THE ACTOR’S MUSE
By Sedona Leigh
Copyright 2011 Sedona Leigh
Cover Art Elements courtesy of Crystal Cloud Graphics
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1932
Hollywood, California
“Heinrich, you can’t be serious!” Melanie threw her hands up as if to prevent the world from collapsing on her head. “He is ungovernable, an absolute cad.” She turned away from the set and refused to look back. A screen actor. Could he have chosen anyone more gauche?
Heinrich Strauss, celebrated German playwright, had intruded on her delightful time in Paris and insisted upon this transatlantic trek to California. “Darling. Darling,” Strauss said, rich accent trembling his R’s, “He needs you. He must have you.” He squeezed her shoulders. “It is for the art!”
Hand to her face, she felt the steam lifting from her pores in the oppressive heat. “This is not art, dear one. This is a tragic farce. There is no poetry, no symphony, no soul to these…” she searched for the right term, “...moving pictures.”
“Melanie, don’t be so stubborn. Motion pictures are all of those things and more. Art must evolve, and films are the future.” He turned her around. The bustle and shouts of the crew over Heinrich’s shoulder bounced off the confines of the sound stage. “You must evolve, my dear. He needs you.”
The referenced ‘he’ was one Simon Price. After his first two films eclipsed all previous attendance records, Price had become a central figure in the new feature length talking picture. She’d managed to ignore the advent of film for the last decades. The mere thought of such an assignment made her shudder.
She sighed and met Heinrich’s beseeching look through the fringe of her eyelashes. “If you name this oaf your successor, there is little I can do to stop you.”
They watched as the director called for action. Price was a handsome, magnetic fellow with a dash of brooding. She flinched as he flubbed his lines and marched like a tin soldier from one mark to the other. Apparently, this defect had not shown up in his previous performances.
She shook her head, fearing mere mortal tools wouldn’t be sufficient.
Heinrich led them out. “It’s all arranged with the studio, my dear. They are eager for your remedies. The both of you will spend the weekend at the Falcon’s Lair, Valentino’s old estate.”
#
The last two weeks on set weren’t going as the studio wanted and they’d threatened to pull the plug. Strauss stepped in and arranged this last chance. Price would comply or run the risk of losing his contract. Considering his mounting debt, there wasn’t much choice. They made it too easy for him by hiring a girl.
His car finished the steep climb towards the top of the mountain and the gates to Falcon’s Lair opened in welcome. The place was enormous. Front portico and rambling stucco sprawl made the complex appear to stretch beyond the mountains and into the clouds.
The driver pulled to the front door as Price checked his reflection in the side window. Hair slicked in place and teeth free of muck, his charm would conquer the task at hand. He’d have this teacher out of her clothes and shouting lines from Shakespeare within hours. Teach him to act. That was a laugh. Didn’t she know who he was?
He combed the front entry hall seeking out the closest source of alcohol. He stumbled over the extended limbs of nude Grecian statues and the formidable suits of armor that guarded the entrance. The muted lighting and masculine artwork were all very nice, but the shadows were hiding the wet bar.
A servant arrived. Price threw his coat at him. “Be a good man - ignore the suitcases until I have a bourbon in my hand. Add some lemon juice and a sugar cube and I’ll be right as rain.” He gave the man a light punch to the arm and a quick smile to send him on his way.
“I think we’ll delay the cocktails, James. But do see to Mr. Price’s things.” The female voice was beyond his view, but the quiet command made the servant comply. His suitcase and coat were carried off as he was left high and dry.
“Now wait a minute,” he said, stepping after the servant.
Then he saw her. She was draped along a chaise in the depths of a large room designed as a Sheik’s tent. In profile, she moved her hand to bring a long cigarette holder to her lips. The smoke curled from her mouth. The split of her dress revealed a lace stocking top against her thigh. There were more delights to see, but when their eyes locked he couldn’t move. She was dark, like an Egyptian Queen and her eyes were those of an animal. A tiger, maybe or a jaguar. Yellow and green and completely feral. His legs couldn’t move, but his cock sure did. It wanted her. Right there and then.
