Rated X

By John Angus

Lannie Morgan is a small time PI and part-time drummer trying to make it in the big city - and trying to forget about her tall, blonde, beautiful, rich, successful actress sister Crystal. But then Crystal calls in a panic after a secretly taken sex video is used to blackmail her. Lannie reluctantly agrees to try and find whoever is blackmailing her, but bodies keep turning up, and thugs belonging to a local cult are on her tail. Half of Hollywood's elite partied at the estate where the secret cameras were hidden. Tens of millions in endorsements are at stake. Careers are threatened. And murder is in the air. And if Lannie isn't careful, one of them will be hers.

The media is soon swarming after her, and the police are none to fond of her either.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Angus
• Release date: Apr 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781311229748

Book preview

Rated-X

By John Angus

Copyright 2010

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Other books by John Angus

Georgia Heat

A Killer Body

Insurrection

My Sister's Keeper

The Monster Squad

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Chapter One

I could find the damnedest things amusing sometimes.

It was two-thirty on a hot, sticky Wednesday afternoon. I was sitting in the bay window of my apartment on the second floor of a Kleg street brownstone, and enjoying the soft hum of the air-conditioner and the breezy melodies of Lorena McKinett on the stereo. I'd just wakened, and was wearing the forest green silk shirt that often served as my nightgown. It had once belonged to a boyfriend who'd had the good taste to think I looked really sexy in it.

Okay, cute was what he said, but he meant sexy.

While I sipped on a steaming mug of black coffee, washing away the slight hangover I had from last night's party, I watched the people below me on the street sweating like pigs as they waited for a bus. A wino was on his hands and knees crawling around picking up butts that had been dropped by last night's bar crowd as they'd headed home. Everyone was pretending not to see him, even as they shifted this way and that to keep out of his way. There was just a small section of pavement that had any shade from the bright California sun, but even those who'd staked out this valuable turf gave way to the crawling little man, shuffling out into the sunlight and squinting against the brightness as he ran his hands across the pavement in search of more half-smoked butts.

I'd done a little bar-hopping myself last night, though thankfully I'd had more grass than alcohol, so my hangover was fairly mild. I was a little tired too. I'd set my alarm this morning...er, afternoon, because I had a gig later and wanted to do a little shopping before most of the stores closed. I seldom set the alarm. Waking to it made me cranky and mean-spirited. Which was partially the reason I was taking a perverse delight in the discomfort of those outside.

I turned my head from the window and in at the disarray of my apartment. I knew the inside of the fridge and cupboards were nearly bare, and had been even before I'd come home just after midnight with Denny, Steven, Angela, Toni, and Cameron, and...a couple of others who's names didn't immediately come to mind.

We'd spent a couple of hours sitting around and bullshitting while they ran me completely out of grass, and most of what little food there'd been. They'd all left, then, except Denny. He and I had started making music, and hadn't quit till after dawn.

I smiled faintly, took another sip of coffee, then turned my eyes back to the sidewalk. The bum shuffled away, and those he'd evicted fought for space in the shade just as the bus arrived.

The phone rang and I glanced across the room at it for a few seconds, trying to decide whether to answer. It rang again, then again, then again, gnawing at my conscience, demanding I answer. I winced, huddling down as it screamed at me across the room.

Answer me, you bitch! I see you over there! it cried.

Cursing, I got up and padded across the room, then snatched the receiver out of its cradle.

What? I grumbled.

Lannie?

Shit.

Yeah.

It's Crystal.

I recognized the voice, I grunted, turning and letting myself fall into the overstuffed chair beside the phone.

Oh. Uhm, could you...I mean...I need to see you.

Why? I asked bluntly.

There was a long pause.

I need your help.

You? You need my help? What is this, Crystal, a joke?

No! Damn it, Lannie! Can't you just come over! I'm in trouble!

Break a nail again? Can't you get the paramedics over for that in Malibu?

Fuck you, she snapped. Forget I called!

