Hollywood After Dark Ch. 01

Brand new series I'm starting. This series has very little in common with anything else I've written, especially Journal of an Agent. Yes it will feature celebrities and have it's fair share of sex, but the main focus is on storyline. It's got enough twists to be an entertaining read and is quite darker than my usual fare. Please bear through the non-sex parts, I promise that if you stick with the whole series you will be rewarded for your dedication. This will be a BRIEF series, maybe 5-10 (long) chapters. Each chapter will be told through first-person narration, but I break it up into various character's points of view at certain parts of the story for later plot uses. Finally, pay attention to dialog and details...they will be important later on. Ah, enough commentary, just read and enjoy.

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Standard Disclaimer:

You must be 18 to read this story, be able to read erotica in your community, not be offended by the contents of it...blah blah, you know the rest.

This story may be distributed freely, for commercial or non-commercial use, but PLEASE leave my email/name on it! That's all I ask!

This work is complete fiction, all made up in my head. Yes I know the celebs don't act like this in real life, but this is a fantasy after all.

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"I see that there is evil And I know that there is good And the in-betweens I never understood" - Ben Folds

ALEX'S STORY:

My name is Alexander Hilt. What I'm about to tell you is true. You may not want to believe it - not that I would blame you. You may say that it couldn't happen, that things aren't really like that. I promise you that by this tale's end, your mind will have changed - you will see that power and greed corrupt, that fame and beauty are fleeting and that love is just an illusion to sell Valentines Day cards. But let me begin...

Our story begins roughly a year or so ago when I began work as a delivery driver for one of the local delivery companies. You see, I live here in Hollywood, the land of dashed dreams and five-dollar hookers. The only place on Earth where other worlds are made on screen for our enjoyment and lovers torn apart for our bereavement. I came here looking for that place, hoping to strike it as rich as the thousands of gold miners had done before me not even 150 years hence, by selling my script to a studio. That's the old joke out here, everyone has a script. But like most jokes, there is always truth behind the punch line. Indeed, I hadn't even lived here a week and had already run into half a dozen people who each told me they had a screenplay they wanted to sell. As time wore on and I couldn't even get a meeting in with a two-bit agent, let alone my foot in the front door of a studio. And as it usually tends to do, the money I had traveled to California with quickly ran out, without a fresh supply to keep it alive and kicking.

Thus it was my girlfriend Petty who told me that if I wanted to afford to live in the cheap apartment we already had anymore, I'd have to get a real job. You might be thinking that Petty is a funny name for a girl, but then again Petty wasn't your normal woman. We had met on the airplane ride to Los Angeles, both of us heading out there to pursue our own foolhardy dreams - she being a songwriter, the third most popular profession behind "actor" and "writer" in Hollywood. She had planned on looking for an apartment when she landed but because we hit it off immediately - sharing that same kinetic spark that people who were meant to be together often feel - she moved in with me into my dumpy one bedroom studio flat that I had secured only a week before arriving. I'm not exactly sure where her name came from, but when she's 5'6, 115 pounds, long flowing blond hair and almond colored brown eyes, you tend to kind of forget little things like that. It was so spontaneous the way we got together, we both swore it was fate or some other worldly force. Even to this day, with so much having happened, I still think I believe that.

But back to my story. The morning began simple enough, a few routine deliveries around town. I worked for Jose's Parcel Express. Jose was a sweaty Mexican guy who owned the company, his office always smelling of cheap cologne and for some very odd reason, fish sticks. Jose had an "in" with a lot of the businesses around town, primarily because a few of his delivery drivers did little side jobs for him after hours - things like bodyguard protection, immigrant smuggling and breaking knee caps. The whole nine yards, if there was something dirty going on in this part of California, Jose had something to do with it or at least knew someone who did. I could have very easily gotten into helping him out with jobs like that. The money certainly would have been nice - some of the guys made upwards of $500 an hour - and I had the build for it. My 6'3, 240 pound frame was perfect for hauling boxes around all day and it kept me in shape. But I never really wanted to turn to dirty work so quickly after moving here. Pride kept me from admitting defeat, even having logged six months on the job before all my trouble began.

