The Runner

[fuckmeat]

Closed for Commendatore

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Lydia Bennett
Age 19. 5ft tall, green eyes, light red hair, 32B tits.​

Lydia had been born to a crack addicted prostitute and been in foster homes ever since. She was intelligent but had not won a full scholarship to college, so she had hit the world of employment, eighteen years old and determined to prove herself. She had always been interested in media and so here she was at MTV. Lydia was still pretty much at the bottom of the ladder but she still hoped to be promoted or discovered as a potential presenter. She was paying her dues, running errands and making coffee for everyone that mattered. One day it would be her that mattered, she was sure of it.

Lydia's own musical tastes lay in hard rock and metal. Something about the raw music and lyrics spoke to her about her tough upbringing. When one of the producers had taken her aside and told her who was swinging by their studio that day for an interview, Lydia had damn near fainted on the spot. She had babysat no end of teenage rappers and popstars, industry puppets who would churn out an album or two before being thrown on the scrapheap. Actual bona fide musicians who poured their souls into their own songs and found it incidental that people actually wanted to listen to them, they were a rarity these days it seemed.

But today, the lead singer of her favourite hard rock band was giving a rare interview and Lydia had pretty much clung to the producers leg until he took the hint and tasked her with being the rockstar's errand girl. He was due to arrive at 2pm, so naturally nobody expected him to actually show up much before 4. HIs live broadcast slot was at around 6pm and then he would be gone. His band had just finished working on an album and apart from a few interviews to hype it up, they were taking a collective break until the album's release and their next tour.

Lydia rushed to the restroom to primp, reapplying dark kohl around her eyes and slicking some dark red gloss across her lips. She knew she looked good today in her skinny jeans with an artfully slashed Tool tank top clinging to her slim curves and exposing bright red bra straps. Lydia was a fan of hot lingerie, it always made her feel more confident somehow to know she was wearing it. She hadn't had a boyfriend in nearly six months though, since she split with Jason. She didn't have a lot of cash to go out with and with the mental hours the studio worked her for, Lydia simply didn't have the time. She could have hooked up with one of her co-workers but she knew better.

Finally, word got around that Lydia's dream rockstar had checked through the security gate. She hurried to the dressing room he would be using before and after his interview, forcing herself not to shift from foot to foot and attempting to hold herself together.

 

[Commendatore]

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Damon Graves, 24, 6' 1", 165 lbs., dark brown hair, green eyes, Lead vocalist for the hard rock band Savage God

It seemed to take forever. Fame. Acclaim. Money. Success. But he had it now. And he was going to do anything to make sure he kept having it.

Savage God had begun in the shithole. Shady clubs, violent fans, packing too many people and too much gear into a stinking van and going, going, always going, running away from failure.

Damon had beaten that cunt Failure to death. She wasn't going to bother him any more.

At first, the groupies, the parties, everything available all the time, that had been sweet. And enough. But the bigger they got, the more the innumerable fans chanted 'SAVAGE GOD', the less anything did for him. He kept getting off, but he wasn't getting off. Boredom began to creep in evilly, bringing decadence with it. Drugs. All kinds. Booze. All kinds. Extremely kinky sex began to be his regular, what he really needed to feel it. He always wanted to be feeling it. Damon's tastes turned darker still in an effort to keep up the sensation, the level of pleasure he'd become accustomed to.

Smack had been the last drug he'd successfully avoided. His mom had been a junkie. When he was 6, she made him fix her up for the first time. It put a fucking stake in his head. He swore he'd never touch it.

Now, he was touching it. And it was touching him. He began to hire expensive hookers to do the sickening things he needed to get off in his mind. His cock was golden. It was what his mind expected that was killing him. The hookers were a good solution at first. He'd narrowly avoided two lawsuits for getting too rough during sex with groupies, and with the girlfriend of their ex-bassist. Yeah, the hookers were good at first. Then, they started to stay away. He'd had to pay off 2 girls and get them to sign NDAs. He had beaten them so badly they'd required hospitalization.

It kept him going. They finished the album, it was fucking amazing, a few promos, and then a break. Time to indulge the sweet tooth. Someone vulnerable. Someone he could break, who would be too terrified to say anything. Someone he could break. And keep breaking.

Security BS. He walked tall and cocky as fuck through a crowd that gushed their panties and swore their allegiance when he appeared. Damon got to his dressing room, and went inside, leaving his hangers-on behind.