I pulled my ear away as she slammed down the phone, then glared at the receiver for almost a full minute.

I cursed, then pulled over my address book and looked up her number.

Yeah, looked it up. Me and my sister had lived in the same city for about five years now but I'd called her maybe once or twice during that time. Actually, she wasn't in LA any more. She'd moved to Malibu last year, but the L.A mentality says anywhere within driving distance is L.A..

I just hoped she had the same number.

Her phone rang precisely three times before she answered it. It always rang three times if she was home. She could be sitting beside it. She could have her hand on the receiver, and it would still ring three times.

Hello?

What kind of trouble? I demanded.

Forget it.

Don't sulk, Crystal. It'll give you lines around the mouth.

You're always so snotty, aren't you.

Yeah. What kind of trouble.

There was a pause, and I almost told her drop dead then.

I can't talk about it over the phone. Can't you come and see me?

In Malibu? You want me to drive all the fuckin' way to Malibu? I just woke up, for Christ's sake.

It's important, Lannie! Please!

Her voice seemed to break, but I didn't know if she was acting or not.

All right, I said, irritation flowing through my voice. But it had better be damned important. And you're paying for the gas.

I hung up and brooded as I finished my coffee, cursing Crystal, and myself, and the miserable weather in this miserable excuse for a city.

* * *

Crystal was everything I wasn't. She was rich, famous, tall, gorgeous, blonde, blue-eyed, successful at everything she did. She'd become a top-flight model at fifteen, leaving me in the dust, flying off to New York, then Rome, Paris, and Milan

Two years younger, I'd been left behind in Madison, Oregon, with a town full of people who found it astonishing to believe that a runty little brunette like me could in any way be related to a genetic freak of perfection like Crystal. Nothing I could do could in any way compare with the famous successes of my older sister. She was on every magazine, and the town's, hell, the state's most famous citizen.

I left on my seventeenth birthday, three days before Crystal Taylor Day, a holiday declared by the County board of stewards. I'd come south to LA because that's where you came when you wanted to get anywhere in life. I was pretty good with the sticks, I thought, and could easily find work with a band. All I had to do was lie about my age.

Things hadn't quite worked out that way, of course. When I'd left I didn't look nineteen. Hell, I didn't even look seventeen. I was five-two and had a chubby, baby face. I was lucky the cops didn't pull me over for driving underage.

I also wasn't aware that ninety-five percent of the musicians in this country weren't able to work at it full time, and had to hold down other jobs to get by.

I'd found a job as a secretary for a private investigator. The pay wasn't great but at least the things you typed up were pretty interesting. Well, I thought so then, anyway. I'd worked for him for five years while trying to work my way into bands at night and on the weekends, pulling in odd gigs wherever I could find them, to get any kind of recognition from the local club scene.

I was just starting to get a small name, you know, like, that the club people knew me and thought I was pretty decent with the sticks.

And then Crystal had decided to turn in the runway for the bright lights. Just as I'd started making more than pocket change from drumming Crystal had arrived in a blaze of glory and set up shop in Beverly Hills. Defying all my hopes and prayers, she'd not only been able to get parts in decent films, but she'd proved an able actress. She'd started off playing small budget quality films, all chosen with obvious care. Over the past few years she'd graduated to big budget blockbusters, the A films that everyone saw, and they'd all done very well indeed.

In a fit of pique I'd tossed in the sticks and decided to just be a secretary. Only, I couldn't JUST be a secretary. I guess I had too much energy, was too hyper. I found myself using pencils to drum on the desk. Anyway, one night me and the boss had got drunk. He'd just gotten divorced, and was almost as depressed as me. I'd actually sat in his lap at his desk while he felt me up and we downed shots of straight bourbon.

Drunk as he was...and he was really pissed, he'd actually come up with a good suggestion. Why didn't I become a private investigator myself? Hell, I knew everything about the job by then, knew all the tricks to skip tracing and getting into computer records. Yeah, I was five-two, but so what? Being a PI had more to do with a convincing telephone manner than anything else, and I had a great telephone manner. I knew the people in the various agencies and companies that you turned to in finding people. I knew how to work the computer better than Steve, my boss.

