded into the cool darkness of the lobby, where business people in expensive suits buzzed around on their cell phones, oblivious to the rest of the world. They were like bees, all working for that queen called money, but I paid them no mind as I tried to manuever the cart around their busy humming and into the service elevator.

A tall black man saw me approaching and held the door as I walked backwards into the elevator, pulling it to the edge as the doors closed. I thanked him, and in a minute was on the third floor: Antamount headquarters.

The elevator opened up and I felt like I was in heaven. Adorning the walls of the hallway was poster after poster of Antamount releases, some old but most new and coming soon. At the end of the hallway was a busy looking pair of secretaries, each answering phones and typing away on their keyboards at the same time. I approached them tentaively, the exherted effort from lugging the television's around already causing me to break a sweat this early in the morning.

"Delivery for Antamount," I gasped as I waited for one of them to stop talking and pay attention to me. The one on the left, a stocky old woman with deep bags under her eyes and frayed gray hair finally glanced up at me.

"Work order?" she said. I obdiently handed her my clip board.

"Hmm... ok, that's Mr. Willis' office. Take it down this hall, then turn right at the fourth hallway and his office is at the end of the hall," she said, returning back to her tasks. I nodded and propped the cart up, wheeling it away from them.

As I made my way down the hall, people buzzed past me. I thought I recognized some of them; not from other deliveries but as actors in some of Antamount's films. I was a big fan of the studio and though allegiance to one studio had ended for the most part with the Paramount breakup in 1948, I still paid attention anytime one of their trailers played before a film. Following the secretaries instructions, I soon found the hallway she spoke of and headed down it. The carpet color had changed to a rich maroon, much like the "red carpet" you see on TV at award shows. At the very end of the hall was a set of heavy oak double doors, and I could make out an engraved plate on the door: WILTON WILLIS, CEO

The beating of my heart increased again as I licked my dry lips, anticipation at actually being in the office of one of the most powerful new leaders of Hollywood laying just a few feet in front of me. I stopped at the door and, wiping the sweat from my face as best I could and trying to make myself appear professional and neat, I knocked on the door.

No answer. I waited a few seconds and tried again. I saw no light coming from underneath the doorway - he was out of the office probably. Tentatively, I placed my hand on the gold door handle and turned it, the office opening before me. Inside, the curtains were drawn in front of a large plate glass window, the decor of the office matching that of the hallway. The room was massive, with a desk and thick leather chairs scattered around the room. On one wall was a shelf made of glass and marble, a locked pane of glass holding inside row after row of awards. On the opposite wall was a couch, with something missing from in front of it. Probably they had upgraded the television that they had there and here I was delivering the replacement. The office was empty, but it smelled of good fortune. It had that air of power, of wealth, of control. I moved slowly as I wheeled the cart inside, trying to decide where to set the televisions. Finally spotting an unoccupied corner, I lifted the two sets from each other and set them on the floor. And though it was not in the job requirements, I slit open the boxes and pulled out the packaging, making it easy for the sets to be removed and positioned whereever Mr. Willis wanted. For gaining access to such a powerful man's room, it was worth the extra trouble.

I turned to go when an idea hit me. I didn't know when I would be in a place like this again, so quickly I decided that this might be my one and only chance to get my script at least thrown away by someone highly connected in the Hollywood world. Removing it from my pants, I paced around the room trying to find a spot where it would be seen, but not too obviously. In my mind, I pictured Mr. Willis having a drink in his office after a long, hard day and discovering my script. I imagined him picking it up and glancing over it, quickly becoming interested and staying late into the night to read it. I imagined that he would rush out to find me, that production would begin immediately and that within a few short months I would be executive producing it on some lot.

However, my dream was quickly interrupted when a stern female voice spoke behind me.

"What are you doing?" she asked, no tolerance for daydreaming in her busy world. I was startled.

"I was just... delivering these televisions," I stammered, feeling incredibly guilty for having such Hollywood style thoughts in a place that was, when it was boiled down to, was really just another business.

"Well, you've delivered them. Now get out of Mr. Willis' office," she said, turning to go. I thought she would leave but she stood impatiently by the door, watching me as she crossed her arms in disdain. Glancing around one more time, I casually tossed my script on top of one of the open televisions and headed towards the door.

The woman glared at me as I passed.

"What did you put down there?" she asked, following me out and locking the door behind her.

"Oh, that was just an instruction manual for the set. It fell out of the box when I was moving it," I lied. I knew that she could go back and check, and just might do that, but the room was dark when she had found me, and she probably believed my white lie. After all, I was just a lowly delivery guy.

