Licorice looked around to see if anyone was watching. The general hustle and flow around studios A through C North didn't faze him as he stood in front of a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and waited for Jaw Breaker to show up. Muted conversations drifted by, along with the people having them, as stars, cameramen and other assorted behind the scenes workers passed along.
Two tall women with pink spangled afros and tiny green bikinis eyed him appreciately as they strolled up; one of them cocked her head. "Oh Hunk-Daddy, tell me you're going to be on the set of our next scene, pretty please?"
Licorice took his time looking them up and down; the perks of the mission were definitely improving. He flashed a confident grin at the both of fluffy-topped seductresses. "Wishes do come true," he murmured enticingly.
The other woman grinned, shifting to let her hip jut out as she batted her eyes. "You look like a stud who could appreciate a good full-body cotton candy wrap from two luscious leisurely lickers, right?"
Licorice paused, trying to picture the image, which by rights should have been disturbing, but . . . wasn't. Seeing his quirky grin, the two girls laughed and sidled closer, draping themselves on his shoulders.
The first one cooed sweetly at him. "I've always loved candy with a chocolate center---"
"Hey Carl!" Jaw Breaker sauntered up, smiling sunnily, "And who are these nice young ladies?"
Licorice flashed a quick, annoyed scowl at this partner. "Nobody you need to worry about."
One of the girls gave Jaw Breaker the once over and broke into a grin. "And vanilla too . . . this must be our lucky day!"
"Like taking candy from a baby—" her partner agreed. Jaw Breaker caught Licorice's eye and in tacit agreement they both nodded. Licorice spoke up, regretfully.
"Lucky isn't the word for it, Sugar, but Lennie here and I have a pesky job to do, so we're gonna have to pass on your sweet offer for the moment."
The girls giggled, and good-naturedly let Licorice go. One of them reached up to tug one of his dreadlocks playfully. "All work and no play . . . but we get the picture. Maybe we can all go for a . . . spin later, right? Bunny and I are over at Studio D if you wanna come on over."
"Sounds tasty—what's the movie?" Jaw Breaker asked, his eyes twinkling. The girl named Bunny giggled, and linked arms with her friend, dragging her off down the hall.
"The Incredible Edibles—" As they passed by Jaw Breaker, one of them reached out and pinched his ass; he flinched, eyes going wide for a second.
Annoyed but amused too, Licorice waited until the girls had left the building to snort at his partner. "You look like you've never been goosed by a pair of porn stars before—"
"Oh no, happens to me ALL the time," Jaw Breaker replied, turning to look back in the direction the girls had gone. "What's with the pink 'fros, anyway?"
"Cotton Candy," Licorice replied.
"And I bet those two are a circus all by themselves." Both men grinned, and then Licorice nodded to the door behind him.
"I can get this door open if you keep an eye out on the hall here. There's been some traffic this way and I want to see what's down here."
Jaw Breaker nodded thoughtfully, and moved a few steps out, settling himself in. He dug in a pocket for a cell phone and brought it to his ear, murmuring softly.
Licorice nodded. Turning, he took out the skeleton key and fit it to the lock then jiggled it gently. After a moment, it turned, and he twisted the handle of the door. Licorice glanced over his shoulder.
"Going down." He fished out his own cell. "Talk me through it."
Jaw Breaker nodded.
There were stairs, cement and cool here, and Licorice pulled out a tiny Maglite as he moved down in the darkness, squinting. The air was surprisingly damp, and tinted with the sharp tang of bleach. Licorice gave a low reactive grunt and spoke up. "Smells like somebody's been cleaning. Ten steps down, no handrail--looks like a concrete bunker."
"Big, small, what?"
"Big enough to shoot in," Licorice commented grimly. "Cinderblock walls and a lot of equipment—ladders, window screens, some tarps . . . "
"Big enough to shoot in is not exactly helpful—" came Jaw Breaker's grumble. "General dimensions?"
"It's about the size of a two car garage . . . oh hello, what have we here?" Licorice murmured. He stepped around a stack of boxes and looked at the far wall of the room, then squatted down to study the floor. "Okay, much more promising. I've got a possible hidden door."
"No kidding? Whoa—"
"No kidding. There's a water heater bolted to a plywood frame that's just about the same size as your average door. I see some faint tracks stopping at the edge under it . . . looking around, and . . . bingo. There's a latch up under the shelf to the right, here."
"Don't go in, man," Jaw Breaker warned. "We'll set up a camera and see who uses the door, but for now, play it safe."