 

[fuckmeat]

There had been a buzz of muted conversation until he stepped from the elevator, over 6ft tall and walking far taller than that, as well he might be. Savage God were riding high after a hugely successful first album. Their second was so eagerly anticipated and now Damon Graves was here to promote it. The rest of his band very rarely gave interviews. After their original bassist had been sacked following some salacious rumours about Damon and the bassist's former girlfriend it was clear who was in charge. Musicians were ultimately expendable, replaceable. Damon's gravelly voice and feral sneer weren't. Despite being just 24 and having had one hit album, Damon had the kind of total self-belief that made men into rock legends. This wasn't a man with a plan B. His troubled background was well documented and gave Lydia an imagined affinity with him. He had never even finished high school. For Damon this was shit or bust.

He didn't even glance at her. Lydia didn't even know why she had been expecting him to. His lackeys halted outside his dressing room door, clearly tasked with his personal security. Lydia approached them shyly, holding her staff card up in clear view as though expecting to be mown down in a hail of bullets for lacking the right credentials. A towering black man glared down at her and made no move to let her pass.

"And where do you think you're going Miss? Mr Graves needs to prepare for his interview."

Lydia found herself stuttering and blushed crimson, wondering if Damon could hear her through the door.

"Um... I know but I've been assigned as his runner. I just need to check that he has everything he needs."

The security guard's hard stare slipped down Lydia's slender throat, took in the long red hair cascading over a scarlet bra strap and then fell down into the front of her top. He was clearly drawing his own conclusions. Lydia had never been so blatantly leered at before. He kept her waiting for another long moment, making the most of his authority.

"I just bet you will."

The guard knocked on Damon's dressingroom door and then opened it, letting it swing forwards to admit her. Now thoroughly flustered, Lydia took a deep breath and went in.

He looked up sharply but his gaze softened a little when he saw how nervous she was and Lydia was instantly stupidly grateful. The main light was off and he had thrown some napkins over a lamp to bathe the room in a soft glow. His green eyes were rimmed with kohl and seemed to go straight through her. Lydia tried to compose herself.

"Um... Hi. My name is Lydia and production have assigned me as your runner." She gestured to a nearby table laid out with a fairly comprehensive array of refreshments and hospitality crap. "If there's anything else you need, please just let me know. We'll need you ready to mic up and go live in about an hour. Miley, who will be interviewing you, will be along soon to meet you and if there's anything you don't want discussed, you can let her know."

She tried not to stare like a groupie but it was hard. Lydia found that she couldn't maintain eye contact with Damon and she dropped her gaze. She knew she looked like a total groupie but he was even hotter in the flesh than she had imagined; 6ft 1 of lean muscle with those full lips and that strong jawline... and the green eyes she couldn't look at. The rumours about his conquests were already legendary. A number of groupies now had sold stories of their wild cocaine fuelled nights with him to the papers. A pair of lesbian hookers he had been with had sworn he'd put them both out of work for a month. A teen groupie had fled when a drunk and high Damon had handed her the razorblade he'd been cutting coke with and demanded that she 'show him how much she loves him.'

Lydia tried to elbow the tabloid stories about him aside as a frission of lust and fear went through her. It was the first time she had ever felt aroused and scared at the same time.

It felt good.

 

[Commendatore]

"Lydia. That's my favorite name."

He spoke huskily, with gravity. His eyes burned a hole in her. All the way in and through.

"No, really. That's my very favorite name. You're very lucky."

Damon rose to his height very near her. "So, runner. What does that mean you do, Lydia?" His tongue lingered over the words like a serpent basking in the sun. "Look at me and tell me what it is you do."

He took in her appearance with a polished eye. Tiny. Scared. Trembling. Needing acceptance. Also fucking hot. Like a street hooker hot. The kind that think they've seen it all, and then you show them how much more there is. You just want to keep fucking them, ruining their minds and bodies eternally for anyone and anything else. Using them for what they were made for.

"Do you talk, Lydia? I asked you a question. You asked me to tell you if I need anything, and I do."

 

[fuckmeat]

She very nearly rolled her eyes. It was insulting and disappointing that he expected her to fall for such utter bullshit. The low pitch of his voice slipped down her spine like an ice cube but otherwise, Lydia remained unmoved... well, less moved than she had been. Strike one to the rock god.

"No, really." He insisted. "That's my very favorite name. You're very lucky."

Oh sure, she was truly blessed because he liked her name. Lydia had met long established stars who had spent years and even decades living in cosseted bubbles like spoiled children, where everything they thought and said was important. She had expected different from Damon though, better from him. He had come from such truly humble beginnings that it pained her to see him acting as though he was a deity. Just like that, she was well on the way to actively disliking him.