Why the hell not?

* * * * *

Well, Steven had been so zonked that heavy breathing and groping was all he was capable of...thankfully, and the next day he had a powerful hangover and couldn't remember a thing about saying I should try for my own license. He had, of course, remembered our groping session, and was eager to pick that up again, but my being a PI, don't be silly.

I'd gotten my license anyway, and set about selling myself to some of the same companies that had employed Steve in the past. I got a bunch of business cards made up, and went around the insurance companies and law offices offering cut rates. Things had started slowly, so slowly that, irony of ironies, I'd had to go back to drumming to make the rent.

Crystal was now an international star of the highest magnitude. She was one of the top two or three female box office draws, and the public adored her. Last year I'd actually been able to move my files and computer out of my apartment and into a genuine office, albeit a small one. Crystal, meanwhile, had moved into a seven thousand square foot beach house in Malibu.

Did I resent her? Are you kidding?

What gave her a right to hog all the best genetic stock? Just because she'd come first? Why did she get the golden hair, the face, the body, the height, the voice, while I got stuck with what everyone called a nasty disposition, and legs that didn't quite go all the way to the floor?

That wasn't the only reason, though. I'm not that petty.

She'd never publicly acknowledged it, but it was generally known that she was a lesbian. Comedians made jokes about it, and the odd item would appear in the entertainment sections of the papers about her and some woman. I remembered one in particular, a small picture of her going into an awards ceremony with someone the paper described as her lover. It was a minor item, no big headlines or anything, just matter of fact, like any other couple out on the town. L.A. doesn't care much about that kind of thing.

She'd never come out publicly, but she had to mom and dad, just before leaving for Europe the first time. They'd handled it well...considering, and tearfully waved her goodbye at the airport.

Then they'd proceeded to watch me like a hawk for the slightest sign that I had a similar orientation. I hadn't understood, at first, since Crystal hadn't bothered to let me in on the secret, and my parents had been reluctant to discuss it. But gradually, the reason why they kept shoving nice young men at me, and shuddered at the thought of my having sleepovers with other girls began to come out.

They were terrified I'd catch whatever it was that'd made Crystal gay. How would they ever get to be grandparents then? They were suspicious and unfriendly towards all my girlfriends, and only seemed happy when I brought boys home, or when I was dating.

I'd finally gone out and screwed some boy just to prove to them, and maybe myself, that I wasn't queer. It hadn't helped. I'd been too embarrassed to tell them, and the sex itself hadn't been much of a turn-on anyway. I'd thought that maybe I was gay.

I'd had sex a few more times, getting no particular enjoyment out of it. Then I'd lied to my parents, telling them I'd missed my period and thought I might be pregnant, just as a way of informing them that yes, I was heterosexual. There'd been lots of yelling, but almost a sense of relief.

Anyway, not long after getting into L.A. I'd slept with a thirty-five year old guitarist in a blues band and learned one of life's more important lessons. Adolescent boys know about as much about sex as they do about driving. At least they got driving lessons and a chance to practice. With sex, they just went at it, all hands and drooling lips.

I also learned for sure I wasn't gay. Not even close.

As I drove north I couldn't help speculating what it was she wanted me for. She had a high-powered agent, a business manager, a publicity agent, and a host of flunkeys at the studio to do her every bidding. What in hell did she want from me? It wasn't like she wanted to cry on my shoulder over something. We'd never even discussed her love affairs. That was too uncomfortable a subject for both of us.

So what did she want then? What was it one of her flunkeys couldn't do that I could?

And why should I anyway?

It was ninety-eight out, the air moist but a little less smoggy than usual. I kept the air-conditioner on high as I headed down the road. Traffic at this time of day was pretty good, and I made decent time as I reached Malibu. In fact, a red Miata, known locally as a ticket collector, passed me doing close to seventy-five, and I was able to speed up and follow him for almost thirty miles in perfect safety. No CHIPy was going to ticket my squarish brown Taurus when one of those babies was purring along anywhere nearby.

