More Stories from the Twilight Zone (40 page)

Catlike, she hopped off the table again and whipped her head to the right.

“Methinks I hear

Antony call; I see him rouse himself
To praise my noble act; I hear him mock
The luck of Caesar, which the gods give men
To excuse their after wrath: husband, I come:

 

Now to that name my courage prove my title!

I am fire and air; my other elements
I give to baser life. So; have you done?
Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips.”

She leaned down and gave Lucas a sensuous, lingering kiss. He shuddered at the touch of her fingernails running down the side of his neck.

“Farewell, kind Charmian; Iras, long farewell.”

She tossed her hair and walked briskly out.

Not five seconds passed before the producer's voice rang out behind her:

“Where do you think you're going?” Marching after her, Alan grabbed her wrist and pulled her back in the room.

The Three Werewolf-Bears were all staring at her, gape-jawed.

“Were you on the schedule today?” Lucas asked, finally finding his voice.

“No, you miserable moron,” Malachi said. “This is the same girl from yesterday.”

“Which girl?” Lucas asked.

“The wolverine,” Malachi said, staring at Livia, stunned.

“You mean Bigfoot?” Lucas queried.

“Look at her, you coke-crazed cretin,” Alan said. “She's not a Bigfoot any longer. What was your name again?”

“I think her name just became Cleopatra,” Malachi said.

“It's Liv . . . Liv Lux.” Marilyn changed her name—why shouldn't she? “Let's just say I was having an off day.” She stepped forward and looked each of them in the eye.

“Let's break for the day,” Alan said, treating Livia to his biggest, widest werewolf smile. “My assistant will bump the rest
of the appointments. They can be rescheduled—or canceled. Either way. I don't care.”

Livia smiled back at him seductively. She liked the sound of his words.

Alan met her by the door. Putting a hand on her back, he felt the silky patch of skin, the Grecian dress's plunging neck- and back-lines leaving the upper portion of her torso exposed. When Alan placed his hand on her back, her silk skin felt electric.

“You're coming with me,” he said.

 

When the headwaiter seated them at the big circular booth of the Polo Lounge, arguably the most famous restaurant in Beverly Hills, she'd found Dom Perignon already chilling in the ice bucket. She also noted that the staff treated Alan with a deference that could only be inspired by total terror.

“Dry gin martini with a twist,” he snapped at the drink waiter impatiently. “And, boy, I want you to shake that martini sixty times, not one less, then shake your ass back here. That should take you sixty seconds, starting three . . . two . . . one, NOW!”

The petrified waiter skittered away.

When the food waiter appeared, Alan ordered a porterhouse steak smothered in onions, French fries au gratin, and for Livia a house salad with oil and vinegar . . . without consulting her.

“I've been around long enough to know what you little ladies like,” he said, winking.

“And Mr. Hakim, I bet I know
exactly
what you want,” she purred, totally into her Cleopatra-seductress role—so into it the part now seemed second nature to her.

“Your voice—it's pure ambrosia,” he whispered.

“I hope I get the chance to impress you with my other talents, Mr. Hakim,” she said throatily.

Riveted, Alan leaned across the table toward her. “I'm cow-simple over you. You've turned me into a raving fool.”

The waiter returned with his martini. Without taking his eyes off Livia, he downed it and slammed the empty glass on the table. “Perfect. Another, and shake this one seventy times.” The amazed waiter whisked the empty glass away and disappeared.

“Tell me what you want. Anything—jewelry, cars, a trip to paradise—you name it.”

It was good to be a goddess.

“I want nothing, Mr. Hakim—”

“Alan, please.”

“—Alan.” Fluttering bedroom eyes, she ran a finger across his bottom lip, somehow aware that the candlelight heightened her captivating radiance. “Nothing, Alan, except the chance to entertain the world. I was born to act.”

“Yes, of course you were.” He was so absorbed in her presence he barely heard his or her words.

“I will work very hard for you. I will do a very good, very
thorough
job. I will do
anything
you say.”

“And I will work you
very hard
.”

“And I will work like a
slave.
”

She gave his leg a painfully hard squeeze under the table.