Then he stood and he was suddenly in what Lydia considered to be her personal space. Damon's proximity meant that he towered over her and in the little dressing room there wasn't really anywhere for Lydia to back away to. His non-threatening smile curled into something approaching a sneer. Now that she was so close to him and forced to look up, she could see he was wired... on something. The whites of his eyes were slightly bloodshot, his jaw a little too tightly clenched, his brow clammy despite the fact the room wasn't hot. Lydia had seen the signs before.

"So, runner. What does that mean you do, Lydia? Look at me and tell me what it is you do."

She had dropped her gaze from the intent that had glimmered in his own. If he was being suggestive and he probably was, he wouldn't get anywhere with her. She loved his music and thought he was hot but she wasn't some gutterslut who wanted to be able say she'd fucked him. Herpes wasn't her idea of a souvenir.

"Do you talk, Lydia? I asked you a question. You asked me to tell you if I need anything, and I do."

Lydia knew she was pretty and she did get looks from guys but Damon was something else. Asshole was getting a kick out of making her nervous. She didn't like that he was obviously high either. He made no attempt to disguise the fact that he wanted her, nor that he expected her to be some wide eyed, grateful little groupie who had decided that her life's purpose was to suck his cock. Damon clearly needed a reality check but that wasn't Lydia's business or her concern.

She forced herself to lift her eyes and meet his gaze again. She was forced to tip her head right back, because though she stepped away he moved with her, obviously enjoying her discomposure.

"I'm a member of the production team." She explained, wanting to convey that she did more than run errands... though in truth she was still one of the most junior people there. "I sometimes look after acts that are appearing on the show, which means I'm their runner. I can explain how appearing on the show works and tell them what to expect. If they need something they don't have or want to talk to anyone in production I attend to that. I'm basically at your service until you've done your segment and leave the building."

 

[Commendatore]

"Ok, good to know. If I need something, ask you." Damon paused for a moment and turned his smile on.

"You do realize I was fucking with you, right? I admit, I'm kind of a dick to people sometimes. My life has changed a lot, and changed a lot more since the first album hit. I'd say you wouldn't believe the offers and bs people throw at me, but maybe you would. Anyway, I kind of fuck with people...to test the water, see what they're about. Bad habit from a suck childhood. I apologize, I can tell it squicked you. I'm successful, but I can't afford to shit on anyone, I learned that lesson already. And all jokes aside, you are a beautiful girl. I imagine you get plenty of bs from people, too."

He paused again to give Lydia a moment to take it in.

"So, there's lots of stuff available...but can you get me a Mexican Coke, maybe a 6-pack? Coca-Cola, I mean." He grinned. They make it with cane sugar, that corn syrup shit tastes like ass. Is that doable?"

He still had his friendly smiling face on, but the wheels were turning. So, not already broken, thinks well of herself, ambitious, wasn't swayed by Rock God Ass lines. But she was afraid of him.

Damon thought he might be able to work with this. The ghost of a killer drew across his face for one brief moment, then faded like fog on a mirror.

 

[fuckmeat]

It was cute how he backpedalled so fast, Lydia couldn't help but find it endearing. She agreed to locate his Mexican Coke and then backed out of the door before he requested anything more unreasonable. Part of her wanted to believe his sincere act but it was too polished. Damon was too practised at playing the 'suck childhood' card.

She brought him the cola and a fresh bucket of ice. Lydia was actively avoiding his gaze, pushing the beverage towards him and making no attempt to drag out her moments with the rockstar.

Without further ado she was already moving back towards the door again. In her mind Lydia had already done Damon a huge favour by not telling her production team or his interviewer that he was high as a kite. If anyone bitched she'd claim naivete and God alone knew how much of his life this guy spent straight or sober.

"... so just let me know if there's anything else you need." She told him as she backed out through the open doorway.

 

[Commendatore]

He decided to let her go. It felt better at the end if they'd had some fleeting, illusory moment of self-determination crushed from under them. The terror was more pronounced.

He opened his phone and texted a couple people at the network. Within minutes, they had an arrangement. Of course they had an arrangement. Since when does MTV need another half-pretty trailer victim who thinks her snatch is made out of gold and that she'll make it one day? Pimps picked them up by the dozen on their way back from the convenience store. Damon laughed to himself, and it sounded like hyenas tearing something apart.

