Chapter 13

Harry bought the bullet and got what every Los Angelino needed, a car. His debate with Melly and himself, whether to go normal and cheap or rent something exotic and fancy, something Hollywood at a place that specialized in such things, the temptation fueled by the production paying him back, and in itself that made him reject fancy, he had points now after all, and he went more mundane and practical and midsized, a Dodge Dart.

Melly left him and Yolanda at the rental place near the airport. Seeing her and the Bentley go made him sigh. He’d no longer need to ride in it and have her as his driver.

One thing between him and Yolanda that didn’t jibe was their taste in music, hers being rap and hip hop, and r &b went no farther back than New Edition and Destiny’s Child, while Harry preferred music of earlier generations, less bottled he thought. They compromised with seventies r & b and funk, where some slickness had settled into productions but some rawness also remained. They started with Stevie Wonder.

Harry had noticed Yolanda had been coolly awed being in the presence of genuine movie stars, or television stars in Sissy’s case. He could tell it affected her, but she managed to tamp it down. So it surprised him, doubly since the rock star’s music didn’t seem to be anywhere close to what she liked, that she became shy and stuttery around Walter.

“Breathe,” Walter chuckled.

“Sorry ... But you’re like my mom’s ... favorite band! We ... saw you. My ... first rock show.”

Walter graciously posed with her, Harry taking the picture with her phone, and she sent it to her mom.

Her mom replied. “She’s so jealous,” Yolanda giggled.

“You want to smoke?” Walter asked.

“Up to you, Yolanda,” Harry told her. “I need to meet with Tom.”

“Just through the back,” Walter pointed at a glass door, “and to the left.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll stay,” Yolanda decided.

“Probably for the best,” Harry agreed. He met Walter’s much younger wife, though she wasn’t all that much younger than Harry, on his way out the back. She reminded him of Peg, though he could tell her life had been a lot easier, and he figured most would think her more beautiful, but not Harry.

Harry went downhill a bit to get to the small house, a cabin really, and knocked.

Opening the door, Tom looked depleted, like a junky way past needing a fix. “Ready to work?” Tom asked.

“Are you?” Harry asked.

“I’m not drunk if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“But you could use one.”

“Yeah,” Tom admitted. “Fucking passed out last night and woke up sicker than shit. Fucking sick of it.”

“Hollywood’s full of rehabs I imagine.”

“I’ll see how it goes. Come the fuck in.”

Harry did as asked and was guided to a suspiciously clean office, the beautiful old typewriter looking barren somehow and the laptop closed.

“What have you been doing?” Harry asked.

“Drinking and whoring mostly, though that isn’t always the best mix of course. Got nostalgic and watched some of my old shows I got on the cloud, maybe trying for inspiration, but getting none, mostly irritation.”

“You called me, so I assume you’re ready to work.”

“Did I? I guess I did since you’re here,” Tom chuckled.

“Let’s talk about the screenplay.”

Harry sat on an old futon, the pad and pillows covered with a mostly orange covering with some Indian patterning, perhaps Navajo. Tom sat in what looked like an even older wooden swiveling desk chair at the desk. They talked, Harry taking notes in a spiral bound notebook, just what scenes might be interesting, sometimes finding things in the journals or the weird book of cartoons and drawings and clippings and writings of Nathaniel. They both agreed Whatever You Want would make a good title.

Eventually they began outlining the screenplay, mostly agreeing but sometimes agreeing to disagree, which Harry would note to the side. The session seemed to wake Tom up, as if working was some magic elixir. When they both seemed to agree they reached some sort of conclusion for the day, Tom commented, “I fucking needed this.” And looking at Harry sadly, he added, “I fucking needed you.”

“Can you read my notes?” Harry asked, showing them to Tom. “Because I still want to make this a novel, and I’d still like you to write the first draft of the screenplay.”

“Like the same like we did with Stillwater?”

“Yep.”

“I can read your writing just fine, after all I read your notes when I stole them.”

“You stealing them got me here where I am, acting myself in the movie of my fucked up life. Not to mention hopefully writing my next movie.”

“Maybe it should be your next movie.”

“I mean our next movie.”

“I don’t know Harry. Right now I could really use a drink.”

“You could write it in rehab.”

Tom chuckled. “Is this a one man intervention?”