Alan Harding's next martini appeared, shaken a full seventy times.

By the time dessert arrived, he had jacked the shake-count up to a hundred-plus.

 

“I'm not sure you should have made psycho-producer your first conquest, but it's a start.”

Perched on the bungalow's baby grand in a white silk nightie, Isis cupped her glorious face in her hand and gave Livia a coy, eye-batting smile.

Livia woke with a start and rubbed her eyes. Sunshine filtered through the window's wooden blinds onto the white marble floor. The Jacuzzi in the room's opposite corner was still gurgling, reminding Livia of their hours of steamy pleasure in it the night before. An empty bottle of Dom Perignon sat on its ledge, and two plush white bathrobes, each embroidered with the logo of the Beverly Hills Hotel, lay crumpled a few feet away. The bungalow where she'd spent the night was a long way from her dingy Hollywood apartment.

Livia glanced at the mass of grotesquely tanned flesh splayed across the ivory comforter, which had forced her onto the thin edge of the huge bed and finally onto the floor. Gray hair tufts seemed to sprout randomly across his back.

“I got the part!” she whispered to her guardian goddess.

“Isn't that splendid!” Isis glowed like a proud mother. “Now let's see if you can really fill Cleopatra's sandals and match her legacy.”

“I'll surpass it!” Livia said, leaping out of bed. “Look how they fall at my feet. I plan to make myself the most irresistible woman in history.”

“If you say so,” she said. “Just remember my warning.”

“That ‘bloodthirsty' stuff again? Don't you see he'd die before seeing me harmed? He's head over heels!”

“I suppose you know better than I.” Isis glowed a little brighter as Alan stirred. “But now Prince Charming wakes. Ciao!” She vanished with a flash of light.

Alan groaned as he awakened. “Good God, Toni, how'd you let me
drink
—” His eyes opened and saw Livia. Confusion, realization, and finally rapture crossed his expression. “Ah yes, my queen. My divine Cleopatra. What a night we had!” He reached out and grabbed her around the waist, trying to pull her back into bed.

“Now, Alan,” she said, teasingly pulling away. “You'd better pull yourself together and get home! Won't your wife be worried?”

He squinted and let out a cough that attested to an unhealthy smoking habit. “My wife? That ancient hag? How could I go back to her now?”

Ten years earlier, posters of Alan's supermodel wife, Toni Harding, covered the bedroom walls of her conceited high-school quarterback-boyfriend who'd dumped Livia for a brainless cheerleader with a bodacious body and hellaciously hot panties. Deep down inside, she'd always blamed their break-up not on the IQ-challenged cheerleader but on Alan's super-sexy spouse. She'd been the boy's malevolent muse. Revenge on Alan's trophy wife was sweet.

Alan straightened the gold chain around his neck and grabbed his diamond-encrusted white-gold Rolex Oyster off the floor where he had flung it during the evening's festivities.

“Darling, there's no question—I'm leaving her. I won't live another day without you.”

“I want you to stay with her, darling. I don't want anyone getting hurt.”

Like hell she didn't. However, she would not attain the stature of a global sex-goddess by seducing one megalomaniacal producer.

Alan's BlackBerry buzzed and he grabbed it off the nightstand. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, “if that hermaphrodite assistant of mine schedules one more morning meeting for me, I'm gonna rip out every tooth in his queer head.” He slipped into his new James Bond Brioni power suit—this one an $11,000 Pure Escorial Jet Black—and kissed her roughly. “Relax! Order breakfast, lay by the pool!” he ordered, rushing out the door.

 

Just as Livia lay back in bed, basking in luxury, her purple cell phone rang. Snapping it open, she knew who it was.

“Jenny! I have so much to tell you!”

“Liv?” The voice was deep and growling. “This is Malachi Chung.”

“Malachi!” she whispered breathily, rolling onto her stomach. “Where have you been all my life?”

“Pining away for you. Alan says you're Cleopatra, and I need to discuss our vision of her with you. I'm only shooting inserts. Meet me on the lot in an hour.”

“I can't wait, darling.”

She clicked the purple phone shut.

