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Authors: David James

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C
HAPTER 18
The Hottest Memorial Service of the Season
F
unerals and memorial services. Most people dread them. The cast, however, was preparing for Keith's as a red-carpet event. Suits from Europe were arriving daily, made from previous measurements held at couturiers' headquarters in Paris, London, and Milan. Personal makeup artists swarmed Ian's house, mixing with the ones hired by the production company. And the reason for all this: This funeral was going to be filmed as part of the show. Like the carousel spinning out of control in
Strangers on a Train,
the show had taken on a life and power of its own. We had succumbed to its powers, and it made us do things we never would have considered. And we had to look good while doing it. But before you think that all I was going to do was lob stones at the others, I, too, was getting dolled up for the affair. Look at me . . . calling a memorial service an affair. I might have come under the spell of the show, but I intended to call a spade a spade.
Rows of chairs were set up in front of a raised platform with a podium on Ian's expansive grounds. There were speakers, a sound system, engineers, and banks of lighting. And all of this for us? Hardly. Yes, there were going to be all the usual luminaries from the haute couture hair world, but everyone was gearing for the possibility that Ellen DeGeneres might put in an appearance as a show of support for Ian and loss of the son he didn't knew he had. While I knew Ellen was very supportive of gay causes, I felt the rumor concerning her appearance was just that—a rumor. The reality was, no one really cared about Keith, or more accurately, fewer even knew him. They were there for Ian. And the cameras. Not necessarily in that order.
Jeremy pulled us all together before attending the service and instructed us to reach down inside ourselves and try to bring up emotions.
“I want tears, sadness, empathy!”
He might as well have been asking the guys to operate a large hadron collider.
“Remember, the cameras will be on you at all times. The show's ratings are going through the ceiling, and today is another episode that is going to push it out of this world. After the memorial, we're going to assemble at a local restaurant and we're going to turn up the heat. I want to hear what you're feeling, and I want you to really let the fur fly! Okay, get out there and make this show a smash!” he said like a football coach at a deciding season game.
The cast filed out to the cameras and lights, filtering down toward the front to their reserved seats between members of the Mitchell and Sassoon hair dynasties and models, models, models. There was the shaking of hands, hugs, laughter, and to top the whole circus off, trays of drinks floated up and down the aisle propelled by waiters in tight black suits. There's nothing like liquor for throwing gasoline on the fire. There was a signal from the podium and we were all advised to take our seats by the master of ceremonies. I won't bore you with all the details of the service, but since almost no one invited knew Keith, the eulogies were centered on Ian (for his loss, presumably), which caused him to erupt in frequent outpourings of tears that ran outside his oversized and overdecorated sunglasses that engulfed most of his face. The audience was a sight to behold. The hair fashionistas sported outrageous hair styles and bad clothing while the second-tier L.A. clubbers wore sport jackets with jeans, high-top Converse sneakers, and a straw pork-pie hat—their idea of “dressing up.” Everyone was busy whispering, networking, or texting.
The drone of testimonials was making me fall asleep when I was startled by a man carrying a flat wooden cage filled with a half-dozen white doves who passed down the aisle and headed for the podium. Just as it seemed that the eulogies would never end, they did. There was a lot of mumbling and fumbling; then Ian stepped up to the microphone. Ian, knowing that the cat was out of the bag, couldn't exactly relate stories of all the good times they had together. So he confined his tribute to the subject that he knew and loved best: himself. He talked about the regret of never being the dad that he should have been, which, by the time he was finished, hadn't left a dry eye in the house.
“We're now going to release doves symbolizing Keith's spirit, which we hope will soar free and up into the heavens. Fly free . . .” Ian managed to choke out through a rush of emotions, “. . . little spirit!”
A few seconds passed and the cage was raised high and the door opened. The doves, confused and startled, no doubt, by the fact that they had probably been raised in cages all their lives and were now suddenly free, flew straight up in a pack of fluttering, battering wings, bumping into each other as they struggled to find a clear direction in which to fly. What happened next, no one on earth could have foreseen.
