AREA 47

SECTION 89:

COURTNEY, Chapter 56

The Sidekicks multiplied like rabbits.  There were now 4 of them in Lauren’s dorm room.  December 1993, the exotic Oriental.  January 1994, the anserine fellatrice.  October 1993, a shy, silent & awkward Courty-cut redhead, who lived there on the other bed with two strange girls now sitting on it, and did not know how to make everyone leave so she could sleep.  November 1993, a semi-wild, unregulated drunk.

“Has anyone heard of Linda Starr?” Courty asked them.

“A cheap actress.  She’s done some TV, and soft porn.”

“She’s the mistress of some rich clown out in Malibu,” the blond Sidekick said.  “He makes her wear a beeper!”

“A beeper?!”

“That ain’t all, Marty,” the pinked ’Kick said. “Christina Hardwick wears a beeper too!  Same clown.”  Her head swayed, her eyes blinked long and slow, dragging open.

“Who is he?” asked Jan ’94.

Nobody knew.  Nobody except Courtney, whose coked-up mind was roaring through the evening, tripping over a horrible paranoid thought.  Her whole skin chilled and then inflamed like a gasoline bath ignited!  He Wouldn’t DARE!  Would he?

Lauren tapped Courty on the shoulder.  She said, “Griffin has that underground RAM-BAM video playing in his Movie Room.  I’d kinda like to see it, to see what all the fuss is about.  Courty, I don’t know HOW that awful lie about you got started.  But everyone who’s seen it tells me the flick is JUST AMAZING, that it’s done so good that the people can’t be acting, that Buffy really . . .” she giggled, “. . . Bites His Pecker Off And Spits It Out!  You wanna go see it?”

Not missing a beat, recovering from a ONE-TWO Punch, Courtney shouted: “I’m starved!  How do I get some eats?  I haven’t eaten since 4:30 on the plane!”

“Caviar!”

“Lobster!”

“No,” Courty shouted.  “Pizza!”

“Pizza??  But you can order ANYTHING here.  Free!”

“I don’t care.  Have what you want, I want pizza.”

“Let’s go wake up the kitchen.”

“Hey they’re ALWAYS awake . . .”

The girls galloped.

“Whew!” the redhead sighed, when everyone left.  Now she could get some sleep.

|

Having extricated themselves from the Rock & Roll Room, they sorted out the who’s who of it all: Rolf Bruderer, Estelle Moreau, Byron Reed, Giles Griffin.  GG’s bod-guards not far off.  Giles was in a gaming mood from the instant Reed mouthed the word Risk, but he was still bona fide BATTY with Estelle enthusiasm.

“How can I get a message to someone who’s somewhere else at this mansion?” Reed asked Giles Griffin.

Giles held his hand straight up, snapped his finger, and a servant rushed to the rescue.

Reed told her, “Courty the supermodel is around here somewhere, probably in the Sidekick dorm with Lauren Chase.  Tell her we can go if she wants to go, or we can stay if she wants to stay.  Tell her I’ll be with Griff, playing Risk.”

The servant-girl smiled and nodded, twirled around, and put her hips on cruise control as she swung them a sweet, righteous inch to each side with every step.

“That’s right!” Griff said.  “You’re her boyfriend.  Ah-HAH.  Here’s the man who can answer the Question Of The Nineties.  Is Courty, Buffy Buns?  I got the video.  We can go watch it, and then you can give us the true scoop!”

“I’ve got my own copy,” Reed said.

Everyone was looking at him expectantly.

“But you didn’t answer the $256,000 dollar question.”

“She isn’t.”

“Now why is it that I don’t believe you?” Griff said.

Reed just shrugged his shoulders.  “I still think your bed is hydraulic.  And I bet it flies too.”

“Don’t be absurd, Giles,” Estelle said.  “When Reed found her, Courty was a mousy, librarian type, probably a virgin.”

“Griff!  Call me Griff!  Please.”

“All right, Griff.  Reed, wasn’t Courty living at home with her mother when you found her; writing short stories?”