"Gotcha. There's a rack for tools on the adjoining wall—we could mount something there and get a feed going in half an hour if we do it now," Licorice pointed out. He rose and looked around the room once more, the bright beam of the flashlight crossing over the assorted clutter. He focused on a tall shape leaning against another wall and walked over to it carefully. Licorice touched the cool slick surface.
"Yo Nick—You remember what they put down on the floor?"
"Yep--industrial plastic, heavy gauge."
"Yeah, well I'm looking at a roll of it right here," Licorice intoned grimly.
Sara glanced up at the man and took a breath, trying to appear nonchalant. This was difficult considering the giant in front of her was nearly naked, semi-aroused and looming over her. "Okay, can you give me a nice low growl? Something menacing please?"
"Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr—" the man complied, his expression looking distinctly alarming. He was trying to scowl, but his naturally sunny expression kept coming through. Physically he had one hell of an imposing build, Sara thought. Monolithic almost, at just over six and a half feet. Burly, furry and definitely no slouch in the tackle department, but---
"Maynard, for God's sake look evil, will you please?" came Mr. Peppermint's exasperated command. "The camera can only do so much to make you the bad guy. Growl a little, think about how you want to kill Captain Dirk, alright?"
"Okay Donovan," came the cheerful reply, "but I don't, really. He's very cute."
"Thanks, Maynard, " William Shafter grinned. "It's always nice to know."
"Yes, well you two are supposed to be mortal enemies, not cuddle buddies," Mr. Peppermint pointed out, stepping back from the camera. "Macy honey, I need to adjust one of the kliegs. See if you can make Kram the Merciless here a little more . . . merciless?"
Sara bit back a laugh and slid out of her director's chair, motioning the two actors towards her. They stepped forward as Mr. Peppermint moved off towards the rack of lights. Sara sighed.
"Okay guys, let's try to concentrate. We're right at the first time that Captain Dirk and Kram the Merciless meet on the alien planet. You're both cool; you're both professional, but underneath it all there's an attraction here that's intense and hot. I need you two to be able to convey that."
"Totally can do," William smirked, looking up at the blonde Viking towering beside him.
The two of them were a study in contrasts; William's brown curls and Maynard's long Nordic blond hair, William's lean, cat-like build and Maynard's defensive-lineman–on-steroids look. Both of them had cheeky expressions though, and it only took a few minutes of observing the bigger man to know he was a genuine sweetheart.
Maynard grinned as well, tossing back his long straight hair. "Oh me too, but it's tough to look like I want to kick his ass when I'd much rather kiss it," he confessed.
"We'll get to that, I promise," Sara told him, fighting hard to keep her composure. "But for now, I need you to be in full Klingar mode. Think of yourself as the biggest baddest leather bear out there, Maynard. The universe is your candy ass, all right?"
"Ooooh," Maynard nodded. He straightened his massive shoulders and flexed a little; offstage a few of the set decorators whistled appreciatively. William Shafter laughed.
"Come on, handsome, let's see if you can scare the pants off me."
"There's an incentive," Mr. Peppermint muttered, but he shot Sara an arch look and handed her a bottle of water. She took it with a little grin, and settled back in her director's chair.
"Okay May, saunter on over like you're going to scrape Captain Dirk off the soles of your big biker boots—"
Maynard lumbered. On the set, one of the light stands swayed a bit, and startled, Mr. Peppermint looked up from the camera and then at Sara. She shot him a sidelong look and then slouched back in her director's chair. "Keep going, ohh yeah, very hot, Maynard!"
The behemoth reached William Shafter and bent down, snarling in his face; to his credit, the shorter man didn't flinch or laugh. Instead, he let the tiniest flick of his tongue touch his bottom lip in an unconsciously, undeniably erotic gesture. Seeing it, Maynard's low rumble shifted from menace to longing as the two of them breathed in each other's faces for a sweet, tension-filled moment.
Sara shifted in her chair, grinning. "Cut! Oh that was beautiful, William, just perfect—very, um, sexy."
The two men reluctantly looked away from each other; Maynard was blushing. Mr. Peppermint stepped back from the camera and moved behind Sara's chair, leaning down to whisper in her ear.
"I think we may be witnessing serious charisma here. I also want to lick your neck."
"Agreed, and later. Have you heard from Lennie and Carl yet?"
"Yes. They're bringing lunch and info in about an hour, so we'll have a nice picnic over on one of the empty studios—" His breath was warm on her neck, and Sara shivered. She turned and laughed softly.
"Oh God I LOVE your aftershave, Donovan. Honestly, if you weren't already living in sin with those three tomcat boyfriends of yours, I'd SO do you—" she announced loudly.