After crossing off the deliveries that first fateful day, I scanned the list to see what else I had left to do. My heart skipped a little as I saw that I had to deliver two big screen televisions to the third floor office of Antamount studios. Antamount was one of the up and coming independent studios here in Hollywood, not owned by any media conglomerate. A few years back, one of their low budget pictures had scored major box office success and thrust their founders into the middle of the Hollywood scene. Since then, they had been churning out film after film, some better than others and even a few taking home that little golden man everyone out here wanted on their mantle come March of each year. I had read in Variety that Antamount was in talks to finance a $300 million dollar adaptation of some best seller with another studio and I had dreamed wistfully while I read the article that if only I could get inside with a copy of my script, they might consider financing it as a way to make some supplemental money for this blockbuster epic.

Ah yes, my script. It was by no means an ordinary screenplay - it's characters were adaptations of my life growing up out in the mid-west, a drama really. But here's the kicker: while it used modern day language with it's characters, it was a period piece set during the start of the Russian revolution. I had labored over it for many months, changing dialogue and characters, spicing in enough wit to make it not too dark when the inevitable climax - a viscious game of Russian roulette played out by the two kids of the story - came. Petty and everyone else I had shown it to thought it was good, but out here I learned painfully that "good" didn't get pictures made. Nevertheless, I always carried a copy of it with me when I was on the job, stowing the 120 plus pages in a folded manilla envelope in the front waist band of my work pants.

Yanking my dolly from the back of the delivery van with a metallic clank, I grunted as I lifted the sets on top of each other and set them on the hand cart, looking around for an easy way to get them over the curb of the street. Spotting a handicap ramp, I wheeled it up just in time to avoid being side swiped by a recklessly driven BMW SUV that came clipping around the side street out front of Antamount's monsterous building. Pushing the cart inside, I felt blessed as the hot, dry air outside faded into the cool darkness of the lobby, where business people in expensive suits buzzed around on their cell phones, oblivious to the rest of the world. They were like bees, all working for that queen called money, but I paid them no mind as I tried to manuever the cart around their busy humming and into the service elevator.

A tall black man saw me approaching and held the door as I walked backwards into the elevator, pulling it to the edge as the doors closed. I thanked him, and in a minute was on the third floor: Antamount headquarters.

The elevator opened up and I felt like I was in heaven. Adorning the walls of the hallway was poster after poster of Antamount releases, some old but most new and coming soon. At the end of the hallway was a busy looking pair of secretaries, each answering phones and typing away on their keyboards at the same time. I approached them tentaively, the exherted effort from lugging the television's around already causing me to break a sweat this early in the morning.

"Delivery for Antamount," I gasped as I waited for one of them to stop talking and pay attention to me. The one on the left, a stocky old woman with deep bags under her eyes and frayed gray hair finally glanced up at me.

"Work order?" she said. I obdiently handed her my clip board.

"Hmm...ok, that's Mr. Willis' office. Take it down this hall, then turn right at the fourth hallway and his office is at the end of the hall," she said, returning back to her tasks. I nodded and propped the cart up, wheeling it away from them.

As I made my way down the hall, people buzzed past me. I thought I recognized some of them; not from other deliveries but as actors in some of Antamount's films. I was a big fan of the studio and though allegiance to one studio had ended for the most part with the Paramount breakup in 1948, I still paid attention anytime one of their trailers played before a film. Following the secretaries instructions, I soon found the hallway she spoke of and headed down it. The carpet color had changed to a rich maroon, much like the "red carpet" you see on TV at award shows. At the very end of the hall was a set of heavy oak double doors, and I could make out an engraved plate on the door: WILTON WILLIS, CEO

The beating of my heart increased again as I licked my dry lips, anticipation at actually being in the office of one of the most powerful new leaders of Hollywood laying just a few feet in front of me. I stopped at the door and, wiping the sweat from my face as best I could and trying to make myself appear professional and neat, I knocked on the door.

