No One Will Hear You

Chapter Seven

Last night

Appraising herself in the restroom mirror in Kyuui — LA’s trendiest new sushi bar — twenty-five-year-old Wendi Erskine felt nervous, excited, and fortunate all at once.

The diminutive blonde — born in Hermon, Maine, near Bangor — had gotten out of the snow belt and come to Hollywood only two weeks after high school graduation.

Now, seven (often frustrating) years later, she was at a chic LA eatery with a movie producer (slash prospective boyfriend) waiting for her in a dining room far swankier than those at the half dozen restaurants where she’d been a waitress in this very tough town.

She granted herself a final look in the mirror. Her hair just right, eye makeup fine, lip gloss emphasizing the natural fullness of her mouth. And the little black dress showed off her shapely, slender figure to fine advantage without making her look slutty. She wanted to look desirable to Louis, but not available.

Anyway, not readily available...

When he had ordered a second round of drinks before dinner, she’d excused herself to the ladies’ room. This was a date, definitely, but there would be business talk as well, and she wanted to stay sharp.

She hoped when she returned to the table, their dinner would beat her there, and she could nurse the second cosmopolitan through the meal. Of course these fancy-schmancy restaurants took their time serving up meals. Come on, she thought, how long does it take to prepare raw fish, anyway?

The way his smile blossomed, seeing her return, was really cute. But “cute” didn’t quite cut it for the suave filmmaker. Lacking this town’s usual tan, Louis had longish black hair, a nicely trimmed matching goatee, alert brown eyes, and dimples when he showed off those blindingly white teeth.

Probably caps, but who cared? She had implants, didn’t she? Hollywood was always part illusion.

Her date’s natural good looks were amplified by his well-tailored charcoal pinstripe suit, off-white shirt, and geometrically patterned black-and-gray tie.

Louis St. James had approached Wendi after seeing her in a showcase production of Bus Stop at a little theater in Santa Monica where she had played Cherie, the Marilyn Monroe part (actually, Kim Stanley part). After the show, he’d come backstage, introduced himself, and told her he thought she had a big future.

Instead of hitting on her, he had given her a business card.

“There are a lot of lovely girls in this town,” he’d said. “But only a handful have your sensitivity. And if the camera can capture the charisma that comes across on stage... do give us a call.”

Seemed sincere, but a lot of creeps in LA were capable of smooth lines like that — town was full of actors, after all — and back when she’d first got off the bus, Wendi might well have fallen for it.

But not now.

She checked out Louis St. James on the Internet Movie Database, where he looked legit, and a link was provided to his website. He had plenty of producing credits and several projects “in development” and a several more “in pre-production.”

Admittedly, most of his credits were lower-budget indies she’d never heard of; but then the two movies she’d been in would fall into that same category.

And a faker would have made himself look like a bigger shot than this. His credentials seemed legit enough.

He’d turned out to be articulate, and sophisticated, with a genuine interest in her, and not just her body. Mostly he wanted to know about roles she’d played, on stage and the handful in movies and TV. Even the infomercials that had been her steadiest gig, outside of waitressing.

“I have the perfect role for you,” he’d said several times, once calling it “the role of a lifetime.”

When she reached the table, he rose, held her chair for her, and only returned to his own place when she was seated. Wow — a gentleman. In Los Angeles, California, yet.

“You look especially beautiful tonight,” he said, with a gentle smile. “You have a glow.”

“Stop it,” she said, returning the smile.

He gestured toward her cosmo, which had come while she was gone. She took a tentative sip.

“I thought our food would be here by now,” she said. “I don’t like to drink on an empty stomach.”

“Shouldn’t be long. You know these places — they put ambience ahead of appetite.”

She laughed lightly and took another sip.

“You know,” he said, “you did a fine job in that infomercial. It’s a thankless task, but you really came across well.”

“Which infomercial?” she asked. She was grateful he didn’t look down on her for doing them; infomercials paid well, and gave her the opportunity to act, sort of.

“The tortilla press,” he said.

“The Sancho!” she said. “Whenever did you see that?”

“Oh, at three a.m. a couple nights ago, when I was fighting insomnia.”

“That’s prime time,” she said with a half smile, “in the infomercial biz.”

“Well, I’ve seen a lot of your work, thanks to sleepless nights — Snuggie, ShamWow... You rocked the Flowbee.”

“Now you’re teasing,” she said.

“No. You did a good job with what was not exactly Shakespeare. Not even Mamet. Anyway, I’m a professional, and I admire professionalism. Here’s to you, Wendi.”

He raised his glass and she did hers, and they both drank.

Finally dinner arrived. They made small talk through the meal. Wendi finished her second drink and allowed herself a third, though Louis was still nursing number two. She was not a heavy drinker and wasn’t surprised when, as they left the restaurant, she felt a little tipsy.

Still, she hadn’t had that much, and Wendi wondered if maybe the sushi was bad. She knew all about restaurants selling fish that was off.

“I hope we know each other well enough,” Louis said, “that I can suggest we go back to my place, and look at that script.”

“Actually,” she said, “I’m not feeling so great... Not opposed to stopping over, but...”