Mr. Peppermint pursed his mouth in amusement. "Well for YOU, Macy, I'll evict them." Straightening up, he toyed with his chin tuft and added, "Okay, I think we can move on to the next scene, boys? Will someone let Bone McBoy and Mr. Cock know they're wanted on the set?"
Sara bit her lips to keep from laughing out loud.
Sugar Daddy carefully reloaded his clip. Down at the end of the range, the paper human target on the hay bale fluttered a little, ventilated neatly through the center of the heart in a cluster any sharpshooter would be proud to claim. A moment later the mechanical arms replaced it with a fresh target.
No one else was on the range at the moment, and Sugar Daddy relished the privacy. He adjusted his stance and was staring down the barrel of his weapon when the cold quick glitter of something flashed in the corner of his left eye.
He blinked, and suddenly a thin silver knife quivered in the heart of the new target. Sugar Daddy paused.
The booths had solid walls, to insure privacy and promote concentration. Carefully he pulled out the clip of his weapon and set it down. A second blade flew out, piercing the target, so close to the first blade that their handles clinked together. Sugar Daddy silently opened the door of his booth and stepped out, then glanced through the glass door of the adjoining one.
There was no mistaking the sleek, elegant curves of Miss Lollipop; he had that spine memorized. Carefully he watched as she reached into a velvet-lined oak box and pulled out another glittering knife. With quick cat-like moves she'd taken the blade, tossed it in the air, caught it by the deadly point, and sent the murderous missile flying in a deadly trajectory all in the space of a few seconds. It nestled in next to the other two blades, quivering slightly.
Sugar Daddy knocked on the door. Startled, Miss Lollipop turned and saw him. She fumbled with the case, closing it, and came to the glass door, trying to smile even though her composure was slightly rattled. "Oh! I didn't realize it was you in the next booth."
"That's all right. Just getting in a little extra practice," he commented gently. His focus was on the box, and seeing his interest, Miss Lollipop motioned him inside. It was cozy, and dark. He could smell her perfume; the scent always made his pulse jump a little with happy associations.
"So . . . knives. Sort of exotic," Sugar Daddy mused, looking at the carved box resting on the ledge. Miss Lollipop nodded.
"Ah, but for my family, traditional. Blades are quick and never jam or need reloading. Blades travel well and are . . . reusable," she confessed with a proud lift of her chin. "My great-grandfather had these made of sterling silver, and vowed he'd never lose one."
"And?" Intrigued, Sugar Daddy hesitated. Miss Lollipop gave him a nod and he picked one up. The weapon was a long sleek single piece from handle end to pointed tip, and the double sided edges were wickedly sharp. He admired the balance, hefting it a little.
She smiled her dangerous little smirk. "He never did. He went into World War One and took out several enemies with his throwing. Mostly snipers. He passed the box onto my grandfather, who learned the art from him, and then carried them himself into battle against the Nazis. My father used them mostly for target practice, but when he was called to Korea . . . " she trailed off and looked down for a moment, then up again. "Let's just say each of these blades has drawn blood and leave it at that."
Sugar Daddy nodded. He turned the throwing knife over in his hands and shifted to look at the target. Miss Lollipop smiled and with a nod, invited him wordlessly to throw it. Carefully he gripped the blade between forefinger and thumb, then cocked his arm.
He threw.
The blade twirled, end over end and smacked flat against the hay bale, then clattered to the cement floor with a musical tinkling sound.
Miss Lollipop chuckled softly, and leaned closer to Sugar Daddy, shrugging. "It's never as easy as it looks."
"So I see. What's the trick?"
Her breathy reply near his ear sent a shiver down his spine. "The trick, as you call it, is proper technique and countless hours of practice, James."
"Ah," he replied, struggling hard to sound nonchalant. She didn't shift away, and the press of her against his shoulder felt wonderful.
"Would you like to . . . learn?"
He turned to look at her in the dim light of the booth, and the lovely image of her exotic face; the high cheekbones and almond shaped eyes, the knowing hint of a smile at the corners of that lush mouth made Sugar Daddy sigh softly. "From you, oooohyeah."
That did make her smile, and she held his gaze for a moment longer, then pulled back with regret and selected another knife from the blue velvet of the box. She pressed against his back, letting her right arm stretch out along the outside of his right arm as she put the knife into his hand.
"You had it right the first time—you grip the very tip of the knife between your thumb and the side of your index finger. This is a very secure grip, and lets you feel the balance. Can you feel it?"
Sugar Daddy could feel a lot of things at the moment, the knife being the least important of them, but he nodded. Miss Lollipop's breath warmed his ear again.