His text with the VP of personnel had gone in part:

Alinn: some1 told me ur coked
Alinn: I was all "NFS, moron"
Alinn: WTF do they think this place is?
Alinn: MTV not hallmark chnl
Alinn: they probly do 2 too, tho, lol
Damn: lol
Damn: srsly
Damn: remember when we signed that noncmpete?
Damn: I think they pwdrd Escobars bones to get u all that blow
Alinn: That was the shit That chicks tits were insane1
Alinn: So yeah totally set with the Bennet thing
Alinn: I had no idea WTF you were talkin about
Alinn: We were going to can her anyway
Alinn: jace in Mktg says she doesn't put out

Damon drained the Coke, drained some coke, and got ready to go to the interview while listening to their new album. His new album.

Then he made one more arrangement.

 

[fuckmeat]

Lydia went about the rest of her duties but something fundamental seemed to have changed in the people she worked with. Her bosses were suddenly glacial and distant, smirking at her as though in on some collective joke. She knew her background was frowned upon by some. It was alright for people like Damon to make it from a shitty background but some of the people she ran alongside here had college educations in media. Lydia had always hoped she could prove herself wherever she went and she was trying really hard.

Eventually she was told that Miley was ready for Damon's interview. Lydia went back to his dressing room, mentally tapped her foot while the rockstar's personal goons took another opportunity to check her out and then fetched Damon to film his segment on the show. He did as he was told but he was clearly out of his tree and she actually had to swipe some powder from his nose with a Kleenex, which he found hysterical. Lydia had to stand very close to him to wire him up with a mic at his throat and a transmission box clipped to the back of his belt. The whole time he was mentally stripping her, his eyes alight with a dark glee that was really starting to piss Lydia off. At one point his hand lifted and for an awful moment she was sure he was going to just reach out and cup one of her tits. She darted around behind him and pretended to fuss with his equipment.

Then he was ushered onto the set and Lydia silently crossed everything, desperately hoping Damon didn't make a laughing stock of himself on live TV. He did seem to draw himself up and pull himself together but whether that meant he would give a half decent interview was anybody's guess.

Lydia was surprised that he hadn't been accompanied by a manager of some kind. Most musicians didn't go anywhere without a manager to babysit them and make all their decisions. Damon appeared to be his own boss however, which would probably explain why he was fucked off his face on cocaine at only 6pm.

She hadn't told anyone he was high but it was a moot issue now. Anyone with half a brain could see that Damon Graves was wasted. There was a tense hush on set even before the red 'ON AIR' light commanded total silence from the crew. This had the potential to go very badly. Stars who made idiots of themselves on live TV weren't above suing the station in question for giving them the opportunity to.

Lydia could only stand on the sidelines and watch as Miley gushed about what an 'epic fan!' she was of Damon's music. Miley was an 'epic fan' of just about everything. Lydia would be extremely surprised if she'd ever assaulted her dainty little ears with the kind of raw sound that Savage God were famous for. Damon could go from a screaming metal freak to mastering an alternative ballad in a beat of a drum, tugging his audience's heartstrings along with him.

'But still a grade A asshole,' Lydia reminded herself as his handsome face filled every screen in the studio.

 

[Commendatore]

Stars have that gift, that's why they're stars. Blasted out of their minds, checked-out, fucked up, pissed off, not in, whatever, they turned it on when they needed to. Damon Graves was a star, and he turned it on.

Miley mostly gushed like a teenager and gave him softball shit, kind of sad questions actually. She was just sucking his ass. He loved when people lost their minds and fawned over him, but he knew an opportunity to make himself look great and her look incompetent all at the same time, and he took it with mustard and relish. When she tossed him a weak non-question, he deftly took the opportunity to appear humble and then turn it around on her, suggesting, jokingly (but not joking) what a better, more journalistic question might have been. He got laughs for it, and thereafter everyone was just kind of loving being in the same room with him. More than they had before, at least.

It didn't hurt that his music was amazing and that he was hot as fuck. Damon knew that anywhere he went he'd be the best looking one there. Anywhere he went, he knew he could bang any bitch in that whole place. It reminded him of the Chappelle's show about Rick James. "I'm the baddest motherfucker of all times! King Kong ain't got SHIT on me!"

He kicked the ass out of the interview and walked off the stage to ridiculous reactions of devotion and awe. Day at the office.

He saw Alex Linn talking to the runner. Alex looked over at him, caught his eye, and Damon came just within earshot of them.

"Lydia, I'm sorry to say that we have to let you go. Don't say anything; let me finish. There have been several complaints about a lack of professionalism on your part, and the one we recieved today is the last straw. I understand that you have worked in close proximity to a lot of famous people, and that they are sometimes your idols. But you don't ask to suck a rockstar's cock. They have plenty of other options, and we don't pay you to be a whore. We took a chance on you because we thought you brought something rock n roll, real, to the production. It seems you weren't able to leave your past out of your present. So I need you to collect your things, and we'll have someone escort you out."