I hustled past her and returned to the two secretaries. Forcing the clipboard into one of their faces, I said "Mr. Willis wasn't there. I need you to sign,"

She glanced up at me with a hint of anger but in one quick motion signed her name without even looking. I retrieved the clipboard and headed back to the service elevator, back out through the hive lobby and to my truck again. Within just a few minutes I had forgotten what I had done and had set off to finish my deliveries for the day.

As the sun set on the warm LA afternoon, I pulled into the loading dock of Jose's and parked the truck, opening the back for the part-time workers who, in the morning, would load my truck up again for the next day's deliveries. I stepped inside of the small office that contained Jose's desk and went to the water cooler, pouring myself a small cup of water to cool off with. The door opened from outside and Jose waddled in.

He was a heavy set man, with a large bulging gut and a graying mustache to match his gray temples. His face was chubby, but the extra rolls of fat concealed quite well his hard, black eyes that led to his ever scheming and working brain. Jose was winded from the heat, sweat stains forming under his arms as he approached me, slapping me hard on the back before taking a seat at his desk with a wheezing gasp.

He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of tequila and a shot glass, pouring himself a shot and downing it just as quickly. He smacked his lips together with a pleasant sigh and reclined back in the squeaky, torn fake leather of the chair.

"You make all your deliveries today?" he asked.

I nodded. "Yep. Same as usual. You know me Jose, if I didn't make a delivery I wouldn't be coming back to the office. Not after the wrath I've seen you put on the guys that have come and gone since I got here," I said, pouring myself another cup of icy cold water.

"Ah, yes. I need more workers like you Alex. You're determination and dedication to the job is a trait sorely lacking from the rest of these gatitos, no?" Jose said, resting his hands on his ample belly.

"I guess. I just work for the paycheck, you know that," I replied, leaning up against the water cooler. A fly buzzed by Jose's face, his fat hand swatting at it lazily.

"Si si. But you know, if you ever wanted to increase your take, all you have to do is ask," Jose said, eyeing me.

"Sorry Jose, I don't want anything to do with what goes on here after hours. I'm a delivery man, plain and simple," I said. Something in the tone of my voice or what I had said must have been funny, because Jose began to laugh loudly, a harsh braying sound that wheezed from his lips outward.

"You are a true man Alex. But one of these days, I will convince you, no?" Jose said. "In fact, tonight I have a job that would require your skills most defienetly. Something a man of your build could handle with no problem," Jose said.

"Thanks, but no. I have to go watch my girl tonight, so I'm busy," I said, crumpling the cup up and throwing it away in a nearby trashcan.

"Ah yes, the girlfriend. How is her singing going? She getting any better?" Jose asked. I could tell he was just making conversation - he didn't give two fucks about Petty and her singing.

"I'm not the man to answer that, since I am a bit partial. But you are welcome to come listen for yourself," I said.

"No, that is quite alright. I shall take your word on it. However, if she is booed off the stage and must run home to her mother, you can come by here tonight at 10 and I'll make your night worthwhile," Jose said. "I have some senoritas coming by and..."

I cut him off. "I'm sure that she will be fine. See you tomorrow Jose," I said, turning to the door to leave.

"Adios chico," he called after me, the thin wood of the door slamming shut behind me.

I walked out to my car - a dingy, banged up wreck that I had bought with the last two hundred bucks I had when I moved out here - and started it up, the engine sputtering to life with an agonizing groan. I put it in drive and exited into traffic, heading for home.

I walked into the front door of the apartment we shared and tossed my keys on the counter. Petty had left a note:

"Alex: Went ahead to get set up, meet me there at 7:30 okay? And don't get lost this time," the note said.

I smiled to myself and peeled off my shirt, heading for the cramped sole bathroom of the apartment to take a shower. I turned on the water, letting it heat up while I walked to the bedroom and took out a change of clothes: something fairly nice, but not too dressy, for Petty's performance tonight. I chose a maroon muscle shirt that hung around my biceps rather tightly and a pair of slacks, ditching my uniform of black shorts and a black shirt on the floor. Laying the clothes on the bed, I returned to the shower and stepped in, letting the water wash over me.

Thirty minutes later, I was back in my smelly old car again, the sound of the engine drowning out the radio that barely worked. I glanced from the road to my lap and back to the road again, checking the directions Petty gave me for the coffee shop. It was open mike night, a weekly ritual at the Jumping Java club that Petty had discovered one day while out on her auditions for lead singer or back up singer in many of the bands here in LA. I had been here two or three times since, but because the place was so small and had a very small sign in the window, I had not been able to find it on at least one occasion. My sense of direction was horrible, it always had been.

Finding a spot a few blocks down, I parked the car and walked to the shop, opening the door with a jangle, a set of rusting bells hanging from the top of the door. The smell of the place as overwhelming - a mixture of coffee beans and cigarette smoke, and the overworked ceiling fan of the shop had done little to clear out the haze of said odors from the place.