“You the acting coach I’ve heard so much about? Strauss was singing your praises.” As his body came back under his control, he let out a long, slow whistle. “I can sure see why.”
Smoke from an elaborate incense holder under the center of the tent hit his nose with a sticky sweetness. The draft in the house moved the long twists of copper beads and swayed the dangling fringes of tapestries.
“Good day, Mr. Price. Our time is short. Rather than souse your brain in alcohol, we should get to work.”
She had the body and face of an exotic angel with a bossy tongue. Just his luck. He crossed his arms in front of him, amused. “And why would I want to do that?”
She sat up slowly, the top of her electric blue dress tightening against her cleavage like a slash of lightning in the old Arabic setting. She went very still, watching him with an unblinking expression until he shifted and began to feel uneasy. What was with this broad and the turn-to-stone stare? What had he done?
“I see you’ve been reading far too much of your own press. No wonder your acting has been so abysmal. You are a student of the arts. We all are. Now it is time to behave like it.” She walked towards the sliding doors that led to the back terrace. “When you are ready, you can bring your script and we can begin.”
Fury sprang up in his chest with the sting of her words. He crossed the distance between them and grabbed her arm. “Not even the head of the studio talks to me like that, let alone a floozy who obviously slept herself into a job. I’m Simon Price and you’d do well to remember it.”
Her chin lifted, yellow eyes narrowing at his angry glare. Next thing he knew, he was sprawled on his back in the hallway, wind knocked out of his sails, ten feet from where he’d stood.
The sliding glass door closed, her shadow lengthening against the terra cotta tiles.
#
She sighed and sipped her wine, summoning a wide brimmed hat and sunglasses.
There was nothing easier to climb nor quicker to fall than the fragile shell of the artist’s ego. Within moments, he’d played his hand as transparently as if he’d gone to confession.
She snapped a fan open and moved the air around her face, lifting her hair to cool her neck.
Enraged at success and fearful the world would figure out he was a fraud – new star sickness was nothing new. And Simon Price was suffering from it. In this modern age of instant recognition, the sickness came as quickly as the accolades did. From the Theater Dionysus to the Kabuki to the Globe, for all the stages and its actors, it was the same.
How to rid an artist of it, however, was as varied as the individual. That it took so little to get Price to lose control could work in her favor. In the meantime, like a spoiled child, he would expect to get whatever he wanted. His dark angled eyes and tall, broad shouldered frame had attracted women by the droves. No doubt somewhere the package included dimples and a dashing smile.
One thing was certain. His lack of temperance would keep him from learning his lessons in her bed.
Dusk blazed around her, the sky bled towards darkness in oranges, pinks and purples. Price sauntered out and took a chair next to her sans his script with a drink in hand. She’d allow it. Let him stew in curiosity for a while. She’d established herself quite outside his parameters already.
She went back to watching the fading light take the day, grateful for the cool breeze that flowed off the mountainside.
“This your first time in Tinsel Town?” he asked, voice sounding like he was dipping a toe in a pool full of sharks.
“No,” she replied, conjuring up the memory of a particular Spanish poet in a time long before Beverly Hills had its name.
He seemed to gnaw on the silence and tried again. “Strauss says you’ve been teaching for a long time, but you don’t look old enough for that.”
“Are you asking a question, Simon Price, or making an assumption? I assure you, whatever instruction you’ve received so far in your craft, you’ve not experienced the likes of me.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, it is. So we can waste time with small talk or we can address why you are frightened of your chosen profession?”
He sprang to his feet and drained his glass. “I’m not scared of anything, doll face. Just a few amateurs gumming up the works on set. The film will be a pip. You’ll see.”