Damon gave a short, shitty chuckle and looked right in her face.

 

[fuckmeat]

Lydia simply couldn't believe what she was hearing. There wasn't even any discussion, Mr Linn had taken Damon Graves' word as gospel and was sacking her accordingly. Lydia couldn't have said at that moment which one of them she hated more.

There had been an office party a few weeks back when someone had left the team. Brad was a hot presenter who could also read an autocue without squinting and more than once he'd had to ad-lib when hiccups had happened during live filming. He went to an alternate TV station, tripled his salary overnight and signed into a 'golden handcuffs' deal that banned him from working for rival channels. Naturally Alex Linn had been there, patting Brad on the back and trying not to look pissed off that once again his latest protege had flown the nest in a matter of months.

Mr Linn had got stuck into the free bar, bitching to anyone who would listen how there was nobody on the team like Brad and that even if there was the guy would just get signed elsewhere just as fast. Lydia had stuck to her own clique of runners but Alex had swayed over to them, his mouth watering lecherously as he asked what they wouldn't do for Brad's job. The others, office party veterans, had seen him coming from a mile away and politely scattered. Lydia had found herself cornered, forced to mask her distaste as Alex hitched his pants up over his fat ass, an act of such exertion that it caused him to redden and perspire. Lydia stepped backwards on reflex and found herself with nowhere to go, the wall of the bar hitting her in the backside. Alex had leaned over her, a podgy hand resting against the wall beside her head.

"So, maybe you give a fuck about your career here. Nobody else seems to care about networking." He gestured with his free hand at the space hastily vacated by her co-workers. His eyes got lost down the front of her sequinned halter and Alex was far too drunk to conceal how base his thoughts were. His lip curled into a sneer as his hot, boozy breath suffused her. "So... Lydia right? do you give a fuck about your career here?"

Lydia had flattened herself against the wall and inched away, muttering pleasantries and insisting that she needed to use the restroom. Alex had unfortunately taken this as encouragement however, running a sweaty paw through her carefully curled hair while telling her that he'd never done 'trailer cunt' in a public restroom before. Lydia had simply fled out into the night, probably not a wise move, hitting the street at 1am but Alex at least was way to far gone to follow her.

He had never mentioned the incident and Lydia had been convinced he had simply been unable to remember hitting on her when he came out of his drunken coma the next day. Now it seemed, she was wrong. He wore a look of such smug satisfaction as he canned her career on the strength of a baseless rumour from a cokehead musician that she wanted to scream and slap him right around his fat fucking face. Then to add insult to injury, Damn wandered by and pretty much wet his pants laughing at her predicament. Lydia stared Alex down, pitching her voice in the same way he had, so everyone close by could hear.

"You're just fucked off because I wouldn't suck your cock." She snapped. "When did you last even haul your needledick out from under all that blubber? You couldn't find your sorry junk with both hands and a map!" Lydia's head snapped sideways to glare at her accuser, shooting Damon a look that should have disembowelled him. "There are two cheap cunts in the room and I'm not one of them. Fuck the both of you."

She turned on her heel and marched out. Lydia fetched her purse but didn't so much as glance at her desk. No fucking way was she walking out of here with a sorry assed box of personal effects. She handed her ID to security and swept out the door so fast that the security goons had to sprint to witness it.

Lydia stomped for a few blocks and then ducked into a bar. The bartender's jaw hit the grimy floorboards at the sight of her. Lydia had wandered away from the fashionable part of town with its over-priced wine bars. It was clear that smoking hot and livid little erstwhile MTV runners didn't march in every day. Fuck it. Lydia didn't care.

"Large scotch. Straight up." She snapped.

 

[Commendatore]

Linn reeled from her onslaught, then fired back as she walked:

"Everyone believes a crackhead trailer slut! I'm sure your career (he said it with a drawn-out sneer) will really take off after this. You'll never work in this town again unless it's on your knees in the bathroom of the Newark bus station. That's where we got you from!"

He spat after her and laughed his ass off. "Oh, Damon, you were right, man, that was fun as fuck."

She had hurt him a little, but he'd never even admit that to himself after this moment passed. "That's all right...Damon's gonna fix her little red wagon", he said to himself. "Well, it'll be plenty red when he's done with it, anyway. All red, all over. Raw. Damon had said he'd really make it hurt, that he'd bust her little ginger snatch like a teacup."


The guys texted Damon. She had gone to a bar. He texted back. One of them went in.

