Zachary David Productions (2 page)

“You seem down… are you doing okay?” Cammie asked.

Giving her an incredulous look, Priscilla replied, “You just ask a lot of questions and I’m tired.”

“I was just wondering how someone could hate Zach.”

“Cammie, you’re so naïve.”

Cammie hated being called naïve more than she hated being referred to as curvy. “I am not,” she said and then felt her lip bulge to form a pout.

“Gage is in the business of making and selling weed.” She shrugged. “Let’s just say Zach has a no-tolerance policy when it comes to recreational using or selling of illegal substances.”

“Can you blame him?”

“Please! It’s not like he’s a celibate priest. The man makes porn movies.”

Priscilla stood and made a sweeping gesture with her hand that said the conversation was over. “Let me make up the couch for you.”

Priscilla turned off the television when she left the room. Without it, sirens and hollering could be heard off in the distance. Recalling the bars on the house, Cammie wondered how safe the area was and thanked God she’d made it to the house without incident.

She stood when Priscilla returned and helped her cover the couch with sheets. When they’d finished the task they stood toe-to-toe.

Priscilla reached for a lock of Cammie’s dark hair, “You let it grow out.”

Cammie smoothed her hair, “I didn’t like it short.”

“It’s pretty. I was always jealous of your thick hair.”

“But you’re a blonde.”

Priscilla giggled, “That’s true.” She fluffed a pillow and dropped it at the would be head of the bed. “Gage will probably come in here when he gets home. I hope he doesn’t turn on the T.V., but he probably will.”

“That’s fine.”

After Priscilla left the room, Cammie removed her wet tennis shoes and sighed. It felt good to finally get under a warm pile of blankets.

Sleep came intermittently. When she heard the front door open and shut, Cammie turned onto her side to face the back of the couch to tune out her surroundings.

Just as Priscilla had warned, Gage turned on the television. Cammie pretended to sleep and she waited for a sound that would tell her that he’d settled into a chair, but that sound never came. Instead, a heavy hand on her shoulder pushed her body away from the couch. She pretended to sleep and finally the hand let her go. The sound of his body in motion and then settling into the leather recliner brought her relief.

Cammie was so exhausted that even with Gage in the room, she eventually dozed.

Deep sleep was a luxury she hadn’t experienced since her mother’s death. Tonight would be no different.

She woke up and glanced at her watch, realizing it was close to eight o’clock. She pushed herself up and looked around the room.

Gage sat in the recliner, watching her. Her stomach dropped. It was an instinctive reaction that she had no control over. Her gut said he wasn’t someone to trust.

“Mornin’.”

His voice was deep and full of volume.

“Good morning.” In comparison, her voice sounded weak. She cleared her throat, preparing to speak. “Thank you for—”

“You slept here last night?”

“Yes, and I want to thank you for your hospitality.”

Hospitality? He didn’t seem hospitable, but she hoped he’d be moved by her gratefulness. She stood and pulled the sheet from the couch, keeping one eye on him as she folded. When he stood his height was the first thing she noticed. The top of his head almost touched the low ceiling of the living room. He was beefed up with muscles, so much so that his T-shirt strained over his biceps. His dishwater blonde hair was thinning, but that only contributed to his foreboding demeanor. His eyes squinted at her.

“This isn’t a hotel or a home for wayward teens. You can’t stay for free.”

She dropped the folded sheet and picked up a blanket. “I’ll just fold this blanket and then leave.”

“You still owe me for last night.”

His eyes looked her over from head to toe, pausing at her well-endowed chest. This wasn’t the first time she’d wished for a decrease in cup size.

Her hands froze, halting the task of folding. “I don’t have very much money.”

“I don’t want money. I want service.”

Service
? A million ideas exploded in her brain. Some of the ideas were images of her on her knees. Others were of her dusting and vacuuming. “Um, I don’t…what do you want me to do?”

“I need you to make a delivery.”

She sat, perching herself on the edge of the couch. “Delivery of what? To where?”

Still standing, his hand dove into his right pocket. Struggling with his hand almost too big for his pocket, he pulled a square blue packet from his jeans. He held it before her between his thumb and index finger.

“Eight hundred. You’ll make the delivery and in return, bring me eight hundred.”

What he held in his hands was stronger than marijuana.
Drugs
. He wanted her to deliver drugs. Stunned, she stared at the plastic pouch between his sturdy fingers. Fingers that could make a heavy fist.

He whistled and snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Let’s go.”

She grabbed her backpack and followed, afraid of his reaction if she were to not comply. They loaded into a black Dodge Charger and rode in silence. She hugged the backpack that sat between her legs. It was the only thing she possessed that defined who she’d been. Inside it was packed with pictures and books that were her favorites. She’d also included the sweatshirt from Colorado that was the last item her mother had purchased for her. Tears stung her eyes and she closed them tight, wishing she could ask her mother what she should do in this situation.