This was going nowhere. She stood as well. Hands held in prayer position in front of her face as she walked around him to get a sense of his angles. “In your first film, you played a train robber whose heist was foiled by a beautiful woman, yes?”
“Yeah. What of it?”
“Why was your performance so successful?”
Price’s hands went in his pockets and he shrugged. “What can I say? The ladies like the mug.”
“Incorrect. The world is full of beautiful faces, Mr. Price. You succeeded because you made your audience feel something. What was it?”
“How should I know?” His stance went wide, ready to do battle. “What gives with the questions? I got the ladies all wet in their panties and they bought more tickets. That’s the point, right?”
She nodded. Despite the crude summary, he was on the right track. She willed herself away from the blue dress and into the costume the leading lady wore during the climax of the film. “You invoked desire. That is correct. Now, go back to that character and make me desire you.”
His eyes grew wide. “How did you….?”
She put herself inches from his face, meeting his surprise with a spreading calm and repeated her command. “Make me desire you.”
To give him his due, he shook off the shock and tried as she asked. After a deep breath, he reenacted the long strides he had taken in the scene to mark his agitation at the female character’s refusal to leave the train.
“It’s too dangerous, Gloria. You have to get off at the next stop. If the coppers come or the heist goes south, you could be in the cross fire.” He stepped close to meet her eyes. With an attempt at open fear, the sincerity of it fell flat. “Go. Go now, Gloria. I won’t let you get hurt. I won’t let you be involved in this.”
He ended his lines and waited. For a moment, she could see an unguarded hope that she found him good enough.
“When you started acting, you felt desire. You reached for it. Now with money in your pockets and women dripping off you like rain, you’ve forgotten. That is where we will begin.” She put a hand up to halt his protests. “That is all. I will see you at dinner.”
#
What the hell was she? Part witch? Part strong man?
He’d been tossed around more in the last hour than in his first bad review. And this was Strauss’ solution to the studio’s problem with him? Fucking Huns.
He’d changed into a white dinner jacket and lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. Angels with trumpets, painted above, danced in the darkening shadows. Yeah, he could tell when he blew his lines. Granted it had been a while since he felt like he sunk in and really did the work. That much she had on the money.
But didn’t know desire? His incredulous laughter bounced off the ornate crosses and chalices that made the bedroom look more like a church altar than a place to sleep. All he’d ever needed to know about desire came from his cock.
He left the bedroom more determined than he’d entered it. This dame was not going to cause his insides to knock around like he was some amateur. He’d seduce her on top of the dessert cart and show her that he understood just fine.
The dining room was a gold affair with a massive banquet table. Their places had been set together.
She sat at the head of the table in a pearl colored satin gown, breasts swaying loose within the folds of the draped neckline. He could see down the front of it all the way to her bellybutton. He cleared his throat as he sat down and dropped a napkin in his lap. There went that advantage right out the window. He snapped his fingers for a drink.
“Tell me what you know of war, Mr. Price?”
She was referring to his current film. He waved away the soup and sank into his bourbon. “Not much, first hand. My pop was in the Great War, though. He told me a lot about his buddies.”
She dipped her spoon into the bisque and nodded in agreement. “Yes, there was the camaraderie. There was also the awful smell of fear and the mad horror when one of those buddies took a bullet or got blown to bits. Did he mention that?”
She looked like she was reliving it first-hand, face sad, eyes far away. His pop kept quiet about those kinds of details. Though there had been the screaming at night and bottles of rock gut to blot out the memory.
“Nope. He didn’t say much about it. He wanted to put it behind him. What about you? You were a kid back then. Your old man go and fight?”
She ignored the question. “And when your father screamed at night, how did you, as a boy, react to it?”
It was like she was in his head and spooning out parts of his brain. The hairs on his arms stood straight up. “I didn’t think much of it. It was war, lady. And they say war is hell.”