At the back of the room was a small "stage". I hesitate to call it a stage because all it really was was a big wooden plank, big enough to hold a speaker and a chair and not much else, it's rickety corners held up by a pair of cement blocks on the left and right hand sides. A lone microphone stood in front of the platform, a pair of tables sitting just a few feet away from the mic. The place was mostly empty, a few tired old hippies and hepcats occupying the corners of the room and a middle aged couple sitting at one of the tables up front. I saw Petty off to the left of the stage, wiring up her small speaker and her electric guitar, making sure all the cords were plugged in correctly and what not.

Petty wore a dress decorated with sunflowers, her blond hair hanging over her shoulders as she worked, a pair of sneakers on her feet leading down from her long, thin legs. She hadn't noticed me come in, so I simply walked to the front and took a seat at the empty table next to the middle aged couple. They looked a hesitantly at me, perhaps because of my size, but I flashed them an innocent smile and they seemed to relax, the woman especially, her large glasses sliding back on her nose.

Lugging the speaker onto the stage, Petty set it down with a loud thud that made a few people glance up from their conversations, just for a moment. Taking a seat on the chair next to the speaker, she extended her long arm and pulled the microphone down and closer to her. Settling back against the chair, she cleared her throat.

"Ahem. Hi, my name is Petty and I'm here to play a few songs for you," she said. There was a soft, muted clap from the back of the room but otherwise it was quiet as it had been when I walked in. Petty spotted me and flashed me a quick smile, the kind of smile that lovers use to melt each others hearts and then resettled the guitar on her lap.

For the next thirty minutes or so, Petty played a handful of her own songs and a few covers from artists like Joan Jett and Melissa Etheridge, all to modest and polite clapping from the audience. They seemed disinterested in her playing, but I tried to make her feel better by clapping enthusiastically after each song. I looked past the limited vocal range she had and the few times her voice cracked, trying to be as supportive as possible for her. Her singing wasn't exactly bad, but I knew she had a long way to go before she had any hope of a record deal. She was set to launch into another song when I noticed a man dressed in a matching pair of trendy slacks and shirt motioning to her to clear out. He was the owner, a young guy in his twenties probably and though I had seen him a few times before in the place, he had never said a word to me or Petty.

Petty awkwardly looked down at the floor, trying to decide if she wanted to start another song but thought against it, standing up and unplugging her guitar before carrying it and the speaker off stage. I rose from the table and walked over to her, helping her lift the speaker off. Just as soon as she had exited the stage, a balding man with glasses and a book of poetry took her seat, making himself comfortable smugly as he opened the book to read.

"Hey there," I said, leaning down to kiss her head as she squatted in front of the equipment, undoing the wires. "You were great tonight. Better than last week even I think," I said to her.

"Thanks. I blew some notes, I don't know if you noticed or not, but I do appreciate the praise," Petty said, smiling up at me.

"I didn't hear them at all. You were wonderful," I lied, lifting the guitar from over her shoulder and holding it by the neck as she finished unhooking the cables and began to wrap them up around her forearm.

"You think so? I really think I need more practice. But gigs like this are good I guess. I'll make sure to thank the Jumping Java in my liner notes on my album," Petty said wistfully, looking off at nothing in particular.

"Here, let me help you with the speaker. You take the guitar and wires, I'll lug this thing out to my trunk," I said, grunting as I bent down to pick up the tattered speaker, it's cloth covering starting to unravel at the seems. Petty watched me as I lifted it up onto my shoulder, stroking my arm as I held it there and steadied myself.

"I knew I kept you around for something," she said with a smile.

"What? To be your roadie?" I grinned back at her, her lithe body moving quickly in front of me as she walked towards the door to hold it open.

The sun had set outside now, a few harsh rays still filtering through over the horizon in the sun's last gasp at the day as I lugged the speaker to my car. I opened the door for Petty and we climbed in, headed home. On the way there, some dark and looming clouds that had been building through out the day finally opened up, and to the sloshing sound of puddles and mud, we drove home in the rain and late night traffic.

The rain was really coming down when we arrived back at our apartment, and we made a mad dash for the door through the sheets that seemed to be coming without let up. Just from going to the car to the apartment, both Petty and my clothes were pretty well soaked as we walked in the door, puddles dripping around our feet.

"I'm going to take a shower to warm up," Petty said, walking past me, pulling her dress over her head. I watched hypnotically as she removed the dress and her panties, leaving her completely naked as she walked through the living room and around the corner to the bathroom. I wrung out my shirt a little bit and plopped down on the couch, surfing channels while I heard the water running in the bathroom behind me.