Cammie hadn’t been paying attention, so when the car rolled to a stop and Gage placed it in park she was surprised to realize they weren’t too far from his own home.

“The white house with the black shutters”—he pointed to a home with peeling paint and widows with tin foil shades—“knock on the door, collect the money, and then pass them the pouch. I’ll pick you up three blocks west.

West
? He was just going to leave her here?

“You’re leaving me?”

“Three blocks west. Now go.”

She opened the door, the cool steel of the handle reviving her slow brain and bringing her mind into the situation. She climbed out of the low riding car and reached for her bag.

“Leave the bag.”

The car started to roll forward and with the momentum the door slipped from her hand and shut. He was gone. She stood alone, watching as the black car turned at the corner leaving her ultimately abandoned. A shiver ran the length of her and she wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing to generate warmth. The street was quiet—no cars backing out to make a long commute to work, no children waiting for the school bus. She thought it strange given that it was a weekday.

What would happen if she skipped selling drugs and walked to Zach’s instead? She heard the rumble of a souped up car motor and looked up. Near the corner sat the black Charger, Gage gunning the engine.

Her body tensed as she staggered toward the white house with the peeling paint. Maybe nobody would answer the door.

She stumbled over the porch step, her mind far ahead or behind, but nowhere in sync with her body. So much for making a discreet tradeoff.

Tradeoff
? Was that what this was called?

Was she a drug dealer?

A pusher?

A drug trafficker?

A specialist in ecstasy?

At the door she could smell what she thought was bacon frying. So much for the hope that nobody was home.

Cammie raised a fist and prepared to knock when she heard a car approaching. She turned and her stomach dropped so hard she wretched.

A police car slowly drove past the home.

A man ran from between two houses. He ran across the street out in front of the police car and then he darted between houses on the other side of the street.

Everything happened so quickly she stood with her mouth agape like a newly farmed fish.

The door to the house opened and when the man before her saw the cop car he quickly shut the door. More people, a guy and a girl, scampered between the houses and the cops exited their vehicle, running after them. 

In the direction opposite the action, Cammie darted between two houses and ran at a steady cement-eating sprint, her legs working like pistons. In the garbage alley she pushed her muscles, turning and winding herself deeper into the French Quarter. She purposefully ran toward the sun, which was east, so that she might escape being apprehended by Gage.

Her side hitched with a cramp and she doubled over, placing her hands on her knees and breathed deep. Coughing she stood and with one palm anchored against the brick wall of a building she vomited. She was cold and scared. Since her bag was in Gage’s car, she was without resources.

On Chartres, she walked opposite the direction of the rising sun. After about a mile her feet turned onto Orleans Street.

She knew Zach would help her, but she’d also known him long enough to know he’d have questions. She’d have to answer truthfully and, according to Priscilla he’d go ballistic and fire her, no questions asked. She couldn’t afford that gamble so she would have to come up with another solution.

Shit!

She just realized all of her paperwork that she was going to use to prove the house was hers was in the backpack and so was the phone Zach lent her that she was using to communicate with the lawyer.

This really was the worst day of her life so far.

Z
achary David sat
at his workstation and uploaded the latest film to GenXXX.com.

While he waited on the broadband to complete the exchange, he thought about his business that had been lucrative enough to amass a nice little nest egg for himself.

GenXXX promised its members fresh new content every week and for over two years Zachary had delivered on that promise. At twenty-eight dollars per month, the members paid well for the service. Trouble was, he’d just uploaded one of the last of two new films in the vault.

He needed new talent and he needed it yesterday.

He swung his chair around and opened the drawer on the credenza, pulling out a black book. The book hit the desk with a solid, positive thud and he began to thumb through it.

He dialed the first number.

“What’s going on, Alyssa?”

“Oh my, what a blast from the past.”

She cooed sickeningly into the phone and Zachary tolerated it for the sake of his business.

“I wondered when you’d be calling. Miss me, do you?”

“Of course I do.” No, he didn’t.

“And just what have you been up to, Zachypoo?”

Ugh, he’d gladly forgo the chitchat but knew she wouldn’t. When they’d dated, Alyssa had expressed interest in making a movie. Since she’d never done so before, she was the perfect fresh face he needed. It was a bonus that he knew she wasn’t crazy. Lately he’d had his hands full with women who’d been as mad as bees trapped between the windowpanes. One particular woman demanded sleeping arrangements for her entourage that included a professional trainer, personal waxer, and a sniveling little kiss-ass assistant. Zach scoffed at the memories. It had taken her and her crew three days just to get settled.

He needed actresses and he needed them to be professional, and preferably ready to work.