 

“Make her bleed!”

Hearing Malachi's voice, she lingered in the shadows by the doorway of the set where no one could see her. A buxom Latina actress lay naked in a bathtub on a small bathroom stage. She talked and laughed to someone offstage.

“Ready, Rosita?” Malachi called. The girl nodded and let her head fall to one side. “Roll sound . . . roll camera . . . action!”

Suddenly, a burly redheaded man burst on the stage with a baseball bat. He ran to the bathtub and beat the woman with it over and over. She bellowed lusty, B-movie ululations worthy of Beverly Garland, the legendary horror-flick scream queen. As her arms and legs spasmed, the screams pumped out of her repeatedly. Hidden in the shadows, Livia reminded herself to breathe.

“You like that, bitch?” the man thundered.

“Cut!” Malachi yelled. He stepped onstage. “Yes, yes, yes! Insanely hot.” He wiped sweat off his forehead and peered in Livia's direction. She took a tentative step out from the shadows. “That's a wrap!” he yelled, eyes on her.

As the cast and crew chatted and milled about, he strode toward her. “Did you see that? How sexy was that?”

“
So
hot,” she answered, even as she wondered if anyone really bought into his savage-sexy bullshit.

“That scene is brilliant. Seminal. Merging brutality and beauty—
that's
true art. But you—well, you're a sensation all on your own.” His gaze was so carnivorous she felt violated—not that she minded. “Where did you come from?”

“Your imagination, of course. I was made to fulfill your secret desires and your most prurient passions.”

“And to service my masterpiece! The ultimate cocktail of gore, insanity, psychopathy, sado-erotica and
Shakespeare!
Do you have any idea how delicious this film will be?” His eyes lost focus for a moment, and she shuddered, thinking what sordid stuff he was determined to put her through in her film debut. “Come with me. There's an empty stage where I can take a few shots of you.”

“I didn't know I would be on camera today . . .” She gestured to her simple blue cotton dress.

“Never fear, my Devil with a Blue Dress On. Everything becomes you, and the camera will love you.”

And it did. To her amazement, the lens lusted after her almost as hungrily as Malachi.

“Incredible,” he marveled later, staring at the digital-assist footage when he wasn't darting around adjusting lights and camera settings. “It's impossible to make you look anything less than desirable and divine.”

Livia arched her back and tousled her hair. “I exist solely for your work and your happiness.”

Malachi peered through a camera. “Because of you,” he said, “this film will be the most stunning artwork I shall ever conceive, write, and direct.”

“I would be nothing without your genius,” she pandered, as if Shakespeare would have nothing to do with the production.

“You were designed for
me,
my Cleopatra. You tantalize my eyes and inflame my desire. But that is not enough. I want more.”

“Take it all.”

She gasped as he swooped her into a low dip, kissed her voluptuously, vehemently, then yanked her back up. His cheek to hers, he whispered:

“Lascivious Liv, you intoxicate me.” Holding her hand, he spun her away, then whipped her back in to him. “I'm a man who knows what he wants. My scripts, my sets, my actors, my cameras, my lights—I control them all. And what I want is
you,
Liv Lux.” He grabbed the back of her neck firmly, fingers massaging her skull.
“I want to rip you apart.”
His hot breath tickled her face.

“Is that who I think it is?” Overhead lights illuminated the stage, exposing their lovers' embrace. Alan Hakim approached them in a red shirt, a tan vest and matching jodhpurs, black riding boots polished to a mirror-gloss and heeled with gleaming steel rowels. He strode toward them with short, determined steps, a black riding crop under his armpit. He stopped five feet from them, legs apart, cracking the crop on his right boot-top.

“My director with my newest star? What are you doing, Malachi? Purloining my property?”

“Malachi was just screen-testing me,” Livia said, pulling from the director's grip. She faced Alan, hands clasped behind her back.

“She's stunning on camera,” Malachi told him.

“Of course she is,” Alan said, eyeing them suspiciously. He took Livia's hand and kissed it. “But preproduction doesn't start for three weeks. Don't put her to work before then.” He put his arm around her. “Princess, let's go for lunch.”