Aaron was 6' 5", 320, black as the Ace of Spades. He wore long leather coats and sunglasses almost all the time, along with custom-tailored Italian slacks that cost $1500 because they used so much alpaca fabric. Damon had gotten Aaron off of a rape beef by agreeing to fuck a precinct captain's wife and let them film it. The bribe he'd tried hadn't worked, he was in a lot more trouble, and he was afraid to even bring it up, but he was in the shit. Damon walked on water. They were friends for life.

Aaron came in casual and ordered a Hennessey. He got it, tipped well, then sauntered over to her like the laziest stud around.

"Hey, Strawberry. You wanna get that pussy busted? I'll leave your ass on the floor and your head in the clouds. You might limp for a few days, all 5 foot of ya. Damn, I'd break your little ass in half twice. They'd put me in the joint just 'cause they hatin' a playa. You know you want this up in your guts." As he said the last, he sneered and grasped his cock through his eminently soft alpaca hair slacks. The ones Damon paid for. It looked like he had a fucking anaconda in them.

 

[fuckmeat]

Everyone had known Linn was just trying to save face but nobody was about to admit what a lecherous dickwit he was. Lydia could not have cared less what he said to her. She had had worse knockbacks in her short life. Once she had sunk two scotches and calmed down a little, she acknowledged to herself that a wiser course would have been to suck up Alex's little diatribe and leave quietly. Done was done however. Now she was left to figure out how to pay the rent on her tiny walk-up. Media was out, at least for a while. Linn would make damn sure nobody else hired her and so Lydia wasn't stupid enough to schlep around the other stations with her resume. There was plenty of honest work around though and it wouldn't take her long to find some.

Two booted feet suddenly stopped beside her table. Lydia slowly lifted her gaze to take in the most enormous guy she had ever encountered. She had already shown her ID at the bar and he didn't look like a cop anyway. After what felt like forever she stared up into his ink black face, currently split by a wide grin. When he was satisfied that he had her attention, his impossibly deep voice threw a stream of utter filth at her. Lydia sat there rigid with shock till he had finished speaking. She simply couldn't believe it. Was it national asshole day or something? He finished his little speech by grabbing the crotch of his trousers, sat down as Lydia was his crotch was right in front of her face. His massive hand cupped and hefted a set of flaccid genitals that looked simply an impossible size. Lydia's jaw dropped in horror and revulsion but a very different reflex made her close her mouth tight just as quickly. Nausea pitched deep in her gut as her traitorous mind threw detailed images at her that she'd rather not contemplate.

Fortunately for her, the bartender wasn't stunned into silence. He came bustling over, obviously wary of the huge black man but nevertheless determined to say something.

"Hey, you can't talk to the girl like that." Lydia flushed scarlet and dropped her gaze. Other people were starting to stare now. She pulled her jacket on and grabbed her purse. She had had enough for one day. She was going home. "Do you know this guy?"

Lydia shook her head, totally bewildered... then she closed her eyes as she realised that she had seen this guy before. Fucking bastard couldn't just let her go home jobless could he? He was probably sat outside in some enormous hummer limo or something, laughing his ass off. Lydia's eyes narrowed in recognition.

"You work for Damon Graves don't you? You're his personal security. I saw you at the studio. Well you can tell the lying cokehead to drop dead. Now leave me alone or I'm going to call the police."

Lydia felt reasonably confident that the guy wouldn't do anything too stupid in a public place with lots of witnesses. The bartender had clearly never heard of Damon, he just looked thoroughly confused. Lydia turned towards him.

"This guy works for the asshole who got me fired today for no damn reason." She explained. "This is his idea of fun."

 

[Commendatore]

Stages. Layers. Depths.

Landings.

And sometimes, you land hard.

Lydia was about to.

Damon stayed on the phone and text for a while, arranging it. It really pleased him to plan the utter destruction of someone's life. He knew he had the gift and the right. It was another of his arts.

There were the ones he killed with his bare hands. Choked. Beaten. The implements. Knives, razors, scalpels. Ropes. Electrical cords.

That stuff was hard rock, heavy metal. This was opera.

Aaron texted him. So, it'd be that way.

When Lydia finally returned home, she saw her things out on the sidewalk, and the remains of police tape and a scene. Well, her things. Technically, yes. But they had been ruined with some kind of chemical foam. Everything she owned. What had remained untouched by the foam had been taken, the stack was obviously picked through, or was irretreviably broken. Her building was locked, her key did not work.