May as well go for broke. “I remember we talked about doing a film and wondered if you were available next week?”

She squealed into the phone and he pulled the receiver away from his ear. “I don’t think my
fiancé
would appreciate you propositioning me in that manner.” She giggled.

He wasn’t propositioning her; he was offering her a business contract. Whatever. “Oh, you’re engaged. Who’s the lucky bastard?”

“You don’t know him. He’s from Arkansas.”

“Well you better make sure he’s been broken.”

“What?”

“Nothing. You know what, I’ve got another call that I need to take. Congrats and take care.”

On a sigh he dropped the headset into the cradle. He’d just have to use one of his regular actresses to make the next film. Only thing is, it didn’t sit right with him since he’d received a handful of praiseful email regarding his kept promise of fresh talent.

Three consecutive sharp beats from the security system stole his attention.

Nine o’clock.

That would be Cammie.

The thought left him with a smile on his face as he went in search of the chestnut haired beauty. Her soft gray eyes bordered by thick lashes were like staring into a lunar eclipse. Her real beauty though was in her curves. She had the classic pinup style body that had the ability to erase his internal hard drive of any and all thoughts but her.

The old wooden staircase greeted him with its usual overworked drawling groan.

 Knowing he needed to check the mail, but mostly to have a reason to run into Cammie, he headed toward the front door.

With no sight of her his spirits lowered, but he remained true to his task.

The hardware on the antique exterior doors was old and it took him a few tries to open them. The unseasonably cold temperatures made them stick worse than they normally did.

He gathered the letters and flyers from the antique iron box and searched for any sign of her. Inside he lurked around a few corners like a madman.

When he finally set eyes on Cammie, she took his breath away. Given her fresh beauty she did that a lot. However, today his stolen breath stemmed from her disheveled appearance and wet clothes.

“What happened?”

Her eyes darted nervously around the living area, avoiding his.

“I uh…I got too close to a curb with a large puddle and an asshole for a driver.”

“You must be freezing. Come to my bedroom, you can take a shower and I’ll wash and dry those clothes.”

She followed him up the winding staircase and into the bedroom. At the hearth he paused, “I should start a fire.”

“Please don’t go to any trouble.”

He heard her, but his own bones were chilled and he’d be damned if she caught pneumonia while in his care.

The logs were stacked in the hearth and ready to be lit so he turned on the gas and struck a match, igniting the fire. She stood in front of the couch looking like a lost little mouse.

Extending his hand toward the plush dark-blue sofa he said, “Please, sit.”

“I’m wet and that’s a Queen Anne.”

He pulled a throw from the back of the couch and spread it over the cushions. “Sit,” he pointed. She complied, sighing.

“This place is so nice.”

He sat on the opposite end of the couch surveying all that was before him—the surroundings were much too extravagant and gaudy for his tastes. “Yep, Gabe went all out when he bought this place. He said he only purchased it because the upper studio had good lighting.”

“Which one is Gabe?” She nodded at the picture of the five brothers posed in front of their childhood plantation-style home.

“The tallest one.”

“Why doesn’t he live here?”

“He’s currently shacking up with his girl in Baton Rouge.”

She blushed, which was endearing but not something he saw much given his line of work.

“I’d uh…I’d like to ask you a question.”

Intrigued he relaxed into the couch. “I’m all ears.”

“Would you have any use for me? You know…in one of your films.”

Rubbing his fingers across his chin and lips he thought about her question.
God, how he’d thought about
her naked body, but never in the context of a film. She was always in his bed. Why was she asking now, after all these months?

“Why do you want to make a film?”

“Seems like fun.” She shrugged.

She tried to embody indifference, but her wide eyes were a stark contrast to her forced smile. He didn’t buy it. She’d been coming here every day for six months. He knew her enough to know that Cameron Moore didn’t need to get naked to have fun. To be honest, given the way she turned red whenever she was around the women he filmed, he’d even thought her to be a virgin.

“Do you have any experience?”

“Not in porn.”

“How about sex in general?”

She lifted one shoulder only and wouldn’t keep eye contact with him. “Not really.” Her voice was soft like she’d been shamed.

For the first time her gray eyes bore into him without blinking, without turning away. Beats skipped away, and then she exhaled.

“I want to do this. If you don’t think I’m a good fit for your videos, I can understand that.”

“Why do you
want
to make a video?”

Somewhere nearby a long string of firecrackers was set off, startling her.

He chuckled. “It’ll only get louder the closer it gets to Fat Tuesday.” She sat, back straight, staring into the crackling hearth fire.

Sensing she wasn’t going to answer his question, he stood. “All right. You need some dry clothes.”

She followed him into his closet where he dug through the shelves and pulled out a T-shirt, sweatshirt, and pants.