Reed nodded. “I’m not sure who found who, but yes.”

Estelle said, “She’s had no time to make any pornographic movies.  Or any movies, for that matter.  She’s been offered a seven figure sum for the supporting role in the movie I’m working on now.  She turned it down!”  She looked straight at Reed with a smile.  “The silly little bitch!”

|

Red sleeping Courty-cut hair, all over the pillow, the dreamy, freckled face being shook awake.

“Huh?  What?  What do you want?”  She dragged her eyes open.  Light from the hallway, a bright stab down across her bed.

“Sorry to wake you,” the servant girl asked.  “Do you know where Courty is?”

“Aaaaaaaah . . . no.”

“Was she here?”

Sleepy sigh.  “Yes.”

“Where did she go?”

Redhead yawn, puffy with freckles.  “Pizza.”

“What?”

“Pizza.  She was hungry.  Go away.”  She turned her head to escape the light and the inquisition.

“Where did she go?  The main kitchen?  The dining area?  The——”

“I don’t knooooow!  Leave me alooooone!”

Slowly, too slowly, sleep descended.

“Aaaaah . . .”

|

Courty & Lauren pigged out with the pizza.  Primo Pepperoni.  Courty really was starved.

The Chinese girl had a lobster feast in front of her at the monster-length table in the picture-perfect lovely Third Dining Room.  The oral expert was spooning Russian caviar, right next to her.  The gravelled girl had a Jack Daniel’s; no ice, no glass; 750 ml of the good Dr. Jack.

A waiter/butler watched over their table.  Festivities were also going on across the room at two other tables.

Without the formidably possessive Byron Reed, who glared daggers at any would-be wanna-be and routinely beat up any male within punching distance, Courty, like a catalyst, precipitated weirdness.

A team of sportsmen tried to make the move on the girls, modulated by Courty wanna-bes unable to keep their cool.

Courty signed for the snivelers while she shoveled slices; chewing her food, not conversing with fools.  Lauren was getting a laugh a bite.  The boys were not to be put off, or put down, so they sat down.  4 of them!  They were welcomed with Eastern enthusiasm, Courtney discourtesy, free promissory French tricks, Lauren laughter, and Irish inkypoo.

Courtney ate barbarously.  The thought that the film that had been made of her gang-rape was now showing here at the Sportsman Mansion . . . she was terminally grossed out by it; that and the knowledge that there was a new edited version out that showed her biting off the man’s penis.  She wondered how recognizable she was in this new version . . . She shivered for a moment.

Courty looked around, and her eyes narrowed as she spotted the bubblegum bombshell with the boots & beeper.   At another table with one other girl; they were just quietly sitting there, looking bored, perhaps listening to the maniacally noisy group at the table behind them.  Without so much as a preamble to Lauren, Courty shot over there, wiping her face on the way.

“Linda,” Courty said.

Linda Starr and the other girl looked up at Courty, who stood opposite them.  “Hello, Courty,” Linda said.  Her voice was lazy, negligent; the syllables almost inert, nearly not making it out into the air.  Her smile: impudent.

At that moment Courtney could feel that all her jealous paranoia was false and foolish.  It was just too ludicrous.  The idea!  Reed having a couple of mistresses that he kept on call?  Poppycock!  And never THIS GIRL.  Courty knew instinctively that Reed would never be attracted to Linda.

But Courty was bold with energy, her thinking vital, clear——or so it seemed to her——and her thoughts danced around the encounter to find the effective cluster of words that would achieve certainty.

Courty pulled up one of the $5000 dollar chairs, and sat across the $40,000 dollar table, facing $365,000 dollar Linda Starr.

“I think Reed wants to have a session with you girls tonight.  But I don’t think he has the telephone number with him.  He doesn’t have his little book.  Could you give the number to me, please?  I’d like to surprise him.”

Linda laughed, and said, “456-3071.”

COURTNEY, Chapter 57
 

Copyright 2005 Area 47