A Puerto Rican lady sitting on her stoop recognized Lydia and said, "Hey, you're that bitch whose meth lab they busted! Thanks a lot, loca weda, you fucking puta. I couldn't get into the house for 5 hours because of your shit. They're looking for you, hija de puta. The woman grinned smugly, evilly, self-satisfied.

Before anything else could happen, red and blue lights illuminated the scene.

 

[fuckmeat]

The huge security guard had left the bar, after collective antipathy towards him mounted enough for the bartender to start walking towards the payphone. Lydia breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn't been about to leave, it would make her too vulnerable. The bartender beckoned her over and fixed her a complimentary scotch, asking who the hell that black guy had thought he was. He was clearly in two minds about her.

"So... you a working girl or what? Don't see the likes of you in here and certainly not guys like that one. This is a respectable establishment... kinda. But you know what I mean, right?"

The penny finally dropped for Lydia; he thought she was a prostitute, that the black guy must be her pimp or some guy looking to hire her. She flushed and shook her head.

"No! Nothing like that. I work for MTV... well, I worked for them until this afternoon. That guy was security for a rockstar I was looking after today. He made some false allegations about me cause he was high and thought it was funny. I lose my job cause my boss is a starstruck moron. I went for a walk and wound up here. I don't know what they want, think he just wanted to mess with me. Brave though huh? To send his hired help in to insult me cause he won't do it himself?"

They chatted some more and Lydia had a few more drinks but eventually decided that was enough for her. She drank a coffee while the bartender called her a cab. She had to leave him a fake cellphone number to get away without pissing him off but soon she was in the cab and going home.

When she got there though, her key wouldn't work. The cab driver had already been paid and roared off down the street. Then the Puerto Rican lady came out. They had always smiled and said hi before but this time she was livid. Lydia realised all her stuff was on the sidewalk... well some of her stuff. It was all ruined. People had obviously taken anything that wasn't ruined. The Puerto Rican's window was illuminated by Lydia's bedside lamp. Bitch.

There had to have been a mistake. There was no fucking meth lab in her apartment, that much she knew for a fact. People didn't set up shit like that in an afternoon, surely?

Lydia saw the lights and considered running for less than a second but there was no point. She had no cash, her cellphone battery was low and this all had to be some kind of mistake. All she had to do was stick around and get everything straightened out with the cops... then sue them for destroying everything she owned.

Right?

 

[Commendatore]

Wrong.

The cops had that jovial, violent, "You-got-it-coming" vibe on.

The tall, dark-haired one spoke: "Well, well, Danny, looks like our pigeon has returned to the nest. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, are ya, sweetheart?"

The one he called Danny walked forward and grinned. "Put your hands against the car, Miss." There was broken glass in his smile, inhumanity in his eyes. His badge gleamed a bit too brightly.

Danny spoke again, "What did we bet on this, Tom? Was it a 6-pack? Or was it first choice?"

"How about both?", Officer Tom replied laughingly.

"Deal. This is gonna be a great night for you, Miss Bennett."

"You have the right to remain silent..."

Then under his breath so the Riqueña couldn't hear: "We hope you won't remain silent" Another hard smile.

"Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law..."

He finished the Miranda and cuffed her, just a tiny bit too roughly, but nothing actionable. Shoved her into the back of the car.

They drove to a burned-out warehouse a few blocks away. Danny turned and said through the shield, "Care to convince us to let you go, Miss Bennett? I'm sure we can work something out..."

 

[fuckmeat]

Lydia sat in the back of the cop car, vainly attempting to process the total destruction of her life. The cops even had her purse, which was basically all she owned in the world now. She hadn't had contents insurance for her shitty little apartment, simply hadn't been able to afford it on the crap MTV had been paying her. She did notice that they weren't going to the closest precinct but these were specialist drug cops with the power to nuke everything she owned, they probably had special offices somewhere or something. Asking them where they were taking her proved to be unproductive.

Lydia had never had any kind of run in with the law before. She wasn't certain of her rights or what the process would be . What she knew about law she'd gleaned from TV shows, like most respectable citizens. Certain facets of entertainment law she was familiar with but that would hardly be much help to her now.

She twisted her wrists in the cuffs. They hadn't bothered to put a seatbelt on her and she felt vulnerable swaying around in the back of the car as they drove through town. Her wrists ached because she had to lean back against them, pressing them into the seat. Her thin frame meant that there was nothing to cushion her from the cold steel. Finally they turned off the road and Lydia peered out of the window, totally bewildered. There was nothing in sight but a warehouse that had recently burnt down, she'd seen the pictures in a local paper. Did they think this warehouse had some connection to her alleged meth lab? Why else would they be here?