Harry didn’t know how confrontational he should be, essentially speaking the truth that this once great playwright had lost his muse, and lost his wife however out of steam the relationship had become, and was dependent on an essentially neophyte writer, an ex-con and his wife’s brother. So he just said, “Maybe?”

“Let’s talk to Walter. He’s familiar with the rehab racket.”

A young Indian woman stood in the doorway. “Walter wishes you to know dinner is served,” she said, her accent definitely west coast bordering on Valley Girl.

“Beautiful Marisol, this is Harry.” And indeed she was beautiful, like a Disney version of an Indian princess, with her rounded face and large brown eyes and supple body, smooth brown legs revealed in her cutoff jeans and subtle breasts beneath her fitted cream colored blouse as a Disney princess would have, being a G rated woman.

“A pleasure to meet you Harry,” she said carefully.

“The pleasure is mine, Marisol,” Harry smiled.

It surprised him when she blushed.

“I presume you already ate,” said Tom.

“Yes. I will clean here while you eat.”

“Thanks for that. Let’s let her do her thing, Harry.”

As they walked up the slope, Tom chuckled. “Stop the charm, Harry.”

“I wouldn’t...”

“She’s not as innocent as she looks.”

“What the fuck, Tom.”

“It wasn’t my idea. I mean I suppose it was, but...” They stopped on the patio just outside the glass doors and Tom continued, “Her parents are strict. I mean the type who never lets her date until she leaves the nest, which is Walter’s home.”

“How old is she?”

“Eighteen. Her last year of high school.”

“But?”

“She woke me with a blow job, okay? I could tell it wasn’t her first despite her age. At least she insisted I wore a condom. It was like this beautiful apparition, a too young lustful ghost, appearing out of nowhere and disappearing once sated. Like a naughty dream I guess, and the way she never let on, it was almost as if it had been a dream, becoming a reoccurring dream.”

“You said whoring,” Harry muttered.

“Partly I was too drunk to fuck which pissed her off. Partly for companionship, someone I could actually publicly be with. She’s a horny creature, but she’s not a whore.”

“Okay,” Harry sighed. “I can’t say I’m completely innocent of such desires.”

“Care to explain?” Tom smirked.

“Maybe later.”

Yolanda stood in the doorway looking very stoned. “Coming? I’m starved.”

“Yep,” Harry smiled.

The food was great, created and served by Marisol’s mother, in her mid-thirties and thickset, a lamb stew, with homemade buttermilk rolls to sop up the liquid. Neither Walter nor his wife drank alcohol, drinking cucumber flavored water instead. Walter looked surprised when Tom drank the same, Harry imagining Tom bringing his own soda laced with booze, not fooling Walter. It made Harry wonder how he snuck the booze in, then remembered him stopping at a store at the airport, a large clanking bag the result. Both he and Yolanda went with diet cola.

“No bourbon and coke?” Walter asked Tom.

“You could tell?”

“A recovering alcoholic can always smell booze.”

“Can we talk after dinner?”

“Of course.”

Mid dinner, Harry’s phone chimed, the quieter tone being especially appreciated at the moment. Nevertheless, Walter didn’t look pleased. “You going to take that?” he muttered.

“Sorry. Excuse me.”

“Hey,” Harry said into the phone while heading to the front door. “Hold on a second.”

Once outside, he asked Sam, “What’s up?”

“Just thinking of you. You’re still coming to Pat’s?”

“Of course. I’m glad you called. You remember Walter’s place?”

“I do. Why?”

“Come here and bring your guitar.”

“No fucking way.”

“Who better to critique you, and you guys could jam.”

“Harry!”

“You know you want to do it.”

“Fuck. Okay. Is Yolanda there?”

“Yep.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Am I?”

“Obviously since you’re a man. But ... mostly you’re fucking weird.”

“Weird is at least interesting.”

“You’re definitely not boring,” she laughed.

Back at the table, Harry apologized for the call and for inviting someone over.

“Mi casa es su casa,” Walter shrugged. Harry wasn’t sure he meant it, but whatever.

At the end of the meal, Walter and Tom went to some other room and Yolanda wanted to talk privately as well. “Patio?” Harry shrugged.

They sat on the patio chairs looking out at the twinkling of light in the valley below. It was twilight, the sky had the last coloring of sunset. It was beautiful.

“Who’s coming?” Yolanda asked.

“Sam,” Harry admitted.

“I figured.”