James came in and exchanged their bowls for salad and fresh bread. Price grabbed a slice and tore at the crust with his fingers, shoving it in his mouth. Her questions pulled him back to those times he would hide under the bed with a pillow over his head so he didn’t have to listen. The times he would pretend he was living any other life than his own.
She smiled.
It changed her whole face like he was staring at the sun.
“Yes,” she whispered. “It’s those places in your experience that you must draw on for your character, Simon. Go there, stay there, and pull your emotions out from there. That little boy was an actor in the survival game of pretend.”
He crunched into the lettuce. “Don’t know what some kid’s memories are going to do for a grown up war buddy picture.”
“You will find all your experiences are tools for your craft, my dear. The bravery comes from using them for all they are worth.”
Sounded like advice for a ballet dancer twirling around in his tights. He rolled his eyes at her female talk of feelings.
She stretched her arms above her head, pushed away the salad plate and lit a cigarette. Her motion exposed the side of her neck, revealing a tattoo a strange mark, that glittered in the candlelight.
“You have a tattoo,” he remarked. “You some kind of gypsy or something?”
She blinked at him several times from the rim of her wine glass and then began to laugh. Her laughter was mocking, like he was that child she spoke of, who just said something stupid.
“Heinrich really did undersell me, didn’t he? My Greek name is Melpomene, but Melanie is working better in the 20th century.” She cocked the glass towards him. “Perhaps you have heard of me?”
He shook his head; her laughter made him twist his fists together against his napkin. “Nope. Greece doesn’t get big press around here.”
“It is the birthplace of acting, Simon. As such, you would do well to know more about it. If you did, you would know that you sit in the company of a muse.”
More with the mocking. He took a deep breath to stop himself from blowing his stack. He would call the studio tomorrow and put an end to this humiliation. He stood to leave the table. He had to get away from her.
No sooner than his napkin was tossed on the table was he plastered back in his seat and frozen in place. “What the hell?”
“A muse is a representation of the goddess to a mortal man. She holds him in her care so that he may excel in his art and find the wellspring of inspiration that eludes him. Strauss came before you and passed me on to you, as is his right. You will do the same when our time together is complete.”
As if he were tied and bound, he struggled against an invisible force that held him locked to the chair. “Look, lady. I don’t know what kind of voodoo this is. Let me go! I don’t want a muse! I didn’t ask for this!” His breath came faster and faster as the room spun with panic and bourbon fumes. He closed his eyes, convinced it was a bad dream.
Across the dining table was a chasm of silence. Then the soft slide of fabric.
He ignored it and gritted his teeth, using all his strength to try and lift his arms from the chair. A cloud of perfume and musk surrounded him. A smell like his own seed and sweat.
She moaned softly in a hitched breath.
Price stopped struggling and cracked open an eye.
Her raven hair was tossed askew of the gilded headrest, long throat exposed. Her lips were parted and moist, eyes closed. Beyond the limits of the table top, one slender arm was buried beneath and moving at a rhythm.
Both of his eyes opened and stared, eyebrows flying towards his hairline. Holy moly! Was she doing what he thought she was doing?
She moaned again, shifting position beyond his view to meet her own pleasure. She bit her bottom lip and increased the speed.
Jesus! He needed his freedom. Right now. At least to see those fingers dipping back and forth. Like his face was right there, he could hear the give and take of friction meeting moisture.
Her free hand came up. Fingertips followed the curve of her breast and hovered there for a moment.
His guts clenched, his body going hard all over. A sweat broke out between his shoulder blades.
“Yes.” She granted his unasked request and slid down the top of her dress. One tightly gathered nipple fell out into her palm. She pinched it between her fingers and pulled.
His gasp echoed like applause.
Her eyes opened and sighted him. The moment held frozen until he thought he would burst.
She released herself on a long, hissing breath. The pump of her shoulder matched her bruising grasp. The bead of flesh was released and fell as dark mahogany against her olive skin.