"Where are we?" She asked, trying to sound more insistent than she felt. "Why have you brought me here?"

"Care to convince us to let you go, Miss Bennett? I'm sure we can work something out..."

"What!?"

This was all wrong. Cops didn't let people who ran meth labs off with a wrist slap. Cops didn't drive suspects to deserted warehouses. Cops weren't supposed to be so mean and nasty to her, they had protocols to adhere to if they didn't want their asses sued off.

Lydia lifted her gaze miserably to the metal bars between her and the cops in the front seats. The guy addressing her was openly leering. It finally dawned on Lydia what they wanted to 'work out.'

It had been such a surreal day that Lydia's mind wandered back to Damon Graves. What if these two brutes were part of another stunt of his? Try as she might though, Lydia couldn't make herself buy it. The kind of childish little media brat who would accuse her of being a starstruck slut and then send one of his goons to insult her in public just didn't seem sophisticated enough for a set up this elaborate. Lydia shoved Damon Graves to the back of her mind. She couldn't risk letting that anger spill over into this situation and this had nothing to do with the retard cokehead. This was just officially the worst day of her life and she would simply have to get through it.

"I told you guys there had to be a misunderstanding. I haven't been in that apartment since 7am when I went to my job at MTV. There was no meth lab in there this morning. And before you ask, the Hispanic woman who was outside the building when you got there told me you had found a fucking meth lab in my place. I'm telling you that's completely impossible. I'll take any kind of test, I haven't been exposed to illegal drugs of any kind. Do I look like a meth-head? On second thoughts, don't answer that. If you can't tell my apartment from some crack den , your powers of deduction clearly need some work. I have recent pictures featuring that apartment on facebook! There were no illegal drugs there!."

Lydia realised she was yelling now and forced herself to lower her tone to a more respectful one.

"There has to be some way of convincing you guys that this was a total mistake."

 

[Commendatore]

"There has to be some way of convincing you guys that this was a total mistake."

"The mistake was all yours, Miss Bennett", Officer Tom said. "You seem to have irritated someone. We're here to help sort that out. See, we're not cops. We just, uh borrow their stuff once in a while. It all works out. The real Tom and Danny are getting sucked off at a strip joint downtown, and a contribution to their retirements. We're just violent misogynists who enjoy hurting women, especially stuck-up pretty ones who are in deep, deep trouble the way you are."

Officer Danny spoke next. "So, we can do this several ways. You can give us what we want, or we can hurt you. Or, you can give us what we want, and we can still hurt you. Or we can hurt you and then take whatever we want. The way I understand it, we're not going to be your only date tonight, so you might want to think long and hard about the next words out of that cocksucking mouth of yours."

He smiled with that overly happy, theatrical smile that no one ever believes.

 

[fuckmeat]

"You seem to have irritated someone."

Her lips parted into a perfect 'O' is incredulity as Lydia finally realised what was going on here. Her mouth shut just as quickly when the man spelled out what was going to happen to her. She gazed out of the car windows but could discern nothing through them and she knew without being able to find out that the rear doors would be locked.

"That fucking asshole!" She yelled, losing the plot completely now. "All this because Damon fucking Graves destroyed my career and didn't like getting a piece of my mind? This is insane! The man is a fucking psycho! Don't you dare touch me, either of you! Let me out of this car! Let me go!"

She was kicking the window with her booted feet now, trying to bust it so she had an escape route. Lydia didn't have anywhere to go but that was immaterial, she sure as hell didn't want to be here. She had to find some real cops and tell them everything that had happened to her.

They didn't react to her little display, at least not at first. Lydia eventually fell still and quiet, finally realising that she was pissing them off and exhausting herself for no reason whatsoever.

"Please let me go." She begged quietly, her voice now quiet and respectful.

 

[Commendatore]

The fake Tom and Danny smiled at each other.

Getting out of the front, they opened both back doors at once, sealing any exit, and got in, pressing Lydia to the center. Only then did she smell the chloroform. Lights Out.

They drove to the address Damon had given them. Meatpacking district. Clubs, restaurants, warehouses, lots of noise.

They drove in through a garage entrance that went right to the dock, and took her inside where Aaron showed them. A heavy wooden Morris chair with restraints and a large wooden table with bolts and a rack of hardware stood in the room, all else was bare. The bodyguard smiled and motioned to them as if to say, 'Make yourselves comfortable".

Lying Tom and Danny secured her to the table, cut off her clothes with hunting knives, and made themselves very, very comfortable in her. She woke up screaming somewhere in the middle.