"No fuckin' shit," he confirmed. "Bigfoot really does exist."
"Wow," Kim said. "That's hot. How much comes out? I've done some fake squirting before in my earlier flicks, but that was just peeing. Is it really... like... you know..."
"It's... uh... vaginal secretions," Jake said, electing to go clinical on them. "I can tell by the smell and the taste."
"She squirted in your face?" Matt asked. "God-fucking-damn that's nasty. That's even better then snorting coke out of a bitch's ass crack."
"You ever thought about doing some porn, Helen?" Kim asked. "They'd pay top dollar for a hot chick with big, natural titties that can squirt on camera."
"No, I never thought about that," Helen said.
They talked on for the next hour about squirting and life in the porn industry and sex in general. Finally, at around eleven o'clock, Matt announced that they'd better get to bed since they had to get up in six hours in order to catch their chartered boat.
The two couples said their goodnights to each other (Helen and Kim shared another hug, this time actually grinding their breasts together and ending it with a kiss on the cheek). They went to their separate suites and closed the door that connected them.
Helen and Jake took off their clothes and fell naked into bed together. They turned toward each other and fucked quickly and forcefully, creating another large wet spot on the bedding. They then curled up for sleep, both on their sides facing the window, Jake cuddled up behind Helen.
"What's going to happen to us when you go out on tour?" Helen asked him quietly.
"I don't know," Jake said. "What do you think is going to happen to us?"
She didn't answer for a moment. Finally, she whispered, "I don't know either."
Chapter 9A
Palm Springs, California
November 11, 1988
5:24 PM
"Wow," Helen said as the limousine came to a stop in the circular driveway at 210 Jacinto View Drive. She was looking out the window at the huge house that towered above them. Even though the sun had just gone down, bringing an inky twilight to the desert city, she could see enough to be quite impressed.
"That is a big motherfuckin' domicile," Jake agreed, managing to combine a Nerdlyism with a Mattism and successfully pull it off.
The house in question was three stories tall and spread out over the better part of an acre of land. It stood out from its neighbors by virtue of the fact that it was considerably larger — not that the other houses were small — and it was of modern architecture instead of the classic Spanish or Southwestern architecture that was the norm in this neighborhood.
"It has to be close to ten thousand square feet," Helen said as the limo driver came around to her door to open it.
"Actually," Jake said, "it's ninety-two hundred square feet, not including the detached garage."
"How do you know that?" she asked.
"Greg is one of those guys who likes to give you the specs on everything he owns."
"Oh," she said. "I see."
Her door opened and she stepped out onto the stamped concrete of the drive. Jake stepped out right behind her, carrying a canvas shopping bag he'd kept separate from the rest of their baggage. Both were dressed nicely. Helen was wearing a black, sleeveless cocktail dress that showed off her bare back and a generous amount of her ample cleavage. Dark nylons covered her athletic legs and a pair of three hundred dollar heels adorned her feet. Jake was wearing a pair gray slacks, a white dress shirt, and a gray dinner jacket.
The driver closed the door and turned to them. "I hope you enjoyed the ride," he said to Jake. "After you make entry to Mr. Oldfellow's residence I will coordinate with the household help in order to deliver your luggage and your golf clubs to their proper places."
"Thanks, Tim," Jake said, calling him by the name he'd introduced himself as back at the airport. He pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his jacket pocket and handed it to him.
"And thank you, Mr. Kingsley," Tim said, making the bill disappear without even looking at it.
Jake and Helen walked up a small path and mounted the polished marble steps that led to the front door. The house belonged to Greg Oldfellow, Celia Valdez's fiancé. He had purchased the property thirteen months before for $1.2 million and had torn down the thirty-year-old house that occupied it. He had then spent another $1.8 million building the structure they now stood before. Construction was completed four weeks ago and Greg — who only planned to winter here — had moved in the week before. He had not yet held his official housewarming party but had invited Jake and "that girl you've been seeing" over for a weekend stay to check out the house and to play some golf at the country club it overlooked.
"I'm a little nervous about this, Jake," she whispered to him. "I mean, I'm about to meet Greg Oldfellow and Celia Valdez. This is kind of a new experience for me."
"They're just ordinary people," Jake said.
"Really?"
"No, not really," he said. "They're mega-rich superstars with egos even bigger than this house and they like to belittle anyone who doesn't have as much money as they do."
She looked at him, aghast.
"Just kidding," he said with a chuckle. "They're actually pretty down to earth people for celebrities, especially Celia. That's why I associate with them."
"You're an ass," she said, slapping at his shoulder. She did seem to feel better, however.
Jake rang the bell and an instant later the nine foot double doors swung open revealing a tall, middle-aged man dressed in a traditional butler's uniform. He bowed politely to them.
"Mr. Kingsley," he said. "Ms. Brody. Welcome to Oldfellow Manor. Mr. Oldfellow and Ms. Valdez are expecting you." He held his hand toward the entryway, inviting them to come in.
"Thank you," Jake said, allowing Helen to step inside first. He followed behind her. The entryway featured marble flooring and had several pieces of modern art hung on the wall. They followed the butler into a large, open area. Hallways led off in several directions and two spiral staircases led upward to a second floor overlook.
"Nice pad," Helen said with a whistle, her eyes taking in everything at once.
The butler led them through a set of oak doors into an entertainment room that was at least sixty feet by fifty. Here, the flooring was of meticulously polished hardwood. Modern leather furniture was arranged near a large screen television. A bar took up one portion of the room and a glittering chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling. Soft, classical music played from hidden speakers. Celia and Greg were sitting at the bar, both sipping from a drink.
"Mr. Kingsley and Ms. Brody have arrived, sir," the butler said formally.
Greg and Celia both stood. Greg was dressed in a pair of tan slacks and a navy blue dinner jacket with a tie. Celia wore a maroon cocktail dress that was considerably less revealing then Helen's but did manage to cling quite alluringly to her curvy figure.
"Thank you, Jim," Greg said to the butler. "Could you see to their luggage, please? I'm sure the driver is anxious to get back to other duties."
"Of course, sir," Jim the butler said. He gave another little bow and then disappeared through the door through which they'd entered.
Greg and Celia walked over to them, both smiling.
"Jake," Greg greeted, holding out his hand for a shake. "It's nice to see you again. How the hell have you been?"
"Livin' the dream," Jake said, shaking with him.
Celia came up next and gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for coming out," she said. "I think we're going to have a great weekend."
"Me too," Jake agreed. He turned to Helen. "Greg, Celia, this is Helen Brody. I'm sure you've read all about her in your local celebrity news columns."
"Those rags," Celia said, rolling her eyes to the ceiling for a moment. "I hope you aren't letting all that publicity get to you, Helen."
"I try to just take things a day at a time," Helen said.
"That's the way to do it," Greg said, holding out his hand and shaking with Helen. "It's very nice to meet you."