No answer. I waited a few seconds and tried again. I saw no light coming from underneath the doorway - he was out of the office probably. Tentatively, I placed my hand on the gold door handle and turned it, the office opening before me. Inside, the curtains were drawn in front of a large plate glass window, the decor of the office matching that of the hallway. The room was massive, with a desk and thick leather chairs scattered around the room. On one wall was a shelf made of glass and marble, a locked pane of glass holding inside row after row of awards. On the opposite wall was a couch, with something missing from in front of it. Probably they had upgraded the television that they had there and here I was delivering the replacement. The office was empty, but it smelled of good fortune. It had that air of power, of wealth, of control. I moved slowly as I wheeled the cart inside, trying to decide where to set the televisions. Finally spotting an unoccupied corner, I lifted the two sets from each other and set them on the floor. And though it was not in the job requirements, I slit open the boxes and pulled out the packaging, making it easy for the sets to be removed and positioned whereever Mr. Willis wanted. For gaining access to such a powerful man's room, it was worth the extra trouble.

I turned to go when an idea hit me. I didn't know when I would be in a place like this again, so quickly I decided that this might be my one and only chance to get my script at least thrown away by someone highly connected in the Hollywood world. Removing it from my pants, I paced around the room trying to find a spot where it would be seen, but not too obviously. In my mind, I pictured Mr. Willis having a drink in his office after a long, hard day and discovering my script. I imagined him picking it up and glancing over it, quickly becoming interested and staying late into the night to read it. I imagined that he would rush out to find me, that production would begin immediately and that within a few short months I would be executive producing it on some lot.

However, my dream was quickly interrupted when a stern female voice spoke behind me.

"What are you doing?" she asked, no tolerance for daydreaming in her busy world. I was startled.

"I was just...delivering these televisions," I stammered, feeling incredibly guilty for having such Hollywood style thoughts in a place that was, when it was boiled down to, was really just another business.

"Well, you've delivered them. Now get out of Mr. Willis' office," she said, turning to go. I thought she would leave but she stood impatiently by the door, watching me as she crossed her arms in disdain. Glancing around one more time, I casually tossed my script on top of one of the open televisions and headed towards the door.

The woman glared at me as I passed.

"What did you put down there?" she asked, following me out and locking the door behind her.

"Oh, that was just an instruction manual for the set. It fell out of the box when I was moving it," I lied. I knew that she could go back and check, and just might do that, but the room was dark when she had found me, and she probably believed my white lie. After all, I was just a lowly delivery guy.

I hustled past her and returned to the two secretaries. Forcing the clipboard into one of their faces, I said "Mr. Willis wasn't there. I need you to sign,"

She glanced up at me with a hint of anger but in one quick motion signed her name without even looking. I retrieved the clipboard and headed back to the service elevator, back out through the hive lobby and to my truck again. Within just a few minutes I had forgotten what I had done and had set off to finish my deliveries for the day.

As the sun set on the warm LA afternoon, I pulled into the loading dock of Jose's and parked the truck, opening the back for the part-time workers who, in the morning, would load my truck up again for the next day's deliveries. I stepped inside of the small office that contained Jose's desk and went to the water cooler, pouring myself a small cup of water to cool off with. The door opened from outside and Jose waddled in.

He was a heavy set man, with a large bulging gut and a graying mustache to match his gray temples. His face was chubby, but the extra rolls of fat concealed quite well his hard, black eyes that led to his ever scheming and working brain. Jose was winded from the heat, sweat stains forming under his arms as he approached me, slapping me hard on the back before taking a seat at his desk with a wheezing gasp.

He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of tequila and a shot glass, pouring himself a shot and downing it just as quickly. He smacked his lips together with a pleasant sigh and reclined back in the squeaky, torn fake leather of the chair.

"You make all your deliveries today?" he asked.

I nodded. "Yep. Same as usual. You know me Jose, if I didn't make a delivery I wouldn't be coming back to the office. Not after the wrath I've seen you put on the guys that have come and gone since I got here," I said, pouring myself another cup of icy cold water.