His need stretched in time with hers, her release only a beginning. But the moment was broken when James rolled in the dinner cart. By the time his mind had caught up with what he had just witnessed, what his body still screamed for, she was sitting straight, fully covered and remarking on the presentation of the main course.
His prison against the chair had eased, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.
He felt the steam of crab and vegetables pouring up from the dinner plate. The cart and the servant rolled away, but he couldn’t turn his head to look. All he saw was her.
Her smile was full of mischief as she met his open-mouthed stare. Her last hypnotizing movement took the finger that had been lost under the table and put it her mouth. She licked away all her juices.
And just like that, she looked away and picked up her dinner fork.
#
Melanie could see his shadow stretch across the marble lap pool. She continued her steady breaststroke under the water.
Last night’s dinner had ended in silence. He’d pushed away his main course in favor of several more drinks before stumbling away without so much as a good night. She ordered all the alcohol be removed from the house. She’d reached him and didn’t want any more obstacles.
She surfaced for air, toes landing on the bottom of the shallow end. She stood up, water waist deep. “Good morning,” she said, cheerily. “Care for a swim?”
She knew he was watching the water bead down her body. She heard him swallowed hard when he took in the view below the waterline. Through clenched teeth, he said, “I don’t swim with whores or teases.”
She laughed, gliding her way up the black steps. She reached for a towel and began to dry her hair. “That’s too bad, Mr. Price. You could use more whores and teases in your life.”
“For God’s sake, cover yourself.” He poured himself some coffee and slumped into the closest sun chair. Frustration and want made him petulant.
She pulled on a sun wrap and sat at his feet. “You will have a performance tonight for the film financiers. They want reassurances that we are making progress.”
“What? We haven’t even been together for a full day! What kind of miracles are they expecting?” He flew out of the chair, running his fingers through his hair. Without the pomade, it fell into his eyes and made him look much younger than he was. “Are you trying to get me fired? You realize this will ruin me?”
“Nonsense. You’re a quick study.” She pointed towards Price and his obvious agitation. “Look at you right now. You have fear of the unknown down to perfection. Desire will come in due course. And I think today we shall conquer death itself. Trust me. You will be a smashing success tonight.”
Rather than react, he took the time to think. Good. It was the first step towards trust.
“How do we conquer death?”
She clapped her hands, tickled that they could move to the next level. “Oh! Let’s see. It will involve danger, adrenaline, a car and…” she winked. “...one of the best orgasms you have ever had.”
His mouth hung open, confusion and curiosity warring on his face.
“I’ll fetch my driving gloves. See you out front in a few minutes, then.”
#
Melanie gripped the steering wheel with her kid leather driving gloves as they turned out of the driveway heading north into the Santa Monica Mountains. The automobile was a modern contraption she had come to appreciate, especially with the top down. The feel of the wind in her face and the hum of the engine were intoxicating. It reminded her of the times that Pegasus would relent to let her ride on his back and soar towards the sun.
“Death, dear Simon. It is the fuel of all creation. With such a finite amount of time at your disposal, you must suck the marrow out of life and birth a legacy with haste.”
“I’m twenty eight years-old. I have a few years before it comes to that,” Price argued.
“Don’t be so sure.” She pushed the pedal down and shot them forward, the car aimed towards a hairpin turn. Beyond it, a sheer drop. That should get his blood pumping.
His hands flew up, covering his eyes. His let out a hoarse cry. She helped the rocketing vehicle slide into a skid and come to an abrupt halt at the edge of the cliff. She shouted towards the heavens at the thrill of it.
Pale and bug-eyed, his breath wheezed. It looked like he would lose his breakfast all over the leather upholstery. “You’re fucking crazy!”
She pointed out the window. The kicked up dust obscured the view of the valley below. “This is your life!” she roared. “And this how close to the edge you must to take it!”
They practiced again and again. She bombarded him with rush after rush, edge after edge, until he let go enough to spread his arms towards the sky, daring the Gods to take him.