From out of the leafy palms and eucalyptus branches came a Cooper's hawk like an F-16 fighter, hitting one of the unlucky birds in midair with such force, there was an explosion of feathers and a shower of blood that hit Ian like a well-aimed red-paint baggie thrown by a member of PETA. The hawk struggled to gain altitude with its shrieking prize in its talons and slowly it rose into the trees and disappeared. It was like watching a horrific car wreck in slow motion. This was not a good omen. Even worse, dozens of celebrity gossip stars caught the event on their smartphone movie cameras in glorious color. This little episode would be on the Internet before you could say “Mel Gibson.” A few hours later when I checked the Web from the relative safety of my home office, I was proved right.
C
HAPTER 19
A Memorial Luncheon to Forget
T
oday's shoot was a rare occasion: It was taking place at a restaurant, during which we were all there to celebrate Keith's life in a private, afternoon luncheon. Jean-Michael was the best restaurant in town, lorded over by its namesake, who moved to Palm Springs over 10 years ago and grabbed the mantel from tired, unimaginative establishments that had been resting on their dusty laurels for decades. The restaurant was closed for the rest of the day for us to film.
From the moment I walked into the restaurant, the liquor was already flowing. And so were most of the guys. From watching Aleksei's animated movements, it was obvious that he had already downed several glasses of champagne. His idea of staying clean or sober seemed to change with whatever temptation was in front of him at the time. Anything as long as it wasn't crystal meth.
There was a lot of gabbing and chatting before the cameras started rolling. You would have thought it was a black-tie fund-raiser the way everyone was so friendly and charming. Their casualness with Keith's murder was so smug, it really chapped my ass. I was going to get revenge for Keith by not letting myself be upstaged by the rest of the gang. At least that was my logic at the time. The gloves were coming off tonight. Alex was right, it was sink or swim, and I was certainly capable of swimming with the sharks.
We all sat down to eat.
Aleksei began, “Ian, I would like to offer again my condolences over the death of your son.”
One camera swung quickly in Ian's direction. Ian went into the “distraught father” role for a moment, giving the camera a quick shot as he wiped a tear from his eye.
Aleksei continued, “I think it goes without saying that we are all going to miss Keith here.” He poured himself another tall glass of wine right to—and over—the edge of the rim, puddling on the table below.
“Aleksei, I thought you were supposed to stop drinking?” I said, securing my place on the episode for at least a few lines.
“Hard alcohol, Amanda! Wine and beer is okay, especially if the wine is natural.”
“Well, I don't mean to mother you, Aleksei, but someone here has to call you on your behavior. I don't think that rehab place you went to did you much good.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, Beginnings was for chemical addiction. This is wine. It's different.”
“Didn't you learn anything from their twelve-step program?”
Aleksei huffed. “They only have
four
steps. People who go there are busy people. They don't have time for all twelve. Amanda . . . let me say this, and I don't want you to take this personally: I had one mother already. I don't need another. Especially a Mommie Dearest.”
“Aleksei, my suggestion is that you go find some really good cock to suck. You can't drink with a dick in your mouth.”
This comeback had the whole table whooping and clapping. I had nailed it!
While Aleksei's looks had probably gotten him everything he ever wanted (including things he never knew he wanted), they wouldn't give him a quick wit. Like I had learned in life, my intelligence occasionally came in handy. Of course, it had also led me to be saddled with four non-paying condos, a house that was never finished, and on the verge of bankruptcy, but in the meantime, I would let my wit shine and have a little fun with it.
Aleksei dropped his shield and decided not to trade blows with me right now.
As usual where food was concerned, the guys at the table picked at their food, avoiding carbs like they would the men's clothing department at Walmart . . . all except one: Marcus. He was chowing down on his appetizer and starting in on the one pushed toward him by Aleksei. He stopped chewing for a moment and got into the fray . . . in the most diplomatic way possible.
“I have to agree with what Aleksei just said”—chomp, chomp—“I think Keith was a courageous man”—chomp—“a dutiful son, and a great”—chomp—“American.”