“I understand. Could be the drinks — they don’t skimp on the alcoholic content at Kyuui. That’s why I held it to two.”

“I was stupid to have so much to drink. I’m really sorry, Louis. I don’t think I could give you much of a reading tonight...”

He helped her to his Eclipse in the parking lot.

“Maybe you’ll feel better after a little drive. It’s a delightful evening. We can put the top down and let the warm breeze roll through.”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Give it a try. If you feel better, we’ll have a run at that script.”

“Maybe you could just take me... take me home...”

He started the car and they were moving. She tried to focus on where they were going, but the more she tried to settle her eyes on something as they sped past, the worse she felt.

Finally, she just gave up and shut her eyes.

When she finally opened them again, the car had stopped and Louis had the rider’s side door open to help her. He’d already removed her seat belt and was half lifting, half dragging her out of his car.

“Where... where are we?” Her voice sounded strange and faraway in her own ears, her tongue dry and thick.

“My place,” he said, getting her on her feet and putting an arm around her as he helped her walk from the driveway to the house.

Her vision was blurry, like a soapy film was over her eyes. Just a bungalow. Nice lawn. She could smell fresh, clean air. Were they in the country?

“Your place?” she asked.

Her legs felt weighted down and her brain felt fuzzy.

“You said take you home,” he said. “This is my home. You wanted to go over that script, remember?”

“Did I say that?”

“If you meant I should take you back to your apartment, I can do that. You fell asleep. Are you feeling better?”

His arms felt so good, supporting her, holding her up. Some citrus-scented masculine cologne. Nice. He was warm, gentle.

Next thing she knew, they were in the house. The lights were out and she’d never been here before, so she just went with it as Louis guided her.

“I think you need to lie down for a little while,” he suggested.

“Yeah, rest a little while,” she managed. “So sorry about this. So sorry.”

He guided her to the bedroom, her feet dragging more with each step, and she still couldn’t figure out why she was so darn drowsy. Oddly, though, a mild euphoria had come upon her. And she felt safe with Louis. Secure. He had been such a perfect gentleman...

He sat her on the bed and, when he suggested that she remove “her lovely dress so it doesn’t get wrinkled,” she had no argument.

The euphoria shorted in and out with another feeling, the sense that she was sitting on the edge of a black abyss and the more she tried to rear back, the more the abyss beckoned.

When she finally forced her eyes open again, she realized she was naked, Louis next to her, kissing her breasts in a sweet, loving way, and the lights were on in the bedroom, not bright, fairly dim, but on... and despite a sense that she really should protest, it felt nice...

She didn’t dispense sex like so many actresses, and she was never a one-night-stand kind of girl. She’d had regular boyfriends though, even lived with a few, so sex was nothing unnatural to her.

But she had never been casual about it... Was this a shameful slip? Was she trying to buy a role from a film producer? Was he just another asshole who had gotten her tipsy and was taking advantage?

None of that seemed to matter, because his kisses soothed her, and when his lips moved down her belly, she didn’t resist. She felt something within her heating up, though drowsiness still flirted with her...

Then he was crouching between her open legs, his tongue finding its way inside her, the portal of her thighs widening.

Gently, he rolled her over onto her stomach, slipping a pillow under tummy, the satin sheets smooth against her erect nipples, the bed warm against her stomach. She was afraid for a moment that he would take her in her private place, but then he was inside her right where she wanted him, gently at first, filling her as no one had in a very long time, then with more force, but not rough. Not rough. Her hips rose to meet him, of their own accord.

His driving became more insistent, and she did her best to stay with him. She moaned, the feeling of him making love to her spreading through every nerve ending. He was good. Very good...

She was almost there, as he thrust ever faster; then suddenly the wave crashed over her and she involuntarily moaned and filled her fists with the sheets as she shudderingly came.

He held her as the waves of passion ebbed away; then she felt him withdraw. She purred with contentment and managed to turn onto her back and willed her eyes to open. The room was dark, and all she could make out beyond the bed was his silhouette and the outline of a vase of flowers on the night stand next to her.

Roses?

She wanted to kiss him desperately, and she tried to rise, but couldn’t seem to navigate the task. She slumped back to the bed. She tried again with even less success and simply surrendered to the afterglow.

He leaned over and brushed blonde hair from her eyes.

“I’ll be right back, sweetheart,” he said softly, and was gone.

She wanted to drift to sleep, but she also wanted to hold him first, and for him to hold her. When she opened her eyes, a figure hovered over her... Louis? Just a pale shadow really, in the dimly lit room. She looked up to see something metallic flash in the moonlight, filtering in through the curtains.

Something burned on the flesh of her throat and a quick, unbidden gurgling gasp escaped from her. She felt liquid spurting, then falling, like warm dark spattering rain, onto her face, shoulders, and breasts. There was a vague pain in her neck and she struggled to get her hand up to try and wipe it away, but her fingers only got wet, too.

She fought to breathe, worked to stay awake, not awake, conscious, struggling against an eddy of darkness pulling her down.

When the blade flashed again and again, sinking into her body as if it were mud, she felt nothing, her performance already ended.