I had to get out the map to find Bluestream road. I'd never been there. Crystal and I just didn't get along, you see. No matter what the occasion we always seemed to wind up arguing. Mostly, we saw each other at Christmas when we both went back to Oregon to be with Mom and Dad, and play in the snow.

It surprised me not at all when Bluestream turned out to be an exclusive Oceanside driveway. I admired the homes as I drove, trying not to envy whoever it was that lived in them. I doubted, somehow, that they realized how lucky they were, that they appreciated those multi-million dollar palaces nearly as much as...oh, say, I would.

I wondered what the taxes were like around here. High, I hoped.

304 was a two story Mediterranean style villa with a six foot high stone wall blocking off the front yard. I stopped in front of the gate, rolled down the window, and jabbed the call button. I looked up to my left and saw a closed circuit camera peering back.

Yes? her voice asked.

It's Lannie, I said with a touch of indignation.

The gate slid to the left, disappearing behind the fence. I drove onto a curving brick drive and stopped in front of the door, then got out and smoothed my jacket.

I'd spent half an hour trying to decide what to wear here. I didn't want it to look like I'd dressed up just for her. She was richer, prettier, more successful in probably every way you could imagine, and there was no way I would even be seen trying to compete because I just couldn't.

I left the silks behind for something that looked good on me, something that was good quality, but not too good. My white linen suit. It was tailored to me and I looked reasonably prosperous, and, I hoped, unimpressed. A high collared green blouse under the jacket set off my hair nicely, and I added brown flats rather than the cowboy boots I tried on first, just in a mulish refusal to try and make up for my lack of height and her excess of it.

I wore my best watch. It wasn't a Rolex but it had set me back three hundred bucks, and had brushed out my loose curls, and touched up my makeup to just the right level of careful nonchalance.

The door opened as I got out of the car, but only a crack until I reached the porch. Then it pulled back and Crystal greeted me.

She seemed even taller than usual, though she wore only slippers. I don't know why. Maybe it was because of the flats.

We looked at each other for a long second. I didn't get too close, not wanting to crane my head.

Thanks for coming, she said awkwardly.

I shrugged and nodded.

Come in, she said, stepping back and waving me past her.

Doing my best to appear blasé, I stepped into the most gorgeous hall I'd ever imagined, the wooden floors polished like glass, the rugs swirling, gorgeous colors, thick and lush. The ceiling was thirty feet up, and a huge, yet delicate chandelier hung from the center. We passed through in a few steps and were in the living room, I guess. It was maybe fifty or sixty feet across and the same long. A huge fireplace was on the far wall, with a sunken conversation pit around it. A leather sofa formed a half circle facing the fireplace, and it was there she led me.

Nice place, I said, a shrug in my voice.

Oh, yes, you haven't been here before, have you?

I think we were both busy.

She smiled weakly.

Would you care for a drink? she asked.

Just coke if you have it, I said, sitting down carefully, sinking deep in the plush cushion. It's still morning to me,

You never were a morning person, she said.

She brought over a Coke...in a crystal goblet, no less. I frowned at her back as she moved to another chair, but then realized she wasn't really trying to show off. She just used them as a matter of course. She probably had her hamburgers off fine china too. Why not when you're that rich?

She sat a few feet away, and I studied her for a second as she lit a cigarette. She wore jeans and a blue silk blouse which set off her blonde hair. Even sitting she looked tall. She fumbled with the lighter, and I saw her hand tremble slightly as she held the flame to the tip of her cigarette.

Just what the heck was her problem, I wondered. I'd seen people uneasy before, seen them embarrassed, frightened, worried, miserable, angry...Crystal was all of that and more. She was a great actress. I'd seen her movies, and had covertly scanned the tables as we passed through the room searching for her Oscars, but hadn't noticed them. I wondered, though, if she was acting now. Even when we were kids she'd been a great actress, a great manipulator.