Marcus wasn't the brightest bulb in the chandelier—or the most interesting or original—but he was consistent: He never stopped brownnosing. Or showing off his muscles. I swear I'd never seen him in anything but a tank top. I'm hazarding a guess that he doesn't own a long-sleeve shirt. Then it occurred to me, there probably wasn't a dress shirt made that would fit his inflated body.
Aurora had to get in her two cents, stealing the thunder I had established a minute ago with my great comment. “Ian . . . you don't need me to tell you how much Keith meant to all of us. And how the discovery that you had a son was a great blessing in your life that you never expected. That he was taken from us so quickly doesn't alter the fact that you now have a larger past to explore and your life has so much more meaning. I want to also say this is a wonderful menu! It's a great tribute to Keith. Basil and pink grapefruit scallops, roasted guinea hen with bay leaves, Madeira, and dates! Elderflower sorbet for dessert. This is going to be luscious, Ian. Thank you.”
“It's just a shame that most of it is going to end up in a toilet thirty minutes from now,” I threw in. What? It was the truth.
Usually, no one ever heard anyone else talking since they were either talking themselves or just didn't care what anyone else had to say. But it was one of those rare times when everything went suddenly dead silent, leaving my comment hanging in the clear.
David Laurant burst into a fit of laughter at my comment, clapping his hands wildly. “Boy, does she know us!”
“I take offense at that model stereotype!” Aleksei countered.
“Oh, c'mon, Aleksei. It's a wonder there's any porcelain left on your toilet bowl with all that stomach acid pouring into it. Or that you even have teeth left. What the vomit didn't take, the crystal did.”
I got back in there. “I have to agree with David. You guys can do what you want in your own rooms, but there's just one bathroom for guests, and you all seem to be using it to yack up in.”
Aleksei was aghast that anyone would take offense to his purging down the hall. “Well, I don't want to use
my
toilet. It would get nasty.”
“Well, thank you for being considerate of the others, Aleksei. I have to use that toilet since I am not staying here as part of the show, for your information. And additionally, if the rest of you would leave the seat down when you're finished, that would be greatly appreciated.”
“Well, for your information, I do not throw up after I eat!” Aleksei snapped. “It's just that sometimes my stomach is a little unsettled.”
“Ho-boy,” Gilles said, giving the hornet's nest a good kick. “Considering za amount of zperm you swallow, it is no wonder your stomach, she is upset.”
Marcus laughed. “He's had more cum in him than a donor freezer at a sperm bank.”
“Well, at least I don't drink pee!” Aleksei countered.
“I don't drink pee! That's Gatorade I have in my hydration bottle at the gym.”
“Not all the time,” Drake added.
“I need to keep my electrolytes up. Whoever started that rumor, I wish they would stop. I've never done that, have I, Ian?” Marcus pleaded, hoping to draw Ian into a hasty defense.
“Marcus, you know I never hiss and tell. Well, hardly.”
“Well,” David chimed in, “I seem to remember a certain muscular guy running around Jake Harrington's New Year's Eve party in L.A. wearing a diaper and peeing in it.”
Marcus's face got so red, I thought it was going to pop. Of course, it usually looked like that from the steroids he took to maintain his knockwurst body. So to be accurate, he went from shiny red to more of a blood orange. Stand back. I think he's going to blow.
“Well, since we're on the subject of alternative sexual tastes, David, I guess you had a good view of me from the top of your platform stiletto black vinyl boots. And the latex corset/bustier combo. It
is
enforced feminization you're into, isn't it,
Daisy
?”
David was aghast. “You said you would never tell!”
“I said I would never mention the pony stuff either. But I guess it's all the same thing: You're always wearing tall heels.”
While I tried to figure out what
pony stuff
was, David puffed himself up and lobbed a Molotov cocktail back at Marcus.
“Well, when you're sitting in an adult-sized baby crib and sucking on a pacifier, you don't have time for shoes. Unless they're baby shoes.”
