Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

Skye

L ocated off tawny Benedict Canyon, Greenberg's gated pink stucco villa is majestic. Reminiscent of the nearby Beverly Hills Hotel and definitely built in the mid-twenties. For sure some legendary movie star once lived here, and as I pull up to it, I'm regretful I didn't research the residence.

Two burly, intimidating guards stand outside the massive iron gate, one on either side. Clad in muscle-hugging black jeans and T-shirts, they look like they were plucked from the World Wrestling Federation. What's more they're wearing semi-automatics slung around their broad chests. My breath hitches. They're armed. Trying to stay calm and upbeat, I roll down the window of my Prius and introduce myself. One of them, with the stoic demeanor of a soldier, speaks into a walkie-talkie.

"Sir, Miss Monroe is here to see you."

"Check her bag," responds a gruff voice, unmistakably Greenberg's.

"Get out of the car," orders the guard closest to me. "And hand over your bag."

The word please is definitely not part of his vocabulary. Taking a fortifying breath, I have just enough time to glimpse myself in the rearview mirror and adjust my blond wig a tad, making sure the silky locks cascade over my shoulders. Then, I collect my purse. My wallet with my driver's license along with my cell phone is locked in the glove compartment. All that's inside it is my lipstick, which is actually a spy-tech recording device, and a small vial of mouthwash, which is really unmarked pepper spray. I found both on Amazon. I sling the bag over my shoulder and step out of the car, the motor still running.

To my horror, the guard outside my door frisks me while the other rounds the car and snaps open my purse.

"What are you doing?" I ask, gritting my teeth.

"Security precautions," says the guard, rifling through my bag. My pulse accelerates as he examines the two items inside. I inwardly sigh with relief when he puts them back intact.

A few minutes pass by. My body stiffens as the first guard's mammoth hands crawl down my body, not overlooking my inner thighs, while his almost identical twin, done with my purse, gives me the once-over. I put a sweet smile on my face, but their expressions are anything but friendly. Small talk with these guys is out of the question. Finally, I'm cleared.

Sheldon's voice comes through the walkie talkies. It's not as gruff as before. "Good. Let her in and tell her I'll meet her at the front door."

Relieved, I hop back into my Prius as gracefully as I can in my stilettos, and as the gate parts open, I drive up the manicured road that leads to a sweeping semi-circular driveaway in front of Sheldon's breathtaking house. It's big enough to hold a dozen cars. I park my Prius and turn off the ignition. Tossing the key inside it, I sling my purse over my shoulder and step out of the car, ready to provide all the evidence the Conquest Broadcasting brass needs to take the monster down. As the car automatically locks behind me, I clutch my lucky locket and suck in another breath.

Without ringing the bell, I wait for Sheldon to come to the front door. A few long, anxious minutes pass. Finally, the oak door swings open. Sheldon, with a smug grin on his face, hovers over me in his other uniform. His monogrammed navy bathrobe. Belted below his paunch, the velour garment stops just below his knees, bringing my attention to his thick hairy calves. Matching velvet slippers complete the ensemble.

"Hi," I say in my best breathy voice. I can tell from the lustful expression on his face that he likes what he sees.

"Come on in, sweetheart." He waves me in before I can say another word. In one hand is a communications device. The one he uses to talk to his armed guards.

"I don't want any interruptions," he tells them before slamming the door shut behind me.

"So sweetheart, can I get you something to drink?" he asks as he ushers me inside, one hand splayed on my ass. His inappropriate gesture repulses me, but I don't let on.

"Your house is magnificent," I say, taking in my surroundings and not knowing where he's leading me. Antique furniture and artwork fill every nook and cranny of the vast mansion.

He snorts. "It's just leftover shit from my last wife. I wanna dump the crap. Start over fresh. Well, except for the paintings."

In contrast to the dark, baronial furnishings, the colorful, large paintings on the wall are contemporary. I recognize some of the artists—there's a Basquiat, Pollock, and Schnabel. In my research, I read that he's a major collector and owns one of the largest collections of contemporary art in the world.

"Maybe you can help me... you know, redecorate."

"Sure, that sounds like fun."

I cringe at my trite words as he leads me to a grand, well-stocked bar. Bottles of the finest liquors line the shelves along with expensive, glistening crystal. I watch as he pours himself a Scotch and sets the tumbler down on the gleaming surface.

"How 'bout some champagne?"

I eye a silver ice bucket holding a bottle of Cristal. "Just some water, please."

"C'mon, gorgeous. Water is for paupers. Let me pour you a glass of champagne. It'll help you relax."

Not responding, I let him pour me one. While his back is turned, I slip out my lipstick from my purse, and as I apply it, I activate the recording device. One click of the base. I quickly put the tube back inside. Just in time.

"Let me take your purse," he says, handing me the bubbly.

"I'd prefer to hold on to it." I clutch my small bag. Thankfully, he doesn't oppose me.

"So let me propose another toast." I raise my glass as he does, his eyes cast down on my cleavage. "To those killer tits."

You pig. I smile, clinking my glass against his, and take a sip of my champagne while he guzzles his cocktail.

His eyes stay glued to my breasts and then suddenly he gropes one mound with his free hand. "Mmm... nice."

I squirm. "Sheldon, I'd rather you not touch me that way."

"Relax, sweetheart." Ignoring my request, he squeezes my other breast. It hurts like hell, my breasts still extra-sensitive and swollen from nursing, but I hold back a yelp. "What size are these knockers?"

Steeling myself, I deflect his question. "Sheldon, you have something you want me to audition for?"

The sleazebag scratches his balls. "Sweetheart, let's take it slow. I've had a shit day. Those idiot network executives think they know everything. I told them to eat it. No one tells me what to do."