She sucked in a huge breath of smoke and held it briefly, then exhaled away from me. At least she was polite.

So..how have you been? she asked.

Fine. Business is good.

What about the uh, drumming?

Fun. Going okay. I get more offers than I have time for.

Good. I'm glad.

Right.

This is hard for me, she said, not looking towards me.

Jesus! Did she have cancer or something?!

Are you sick? I blurted.

What? No. What makes you think that?

Well...the way you're acting, I just wondered if your doctor had told you something.

No. Nothing like that.

Oh. Good. I had no idea then. My eyes flitted to her chest and I saw it rise and fall, saw the tightness of the silk over her high breasts. I'd heard she'd had breast enhancement surgery last year, but we hadn't discussed it. She looked bigger, though.

She also looked tired, drawn, under pressure. Again, though, was she acting? If so, why? What did she want from me?

I looked around, then back at her as she took another drag on the cigarette.

I'm sorry, she sighed. You just...I... She shook her head again and took another deep drag from the cigarette.

Look, Crystal, why don't you tell me what the hell it is you want? I scowled.

Just as sweet as ever, aren't you, Lannie?

Well, shit. You call me up and won't say what it's about. You get me to drive all the way up here, and now you're sitting around like it's the morning after you lost your virginity or something. If you called me up to show off your house give me the fifty cent tour. If it's something else, then tell me.

All right! she glared. I guess I don't have much choice. She took a deep breath, then wiped her mouth.

I don't uhm, I don't think we've ever really discussed my uhm, my sexual preferences.

Oh God, it was some girlfriend thing.

I shrugged uncomfortably.

I've never made any public declarations on it, you know. I couldn't, not when most leading roles require some kind of romance with the opposite sex. As my agent said when I considered coming out publicly, people would snicker the next time they saw me on the screen making love to a man.

I shrugged again.

People know, and for the most part they don't care, just so long as I don't shove it in their faces.

She finished off the cigarette and lit another.

Anyway, my sexual orientation is beside the point, except that it figures in...my problem.

The problem. Here we go.

I...received a video in the mail two days ago. It was...very explicate. She shoved a loop of blonde hair back off her forehead and frowned at me. It was a video of me and another woman making love.

I felt my face flushing with embarrassment.

I've been nude on the screen before, of course, she said, smiling thinly, Well, semi-nude...but nothing like this. It's...as I said, quite explicate.

Where was it taken? How?

Ah, she nodded. It was taken in a...in what I thought of as a friend's house, in a bedroom there.

The woman?

No, she said, shaking her head. This was a male friend. I was having this place redecorated several months ago and he let me stay with him for a week or so.

How was the, uhm, the video taken? Did you and this woman...

No. Do you think I'm an idiot!? she snapped. This was taken from hidden cameras. That's cameras, plural. I'd guess three of them from the different angles of the shots. One was behind the mirror on the ceiling...

She shrugged, then smiled at my raised eyebrows.

He's kind of notorious as a uh, ladies man, she said. We even joked about the mirror over the bed.

She stabbed her cigarette out angrily, crushing it as her jaw tightened.

From the scenes I'd say the second camera was on the right side of the bed, elevated slightly, and the third on the left. None of the scenes showed any motion, so nobody was operating the things, but the video I got was spliced together from the three of them. The fucker actually edited it! Can you believe that?!

Have you talked to this guy?

She glared at me for a long moment.

Every time I think about it the pressure builds up inside my skull to the point where I get a headache. I'm more angry than I've ever been in my life. I want to...to kill him, to destroy him!

Her fingers were in claws and she clenched and unclenched them as she talked, her eyes blazing. Of all the filthy, perverted...evil things to do! When I think of him sitting there and watching us! Oohhh, I could rip him into tiny fucking pieces!

Under the circumstances I can hardly blame you.

She got up, and with the flick of her