She drove them deeper into the mountain range, beyond Runyon Canyon. The road was little more than a mule track.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Just a final lesson before lunch. I’m ravenous.”
He smiled, nodding, face open and alive. “Yeah. Me, too.”
“Tell me, Simon. What did you see last night at dinner? What did you feel?”
He looked disappointed and hurt by the question. Like she had broken the spell of their adventure. A blush rose out of his shirt collar. “I saw you make yourself come. I felt like fucking you.”
“No!” Her words came out like a slap, rocking him back. “What did you feel? You have looked down death and laughed. Don’t be such a child that you can’t face the lesser obstacles.”
His lips twisted into a hard line. “I felt helpless. I felt awed. I wanted you. All right, just like you said. I felt desire!”
She gave a curt nod, holding on to his admission and taking it further. She stopped the car at the tip of a slope. “I shall release the brake. When I do, the car will go down the mountainside as fast and as hard as it wishes. And while we plunge down, while fate tosses us around, I want you to let out that desire. Ignore the fear. Ignore your anger at me for bruising your pride. Satisfy yourself!”
She pulled up her skirt. Aside from stockings and garter, she wore nothing else beneath. She spread her legs wide so he could see everything. She snaked one gloved hand under her upper thigh and pushed a leathered finger deep inside.
She released the parking brake with her free hand and the car started to roll.
His stare bounced between the full view of her naked sex to the rushing sage brush and stunted trees ahead of them. A small correction here, a mental nudge there and the car avoided the worst of the obstacles that came towards them faster and faster as they built up speed.
Her visual seduction worked its magic. Without looking away, his hand was freeing himself from his trousers, rock hard and ready. He braced his other hand against the edge of the windshield.
Boulders avoided by a hair, the car careening, he pumped himself viciously when they went airborne over a rail of rocks. A growl came out him, deep in the meat of his guts as they lifted from the seat in a moment of weightlessness.
They slammed to the ground in a bone jarring thump. Another fall loomed, certain to throw them from the vehicle. He let go of the windshield, threw back his head and closed his eyes. The end within seconds, he slowed his hand, thumb pushing his release forward. His body pulsed. His cry echoed across the cliffs. She willed his entire being into that single consuming sensation. It was the moment that would divide him.
#
They lunched on the red tiled roof as he entertained her with imitations of the men that would be coming round that evening to watch him work.
By the end of the meal, he felt like he’d gone ten rounds with Jack Sharkey and lost the fight.
After a nap, he woke to silence. Not the kind of quiet from a settled house and hushed neighborhood, but an internal one. The rapid fire thoughts between his ears were taking five.
He ran a bath in the clawed foot tub. The warmth of the water caressed his body like each drop was born for him. He inhaled the moment.
“Oh, what a lucky man you are, Simon Price.” The Italian tinged voice came from the corner of the bathroom. Considering the magic that had ruled the day, it was a natural thing that Rudolph Valentino’s ghost should make an appearance.
Heavy eyebrows, slicked dark hair and fading smile greeted Price when he opened his eyes.
“I’ve been watching. You’ve been smart to let her help you,” Valentino said.
“I don’t know what to make of it, Sir,” he said in deference to this wispy appearance of his idol. “She’s just about killed me and ripped my guts out.”
“Your time in the limelight is short. It is the nature of the beast. Obey this muse and that light will be brighter than you can imagine.” With a farewell salute and wisdom dispensed, Valentino faded back into the bones of his home.
Whatever she was, she was magnificent. She had unlocked him, pushed him painfully forward. On the other side was the man he remembered, still busing tables at the Brown Derby with stars in his eyes. Valentino was right. He vowed to hold on to the feeling.
He wished he could show her how much this gift of knowledge meant to him. Oh, to fill her deep and long just to get that silken gasp out of her. He shook his head and knew that he’d blown that shot within minutes of meeting her. He’d always be left to desire her. The irony made him laugh.