"Ah, yes. I need more workers like you Alex. You're determination and dedication to the job is a trait sorely lacking from the rest of these gatitos, no?" Jose said, resting his hands on his ample belly.

"I guess. I just work for the paycheck, you know that," I replied, leaning up against the water cooler. A fly buzzed by Jose's face, his fat hand swatting at it lazily.

"Si si. But you know, if you ever wanted to increase your take, all you have to do is ask," Jose said, eyeing me.

"Sorry Jose, I don't want anything to do with what goes on here after hours. I'm a delivery man, plain and simple," I said. Something in the tone of my voice or what I had said must have been funny, because Jose began to laugh loudly, a harsh braying sound that wheezed from his lips outward.

"You are a true man Alex. But one of these days, I will convince you, no?" Jose said. "In fact, tonight I have a job that would require your skills most defienetly. Something a man of your build could handle with no problem," Jose said.

"Thanks, but no. I have to go watch my girl tonight, so I'm busy," I said, crumpling the cup up and throwing it away in a nearby trashcan.

"Ah yes, the girlfriend. How is her singing going? She getting any better?" Jose asked. I could tell he was just making conversation - he didn't give two fucks about Petty and her singing.

"I'm not the man to answer that, since I am a bit partial. But you are welcome to come listen for yourself," I said.

"No, that is quite alright. I shall take your word on it. However, if she is booed off the stage and must run home to her mother, you can come by here tonight at 10 and I'll make your night worthwhile," Jose said. "I have some senoritas coming by and..."

I cut him off. "I'm sure that she will be fine. See you tomorrow Jose," I said, turning to the door to leave.

"Adios chico," he called after me, the thin wood of the door slamming shut behind me.

I walked out to my car - a dingy, banged up wreck that I had bought with the last two hundred bucks I had when I moved out here - and started it up, the engine sputtering to life with an agonizing groan. I put it in drive and exited into traffic, heading for home.

I walked into the front door of the apartment we shared and tossed my keys on the counter. Petty had left a note:

"Alex: Went ahead to get set up, meet me there at 7:30 okay? And don't get lost this time," the note said.

I smiled to myself and peeled off my shirt, heading for the cramped sole bathroom of the apartment to take a shower. I turned on the water, letting it heat up while I walked to the bedroom and took out a change of clothes: something fairly nice, but not too dressy, for Petty's performance tonight. I chose a maroon muscle shirt that hung around my biceps rather tightly and a pair of slacks, ditching my uniform of black shorts and a black shirt on the floor. Laying the clothes on the bed, I returned to the shower and stepped in, letting the water wash over me.

Thirty minutes later, I was back in my smelly old car again, the sound of the engine drowning out the radio that barely worked. I glanced from the road to my lap and back to the road again, checking the directions Petty gave me for the coffee shop. It was open mike night, a weekly ritual at the Jumping Java club that Petty had discovered one day while out on her auditions for lead singer or back up singer in many of the bands here in LA. I had been here two or three times since, but because the place was so small and had a very small sign in the window, I had not been able to find it on at least one occasion. My sense of direction was horrible, it always had been.

Finding a spot a few blocks down, I parked the car and walked to the shop, opening the door with a jangle, a set of rusting bells hanging from the top of the door. The smell of the place as overwhelming - a mixture of coffee beans and cigarette smoke, and the overworked ceiling fan of the shop had done little to clear out the haze of said odors from the place.

At the back of the room was a small "stage". I hesitate to call it a stage because all it really was was a big wooden plank, big enough to hold a speaker and a chair and not much else, it's rickety corners held up by a pair of cement blocks on the left and right hand sides. A lone microphone stood in front of the platform, a pair of tables sitting just a few feet away from the mic. The place was mostly empty, a few tired old hippies and hepcats occupying the corners of the room and a middle aged couple sitting at one of the tables up front. I saw Petty off to the left of the stage, wiring up her small speaker and her electric guitar, making sure all the cords were plugged in correctly and what not.