"Good. Now you need to keep your wrist stiff and cock your arm back." He did so, feeling self-conscious about it, but Miss Lollipop made a purring sound of approval.
"Good?"
"Yes. Now, study the target and estimate—weight of the blade in your fingers, the distance, how hard you want to strike . . . all of these factors matter. When you feel comfortable—throw."
Sugar Daddy thought about her words, He closed his eyes and concentrated, taking in all the variables she'd mentioned and then felt a weightless moment wash over him. With a swift hard snap of his arm, he threw the knife, and it flashed out, burying itself through the target and into the hay bale with a soft hiss of power.
He blinked. Only the end of the handle was visible, a little silver bulge along the bottom of the bull's eye. Miss Lollipop drew in a breath. "Impressive," she murmured, "For a first throw."
"I'm a good learner," Sugar Daddy replied modestly, feeling warm.
Miss Lollipop gave a single slow nod, and reached for another blade. Her concentration was off; with a little flinch she jumped, and pulled her hand back from the box. A tiny pinprick of blood welled up on the ball of her thumb. Sugar Daddy didn't hesitate. He caught her smaller hand between his two big warm ones, and brought it to his lips, gently mouthing the tiny wound.
A low, helpless little moan slithered up Miss Lollipop's throat as she froze, letting him press his mouth around her thumb. The sensations of heat, softness left her light-headed.
Sugar Daddy had never considered thumbs erotic; truth be known he was more of a leg man if it came down to it, but at this moment the cutely sexy taste of Miss Lollipop's opposable digit was giving him a serious hard on. Reluctantly he let it slide out of his mouth, and he reached in his jacket pocket for the handkerchief he kept there. With care, he dabbed her wound, not meeting her eyes.
"James . . . " she murmured in a voice he'd never heard before outside of a fantasy. Looking up, he caught the sudden brilliance in her lonely gaze, and the recognition of that expression hit him hard.
"Heather," he replied huskily. She hovered for a moment, then carefully shifted closer, moving into his arms. Sugar Daddy took a moment to weigh his glorious good fortune, and knowing this risk was worth it, kissed her.
They bumped against the box, which fell, and all the silver knives clattered out onto the cement in a musical cacophony that had no effect on the two entwined people in the booth.
Lois O'Neill studied her bandaged hand in disgust. It was nearly impossible to do anything, and not one of the mealy-mouthed assistants she'd hired could get things done. They couldn't make coffee the right way, or do make-up, or even comb her hair without screwing things up. She growled, and stretched out on the lounge beside the big blue empty pool, annoyed and restless.
It was infuriating, waiting for a call. Who did he think she was? For THAT matter who did he think HE was? Lois fumed. Some two-bit lowlife punk, that's all. A button man with questionable credentials, hired on the suggestion of—
No, better not to think about who'd suggested she hire the rat. Lois gritted her big horsey teeth, plotting best how to get out of the deal. Sure, Portia dead was the plan, but not for that brute's asking price, and nobody, NOBODY got away with putting the hurt on her—
Lois's sweet thoughts of murderous revenge were interrupted by the ring of her cell phone; impatiently she snatched it up with her good hand from the marble table next to the lounge. "Yes?"
"Portia Richmond is going to have an accident while shopping today. You may want to go buy a black dress," came a familiar voice.
"Oh really? Well thanks for the update but I've got a newsflash for you, buster. I picked out the dress ages ago."
"That doesn't surprise me," came the reply, tinged with something close to contempt.
Lois bristled. "It's Vegas, asshole. People die here all the time."
"Yes, the capital of unnatural causes. Three million, Miss O'Neill. I'd hate to see you with another cast." He hung up before she could make a scathing reply, and the sudden silence of disconnection left her seething.
With an infuriated growl, Lois heaved the phone into the pool, watching it 'plunk' and sink down, the circle of ripples breaking the glassy surface of the water.
For a moment she glared at it.
Then, a faint sound echoed up through the water, muted and distorted, but still recognizable; Lois gritted her false teeth and yelled. "Herbie! Get the damned phone!"
A frazzled blonde man, painfully thin and trendy scurried out, looking worried. "Miss O'Neill?"
She gestured impatiently to the water. "It's ringing—go get it."
Herbie looked out towards the middle of the Olympic-sized pool, then turned back Lois, rolling his eyes. "Bitch, please. I'm in Armani; don't think I'm going in the water for a cheap ass cell phone!"
Lois rose up from the lounge and glowered at the man. She took a deliberate step forward, and her nostrils flared alarmingly as her voice came out from her clenched teeth. "Three words—I'll fire you."