Harry sighed. “I like you Yolanda, and last night was amazing and not just the sex.”

She half smiled. “It was almost all sex, but I know what you mean.”

“But I’m not your boyfriend, and not like your boyfriend in that I’m cheating. I have a fiancé who for some reason gives me permission to be with amazing women like you. And Sam.”

“I know. I’m sorry. The jealousy kicks in. You really think I’m amazing?”

“I really do,” Harry chuckled. He noticed Marisol staring at him from the entrance to the cabin.

Yolanda noticed too. “Who’s that?”

“A honey trap,” Harry said.

“Meaning?”

“She’s Maria’s kid,” Maria being the cook.

“Quite a bit slimmer. Honey trap?” Yolanda asked.

Harry told her what Tom had said.

Meanwhile Marisol posed provocatively, licking her lips and caressing herself, looking to help get her nipples erect and teased close to her genitals.

“You should put her out of her misery,” Yolanda told him.

“You’re kidding.”

“Tom said she was eighteen.”

Harry took a picture of Marisol, Marisol grinning for it and sent it to Peg. Peg replied via messaging, “Go for it. More pictures.”

Harry showed Yolanda and she laughed. “Want to watch?” Harry asked.

“Why the fuck not?”

“If she wants privacy?”

“I’m right here.”

“True.”

They walked to the cabin. Marisol took Harry’s hand and led them to the bedroom.

“Mind if Yolanda watches?” Harry asked.

“She can film us. I always wanted to be filmed.” Her sort of servant diction disappeared, replaced by hints of the valley.

She undid the just made bed and sat, pulling him in front of her and undoing his pants. “Ooh, I knew it,” she crowed when his cock bounced out, immediately enclosing it in her mouth.

“I want to taste you,” Harry asked.

“Not much time. Mother will wonder what takes me so long.”

“Nevertheless,” Harry said, undoing her cutoffs and she lifted up so that he could pull them off over her sneakers, along with her panties. She continued sucking him, most ably, pausing only to let the blouse be removed. She wore no bra, her small sturdy breasts not needing one.

He chuckled within his moan when her mouth continued to be attached to his cock while he lay down and urged her petite body over him, straddling his face.

“Mmm,” she buzzed his cock with his first tongue stroke across her damp slit and over her tiny clit. He experimented, licking her clit directly. “Yes! Right there! Right there!” she exclaimed, her mouth free of cock and her hand fisting it. Not long after she said, “Bedside drawer,” and moved from his mouth, taking the Doggy position. He found the condoms, tore off one and rolled it on.

“Fuck that’s intense,” she moaned when he entered her tightness.

“Me too,” said Harry.

“Push it in and fuck me!”

Her hand worked her clit almost desperately while Harry leaned over her and caressed her taut nipples.

“Harder!” she exclaimed as he began stroking out and plunging in.

“Cock or nipples?” he asked.

“Both! Don’t worry!”

He wasn’t sure about what, about lasting or hurting her with his thrusts, which she amplified, pushing back, or the nipple squeezes.

He decided it was all of them and let himself fuck her without holding back.

“Cumming!” she announced just as he felt his own release, and like that recent time with Yolanda, pushed deep and ejaculated, thoroughly enjoying the entirety of it as well as the buzzing and milking of Marisol’s own orgasm.

Marisol suddenly moved off him, Harry barely catching the condom, though since his cock hadn’t shrunk much and in fact continued the last of its ejaculations, it held on well. She turned over and embraced and kissed him. “That was fantastic,” she declared.

“Me too,” Harry chuckled. “Could you stay where you are?”

“I should really go soon.”

“I want to draw you.”

“Oh wow! Okay. I can tell Mother I was your model. Maybe just my face for one?”

“I can do that,” Harry agreed.

Harry moved off the bed, Yolanda actually taking the condom and disposing of it. His shirt remained on so he pulled on his underwear and pants and went to grab his sketch book.

“Will you draw me too?” Yolanda asked, standing in the doorway.

“Of course,” he promised, giving her a kiss.

“I can taste and smell her,” Yolanda commented.

“How is it?” he asked.

“Not bad,” she decided, looking surprised which stirred his depleted penis.

“How do you want me?” Marisol asked.

“Comfortable but exposed.”

She lifted one leg up, lay her head on her bent arm, her other arm draped across her abdomen. “How’s that?”