I stopped on "Entertainment Tonight", who were doing a piece on Antamount, interviewing Mr. Willis and some actors who were working on projects for the studio. I always liked watching these entertainment shows: I felt as if the celebrities were next door neighbors to me, inviting me into their private lives. The fact that I lived in the same city as many of them also furthered this fact and I couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement as the anchor walked through the same studio I had been in earlier in the day. I was so engrossed by the show that it wasn't until I felt Petty's warm hand on my shoulder that I finally removed my gaze from the television.

Turning around, Petty was naked except for a towel that held her long blond hair up away from her head. Her medium sized breasts were a little flushed from the heat of the water but hung perfectly on her narrow chest and slightly jutting hips, her nipples about the size of a quarter on her breasts and a light shade of pink that melded perfectly with her smooth, tan skin.

"The shower's all yours if you want to take one," she said to me, stroking my shoulder through my wet t-shirt.

"Maybe later. Do you want to come watch this with me?" I asked.

"Not really," she said softly, tracing her finger down my arm and across to my chest, where she moved her hand and rubbed gently. "I'd rather do something else, if you catch my drift,"

I looked up at her, a lone drop of water dripping down off of her left ear, a few strands of her blond hair poking out from under the towel. In the occasional crack of thunder outside the window in the kitchen, the light cast her body with a soft blue glow that gave her an unearthly look - a creature of flawless beauty, smiling down at me as if from the heavens.

"I catch it all right," I replied. "And what has brought out this interest all of a sudden, not that I'm really complaining,"

"I don't know. Maybe it was that you clapped the loudest for me tonight, maybe it was the way your big, strong muscles moved my speaker around like it was a baby block. Or maybe it's because I just find delivery men to be incredibly sexy," she cooed at me, stroking my cheek with her hand.

I placed my hand over hers and held it there, looking up at her. "Why Ms. Petty, I believe you are trying to seduce me," I said with a grin, switching my voice to a deep Southern drawl.

"That I am, Mr. Alex. I hope that doesn't upset you," she said, a wicked grin crossing her face, playing along with the accent thing.

"No, not at all," I said to her. "But if that's what the lady wants, that's what the lady is going to get!" I said, jumping up suddenly from the couch and leaping over it. Petty yelped and turned away playfully, running for the bedroom. I padded after her, my wet socks almost causing me to slip as we both laughed and ran into the bedroom. She was about to go for the bed when I dived after her and tackled her by the hips, her firm, tight ass pressed against my chest as we landed with a soft thud on the bed, causing the bed springs to rock.

Petty giggled and rolled over, pretending to force me away.

"Help help," she cried, smiling up at me. "This big strong man is trying to get inside my panties!"

I glanced down between her legs with a grin. "You aren't wearing any panties,"

"Oh my, you are right! Silly me!" Petty said with a laugh. I held myself up over her and began to tickle her sides, making her squirm and laugh with glee as my fingers ran up and down the sides of her warm skin. Her breasts bounced on her chest as she finally gave up the fight and just lay there panting, tears in her eyes from laughing so hard, her chest heaving up and down. The towel around her hair had fallen off in our chase and her wet blond hair spread out in clumps all around her beautiful face, her cheeks red from the laughter.

I leaned down to her lips and kissed her softly, her head rising slightly from the bed to meet the embrace. Our lips touched and our tongues invaded one another, the kiss becoming deeper and hotter by the moment. I moved a hand up to her head and pushed aside an errant strand of hair from her forehead, breaking the kiss to simply look down and marvel at her body: For a girl who didn't work out, she was in great shape. Firm thighs, a flat tummy and a neatly trimmed snatch that was as blond as the hair on her head, the curly puff covering the entrance of her opening.

"I love you Alex," she whispered to me.

"I love you too Petty," I replied, kissing her again. We held our embrace for a moment, her eyes locked with mind. I saw a burning lust deep within them, and I knew from that look that she was anxious to get things going - as was I. Without hesitation, I unbuckled my pants and dropped them to the floor, stepping out of them as my hard cock sprung free, the tip pointing skyward. I wasn't really that big in the dick department - 7 inches, which was something to be proud of I suppose since 6.5 was the average - but I had never heard any complaints by women that I was too small.

Pulling Petty's legs apart gently, I placed her knees up on my shoulders and aligned my hips up with her glistening cunt, a few of the blond hairs wet with her moisture. When I first met her, Petty was a girl who hadn't been too experienced in the sex department, although she had always been able to cum whenever she was fucked. We discovered later on in our relationship that she had an incredibly sensitive clit, one which would make her orgasm after just the slightest bit of attention to the hard little nub. I learned to manipulate this with her and found that just the anticipation and excitement of sex to come was enough to really get her going.