"I'm sorry." The arrogant asshole. His reputation precedes him.

"Come with me, sweetheart. First, I need to see if you can take direction."

My pulse again speeding up, I let him usher me to a massive burgundy velvet couch. Taking a final sip of his drink, he sets the crystal tumbler down on the gilded coffee table in front of it.

"I need to de-stress. Give me a massage."

My muscles tighten. "Do I have to?"

"Sweetheart. I'm surprised at you." He swipes at his comb over. "You're looking for your big Hollywood break and you're questioning me?"

Mentally, I smile. Fingers crossed I've got it all recorded. "I-I'm sorry. I just wasn't expecting—"

He cuts me off. "Just do it, babe. We don't have all night."

Impatiently, he snatches my champagne flute and sets it down next to his depleted tumbler. My heart hammers—is he going to disrobe? I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed when he doesn't and instead plops down on the plush couch. He rolls over face down onto his potbelly.

"I like it hard, doll," he mutters under his breath.

"Me too."

"Sweetheart, now you're talkin' my language."

Without another word, I bend down and start kneading his upper back. I happen to excel at giving massages because I love getting them from my husband. A sudden wave of guilt sweeps over me, thinking that the only man I should be touching is my beloved Finn. I'm doing my job, I tell myself. It's just a job. No different than an actress's.

"Wow, babe! You're good," mumbles Sheldon, cutting into my second thoughts. "I'm loving this. Don't stop."

For the next fifteen minutes or so, I continue to knead his meaty body. It's hairy, laden with moles, and he stinks. Muffled grunts, groans, and "oh yeahs" spill onto the cushions. He shifts and then rolls over onto his back. His hideous comb over has fallen into his half-open eyes. He brushes the greasy strands off his forehead.

"Is everything okay?" I ask.

"I need you to do the rest of me."

Before I can take my next breath, he unbelts his robe and exposes himself. Unprepared for the ghastly sight of what awaits me, I swallow hard, overcome by a sudden rush of nausea. What's wrong with me? I'm an investigative reporter. I've witnessed fatal gun wounds, stabbings, and gory accidents. Mass destruction by fires, hurricanes, and earthquakes. Mass murder by bombs, gunfire, and arson. I've possibly seen every atrocity known to mankind, but I can't stomach the engorged, veined, purple monstrosity before me.

"Sheldon, I think you should—"

"Shut up and get down on your knees," he orders, his voice deep and belligerent.

"Shel—"

"Do it. Suck me." His voice grows several decibels louder with anger. "That's if you don't want your career to be over before it starts, sweetheart."

Oh God. I pray that my secret recording device is getting all of this. "Sheldon, this is sexual harassment."

He snickers. "Harassment, my ass. Nobody gets ahead in this town without giving a little head. So, Lana..."

His voice trails off as I slowly fall to my knees, the cold marble sending a chill up my spine. He squeezes the base of his erection with his hand and aims it at my face. I have the burning urge to run as far away from him as possible. Escape while I can. He doesn't give me a chance and presses down on my scalp with the splayed fingers of his broad hand, forcing my lips toward his monstrous appendage. I zip my lips together as they hover over the bulbous crown. Bile rises to my throat. My gag reflex activated, I can't make myself clamp my mouth around it. I want to cry out for him to stop, to let go of me, but for sure, I will vomit if I open my mouth, so revolted I am by the sight of his repulsive organ and the equally repulsive scent of his sweaty, hairy balls.

"Suck me," he growls, pressing down on my head with more pressure. "What'cha waiting for?"

I resist, pinching my lips together so hard my teeth dig into them. Still squeezing the base of his penis, he begins to pump it, waiting for me to give him what he wants.

Casting my eyes upward, I glimpse him. His head is tilted back, his face contorted, and his eyes glued shut. In anticipation. "C'mon, babe!" he murmurs.

I suddenly realize I have a window of opportunity. Still held prisoner by him, I fumble with the latch of my bag, still slung on my shoulder, and manage to open it. His heavy breathing drowning out my ministrations, I reach inside my purse and readily find what I'm looking for. My secret weapon. My pepper spray.

Grabbing it, I pop open the lid and then put my thumb on the spray button. Now, I've got to get him to open his eyes. Bingo. An idea pops into head. My gaze still on my predator, I take my other hand and claw his hairy, portly thighs with my sharp nails, digging deep enough to draw blood. With a pained yelp, he looks down, his eyes wild and dilated.

He throws a string of expletives at me, swearing madly.

On my next strangled breath, I aim the vial at his eyes and press down on the button. The blinding spray shoots out in full force as I wave the vial back and forth, making sure to nail both eyes. Whoosh! Then, another excruciating scream.

"What the hell are you doing?" he shrieks, my thumb still glued to the spray button. He scrunches his face in agony, squeezing his eyes shut in defense.

"You monster!" I shout out.

"You twat!" he screams back, rubbing his tearing eyes.

Without a second to waste, I spring to my feet, but I'm not quick enough for the ugly monster. Still groaning with agony, he grabs me by the hair. So forcefully my blond wig flies off. Oh shit!

"What the—?" Holding the cluster of blond curls in his hand, he forces one burning, red eye half-open. It glints with recognition.

"I know you! You're that badass reporter."

I gulp back panic. Clutching my bag, I make a mad dash for the front door. Despite his condition, he goes after me, his lumbering footsteps thudding in my ears. My heart beating triple time, I curse myself for wearing strappy stilettos, but I can't stop to take them off. Breathless, I reach the front door and jerk it open, Sheldon hot on my trail.

I fly past the guards. I'm surprise to see them. Sheldon must have ordered them to stand by the front door while I was waiting for him to open it.

"Get her!" yells Sheldon at the top of his lungs. "Kill the bitch!"