"Three back atcha—tell-all book," Herbie bravely replied, even though his voice quavered a bit. Lois looked thunderous for a moment, then her expression shifted into a slow, wicked grin.
"Cut me in for thirty percent of the gross and I'll write it with you—hell, I can tell you things I've been doing to my household staff for YEARS, Herbie Boobie-kins . . . "
As she spoke Lois kept stepping forward; Herbie realized his dilemma only a second before he lost his balance and fell backwards into the crystal water. Lois laughed, hands on her hips as he spluttered to the surface. "You complete BIATCH!"
"You betcha Herbie. We have a deal on the book?" she purred, bringing one high-heeled foot to rest on his hand, which was clutching at the side. He nodded, smiling despite himself as he gave a resigned sigh.
Lois laughed. "Good. Should be a best seller. And while you're in the water . . . get the damned phone."
Grissom looked over at the two men sitting next to each other along the studio wall, then turned his attention back to the lens case he was trying to close. The low sound of their conversation—indistinct but friendly—made him grin a little, and he hoped things went well for them. They'd definitely clicked on-camera; anyone could see that, and somehow the goofy charm of this movie was catching.
Even the other actors were having fun. 'Bone' McBoy, AKA John Mancock, and Shaft Drillman, who was playing Mr. Cock were both seasoned pros in porn, but even they were having a good time, hamming up their non-sex scenes. The only flat note was the other Klingar, Rammer the Ruthless. Off-screen he called himself Steve Steele, and he kept to himself, aloof and faintly disapproving.
He had a few interesting tattoos as well.
Grissom straightened up, giving the case one last pat and looked over where Miss Chocolate was chatting again with Dan. The grizzly seemed to have taken a shine to the production and had watched the day's filming. Now he stood towering over Miss Chocolate, paws waving animatedly as the two of them spoke.
A hint of jealousy flared up within Grissom, only to be squashed instantly by his common sense. She'd never go for a chest THAT furry, he assured himself. Or that acrylic.
As if sensing his thoughts, Miss Chocolate turned and came over to him, her Navaho bracelets jingling. She handed him a clapboard, and murmured in a low voice. "Interesting . . . seems that Steve's been around for a while here at Tia Carumba as more than just camera talent. He's worked as a set builder and gaffer too."
"The sort of man who might have the run of the place," Grissom observed. "Who wouldn't be noticed in the background."
"My thoughts exactly. Anyway, Dan was happy to talk and get his mind off other things. He has a double funeral to go to this afternoon."
Puzzled, Grissom looked at her; Miss Chocolate blinked, her face perfectly straight. "Yeah. Seems a raccoon buddy of his was, um, shot by a farmer out on the highway yesterday . . . "
"Shot?"
"From a distance—it's pretty clear the farmer didn't know it was a man in a suit. Anyway, the raccoon's girlfriend, the lamb, died when her car hit her boyfriend, who had staggered back onto the road . . . . "
"Ram, baaa, eeew?" Grissom replied, keeping his face equally straight. It was too much for Miss Chocolate, who pressed a hand over her eyes, shoulders shaking, odd little snorts escaping her pretty mouth.
Seizing the opportunity, Grissom took her into his arms and patted her back as Dan wandered closer. "There there, Macy honey." Over her shoulder and to the grizzly he added, "She's SUCH an animal lover."
"Yeah. The news was a real bummer. My girlfriend and I are going to the memorial—should be quite a gathering."
"Your girlfriend?" Grissom asked, keeping his arms locked around Miss Chocolate. She felt nice right where she was, taking comfort from a friend, he decided. Dan sighed, and nodded, his muzzle moving up and down.
"Yeah. Her name's Jane Doe—" A honking car horn outside interrupted Dan and he perked up. "—That's her. Catch you guys later—the rushes looked great!" So saying, the grizzly lumbered off towards the door. Miss Chocolate clung to Grissom for a moment longer, trying hard to regain her composure.
"Jane . . . Doe?" she squeaked against his shoulder. "Dare we even LOOK?"
"Shhhh, you're upset. You need to go back to the motel and lie down," Grissom told her meaningfully. "Maybe even take a shower—"
Maynard wandered over, looking a little depressed. "Dan's gone huh? Saw his sweetie—nice rack, if you're into that kind of thing. Have either of you seen William?"
"I thought he was talking to you," Miss Chocolate murmured, pulling away from Grissom and wiping her wet eyes. Maynard shook his head, long blond hair swaying, his expression troubled.
"He was, but one of the set guys told him somebody at the front office needed to see him, and now he's gone. I thought he'd be back by now, since he was getting a ride home with me."