She took the clothes from him. “Take a shower. No telling what was in that pothole, plus it’ll warm you.”

She took the clothes into the bathroom and closed the door.

“Toss me your wet clothes and I’ll wash them,” he yelled through the door.

He waited. Within thirty seconds she opened the door. Wrapped in a towel, she passed him her bundled up clothes and a little blue square fell from the wad and hit the distressed wood with a small thud.

He bent and took the package between his fingers. Disappointed and utterly shocked, he passed it to her.

She took it. “I can explain—”

He held his hand, palm up, in front of her. “So can I…drugs have no place here. Leave. Now.”

“But I had to leave home…I had nowhere to go—”

He dropped her clothes and then swiftly walked away, taking the steps two at a time, running from her before he changed his mind.

He’d been through that shit enough with his last girl. Priscilla couldn’t handle the fact that he filmed women. She’d been insane with jealousy even though he’d never given her a reason. She’d started taking prescription drugs and then it got bad—real bad. When he’d caught her in bed with Gage he’d been so mad he’d done real damage to his buddy’s face, but then what kind of friend sleeps with his mate's girlfriend?

The incident with Priscilla and Gage had all gone down in this house. He questioned his sanity, trying to come up with reasons why he’d stayed instead of moving to Baton Rouge with the rest of his brothers.

The reason had gray eyes and thick, dark hair.

But I had to leave home…I had nowhere to go.

In his office, he turned on the television. He didn’t want to hear the security system announce her departure so he upped the volume.

He sat at his desk with his head in his hands, listening to the Weather Channel.

Storm Tracker shows icing as far south as Houston, Galveston, and New Orleans.

Warnings exist for areas as far east as Jacksonville, Savannah, Charleston. Be sure you wrap your pipes and bring in those pets. It’s gonna get cold.

The screen showed temperatures as low as twelve degrees in New Orleans.

Despite the television’s loud volume, the security alarm sounded.

She was gone.

He sat there, letting her get away, arguing with himself that she wasn’t his responsibility.

But I had to leave home…I had nowhere to go.

No, she definitely wasn’t his obligation and he couldn’t afford to get into any trouble. He’d promised his brother that he would stay clean and away from that lifestyle.

Two minutes passed.

But I had to leave home…I had nowhere to go.

Then four.

She’d left home?

He knew her mother had died nearly a year ago and she currently lived with her stepfather. Maybe he kicked her out on account of the drugs.

After ten minutes of attempting to clear Cammie from his mind he stood and grabbed his keys.

Damn it all to hell she didn’t even have a car. Least he could do would be to drive her to the bus stop.

But she had nowhere to go.

He drove the car in the direction he knew she usually took to catch the bus after her work at the house. In ten minutes she couldn’t have gotten far, but he didn’t see her. In fact, the streets were sparse given the cold temperatures.

He dialed the number to the phone he’d given her.

“This is Catcher.”

Who the hell is Catcher?

“I need to speak with Cammie.”

The line went dead.

Zach pulled the car to the curb and placed it in park. He logged onto the web and placed a track on the phone. He tried three times, but couldn’t locate the device.

He became more anxious by the second and wished he hadn’t turned her out. Worried, Zach drove through the French Quarter, up and down the narrow streets, for the next hour, but she’d vanished.

His hands stung from the white-knuckled grip he kept on the steering wheel.

Maybe she was in one of the shops.

He parked the car and went in search of her on foot, looking through windows and asking hostesses if a young girl in a Tulane sweatshirt had been around.

But she hadn’t.

She’d in fact evaporated.

In the cold, he walked to the Decatur Street bus stop, but unfamiliar with how buses worked, he couldn’t decipher the schedule.

He spotted an older woman huddled on a nearby bench.

“Excuse me, can you tell me if the bus ran through here earlier?”

She smiled and asked, “Which bus?”

“Well I’m not really sure. Is there a bus that goes around Lake Pontchartrain?”

“The Slidell bus stops here about four times a day, but I’m unsure of the exact times.”

The cold wind chafed his cheeks as he walked back home. He tried to put Cammie’s situation out of his mind by rationalizing that he’d done all he could and it was possible she’d caught the bus back home. Surely the girl had friends or relatives she could stay with.

At home, Zach tried to get back into his work. He opened a spreadsheet file and proceeded to add in his expenses for the previous month.

On his third entry, the computer alerted him to an incoming call that he answered using the computer’s FaceTime program.

“Hello.”

“This is Patrick Doyle from Doyle, Becker, and Reese.”

“The law firm?”

“Yes, and I’m following up on the information you provided via email.”

“I didn’t email you.”

“Is this Cameron Moore?”

“No, you’ve reached Zach, but I can try to get a message to her.”

“
Her
. Okay, let me make note of that.”