Drake, usually the model for restraint until Darryn came along, tried to douse the flames that seemed to be breaking into a full-fledged wildfire.
“Guys, guys, could we keep this civilized?”
“Oh yeah, Drake . . .” Aleksei sputtered, preparing to fire on all cylinders. “You should talk, Mister Dominator . . . beat 'em up for money! Money!” Aleksei laughed. “You welted Ian's azz so badly, he couldn't sit down for a billlllion yearssssss!”
Drake shot one of his bird-of-prey glances, which for the first time failed to intimidate the guys around the table. Maybe it was because we had an audience of millions of people worldwide for protection? I mean, now that we knew that Drake was a professional dominant, he wasn't going to leap up and beat Aleksei to a pulp. Was he?
So that explains Drake's smoldering, dangerous look,
I thought to myself.
“But, Drake, Drake, Dra . . .” Aleksei continued slurring. “I love you. Love you . . . love the way you strangle me un-tillll I cummmmm.”
From BDSM to autoeroticism, Drake was a busier guy than I thought. So was everyone in the house, for that matter. The whole cast seemed to be involved in a hotbed of sexual interludes, all going on without me so much as suspecting more than a little hide the salami. I felt like a dumb prude.
I pushed my chair back from the table a few inches just in case I needed to make a hasty retreat. Aleksei quickly poured himself another glass of wine and downed it like it was the last one on earth. Ian, instead of being equally embarrassed, seemed to enjoy the shock value his prurient tastes were going to give the world when the details were released. I guess if you wanted to be remembered, you wanted to go out with a bloody great bang. People rarely remember the polite and unassuming.
Aleksei continued his scorched-earth policy and finally turned on the one person who had ribbed him so long and hard: Gilles. Aleksei was quickly getting quite drunk, so his insult was not going to be all that witty, but a punch in the mouth was a punch in the mouth.
“And you, Mister . . . French fry. Gilles,” he said, pronouncing the silent “s” at the end of his name. “Gilles who squeals during sex. Like a pig. That rubber pig mask he wears during sex! That izzz too funnnny! Oink, oink, Gilles!”
Gilles got up from the table in a huff and headed in the direction of the sideboard to pour himself another tall glass of tomato juice.
Lance Greenly, who was standing behind the sidelines watching the luncheon being filmed, suddenly spoke up—a rare occurrence since he almost never talked. And talk he did. Or he raised his voice a little beyond his usual squeak. And shook as he talked, he was so angry.
“You're all a bunch of nitwits! Empty-headed nitwits! Here, Ian supports you and gives you more money than you deserve, and still it's never enough. It just turns my stomach to think of the money you've taken and never said thanks to Ian. And now here you are, trying to get your hands on even more! Disgusting!” he finished, then walked away.
Everyone was speechless for a millisecond, then resumed whatever they were doing. My cell phone rang, causing me to scramble to get it out of my purse and fumble to turn it off.
“I thought we made an announ-ze-ment,” Aleksei said, slurring his speech, “that we were to turn our fuckin' zell-phones off before we started filming. I guezz that applies to everyone except beards!” he finished, laughing at his own joke, even though it was a private joke.
Darryn got up from the table to get more food at the buffet on the sideboard. And to get away from the toxic atmosphere at the table.
I finally got my cell phone out as it continued to ring and vibrate in my hand like a cicada on too much caffeine. I got my finger into the On/Off switch and promptly broke a nail in a jagged—and painful—rip halfway down to my cuticle. “Ow!” I shouted, and shook my hand to relieve the pain. “Okay, it's off!” I almost shouted back.
Exactly four seconds later, my phone rang again. I thought I had turned it off, but I guess I didn't push the slider Silence button completely off. I tried again, but with my broken nail, it wasn't easy. Or painless. Success at last. I threw the phone down on the table.
“And I wuh like to say somesin to Auror . . . a. . . . roar-ah now,” Aleksei said, the slurs insinuating their way into more words. He threw back another glass of wine, missing most of his mouth and saturating his shirt collar.

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