The show must go on. The lines needed to be fixed in his mind as if the words came from his own thoughts. In an hour’s time, he would be Jonathon Hardy, Army Captain, cherished leader and hero.
#
The three studio executives were enjoying her practiced hostess skills when Price walked in. Her eyes met his and they shared the secret that men like these would never comprehend. The corner of her mouth turned up in a knowing smile.
“Simon, what a lucky dog you are to keep such a ravishing beauty all to yourself for the weekend,” said Maynard Kemp, owner of studio. The two Vice Presidents’ shook his hand and settled onto the red leather couch under the billows of the tent, snifters filled and cigar box at the elbow.
“Mr. Kemp, your star is a triumph of acting prowess and irresistible magnetism. I hope you don’t let him slip through your fingers,” she said, from the chaise lounge in the same position as the day before. Had it really only been a day?
She patted the empty space in front of her, inviting Price to join her.
“Well, Miss Melanie, the film is already behind schedule and the production costs are skyrocketing. Our Price here can save it if he steps up to the plate.” Maynard took a deep swig of his drink and reached for a cigar. His two lackeys murmured their agreement.
Simon felt his nostrils flare, anger pushing up into his chest. Pompous windbag couldn’t help getting his digs in.
He sat down on the offered space. Close but not too close.
She ran her hand along his back, straightening the shoulders of his jacket. From this first touch came a rushing certainty, just like he’d felt in the bathtub. He looked over his shoulder and smiled at her. He dared a finger to come up and brush over her cheekbone.
She whispered, “For the action scene, go back to the top of the mountain in your mind. For every mark you hit, your triumph will pleasure me, as sure as your cock between my legs. Right here, in front of this group of men. But only you will know.”
He cleared his throat, loving the incentive.
“For the death scene, honor your father. Hear his screams and make them your own. Move me. Make me cry.”
He nodded his head.
#
In his mind’s eye, Price was Captain Hardy. He was mired in the mud of the Western Front, artillery filling up the night sky, having to move his men across the battlefield. A machine gun nest would cut their numbers if they couldn’t reach it first.
They made it up and over the trench.
He could smell the smoke and feel the rumble of explosions under his feet. There was little chance to avoid the hail of German bullets.
He landed behind the sandbags, the first mark for a reaction shot. Across the haze of the battlefield, he saw a blush rise between Melanie’s breasts, a quick clench of her thighs.
He shouted his men forward, through a barrage of gunfire, the concussion of grenades and the wicked clumps of razor wire rife with bloated corpses. Each pause was the next bump of the careening car down the mountain, each look the unmistakable ecstasy on her face.
They made it across the field, their numbers diminishing with each step, as his heartbeat thumped in his ears. Her toes curled at the final victory.
The scene changed to reflect the consequences. His best friend, cradled in his arms, gasped in pain from the bullets that had cut through his body. Simon imagined the man had been with him through the endless months of waiting and praying. During the cold nights and the food shortages. Through the crude jokes and back breaking labor. He depended on him as much as he depended on himself.
And here, here in his arms, his buddy drew his last breaths and begged for his mother.
It was too much to bear – the loss, the endless horror and the inevitable nightmares that would follow him home. Simon poured it out of him in an impassioned speech that sent his best friend on his final journey.
The room was silent when he finished. The living room’s lavishments and glowing lamps came back into focus as the battlefield faded from his mind.
The three men were on their feet, applause and cheers thundering across the room. It was a hollow sound.
He stood and looked for the only sign that mattered.
In the cast of light against the side of her face, tears swam and fell from his Muse’s eyes.
He was an actor.
#
Sedona Leigh is an American author living in Norway. Her short fiction has appeared at Clean Sheets and in the Eternally Erotic Anthology. She is a former ERWA staff writer. Her paranormal thriller novel, The Split-Apart, is a current finalist in the RWA Chick Lit annual writing competition.
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