Suckers - Jack Kilborn [75]
She eventually graduated from TV bit player to a guest shot as a bikini-clad Baywatch lifeguard killed by a ferociously horny jellyfish. And that led to her first direct-to-video thriller, Torrid Embrace, and that led to another, and another, and now, if she wasn’t careful, she was on her way to being the next Shannon Tweed or, worse, Tanya Roberts.
It’s a living, she told herself. And she was the star. But deep down she knew that if it were at all possible, she would get second billing behind her breasts. All she wanted to be was a serious actress. And all anybody else seemed to want from her was a stiff pair of nipples.
The director, in desperation, had already dropped the temperature in the soundstage to near freezing, but complaints from the crew and the foggy breath of the actors made him reluctantly give up on that approach.
Satisfied that his writhing and wincing were Oscar caliber, Thad Paul tore himself away from his celluloid orgasm and looked up from the monitor. “Are you ready yet?”
Sabrina glared at him, a man she detested, a man who would soon be nuzzling her cleavage like a baby and getting paid for it. Is doing porno any different? The writing is much better, she told herself, and she’s working with real actors.
She glanced at Thad again. Okay, the writing is better.
The special effects man studied her breasts. “The soldiers are still at ease.”
“We need ’em hard enough to cut diamonds,” the director said. “The audience has to know she’s hot and bothered, and spraying her cleavage with sweat isn’t enough.”
She closed her eyes. I’m not doing porno. This is an erotic thriller. Porno is all about the sex. These movies have a plot. There’s murder, there’s passion, there’s angst. Even the big studios are doing movies like this, so it can’t be porn, right? Look at Basic Instinct. Was that porno? Hell no, it was an erotic thriller. Like this. It’s not just about sex. Click your heels together, Dorothy, and repeat after me: It’s not just about sex. It’s not just about sex.
“How about I stick an ice cube in my mouth and caress her boobs with it,” Paul asked the director. “We could even work it into the scene.”
“It’s been done,” the director said. “9½ Weeks.”
“How about a frozen Tater Tot,” Paul suggested. “I’ve never seen that.”
Sabrina opened her eyes and came to a realization. Tater Tots weren’t going to do it. Neither were Eskimo pies, frozen peas, or a couple of waffles. Her nipples were trying to tell her something.
She abruptly got up from the pool table, startling the effects man, and grabbed her shirt, pulling it over her chest.
“It’s a wrap,” she said.
“But we haven’t done the close-up of your heaving breasts,” the director said.
“Steal a shot from Passion Play, no one will know the difference,” she said, heading for the exit and the safety of her trailer.
“You walk out of here, babe, you’ll never work again,” Thad called after her. “You’ll be finished in this biz.”
She should be so lucky. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but it wouldn’t be more of this.
Sabrina Bishop was going to change her life. But she had no way of knowing that if she wasn’t extremely careful, she stood a good chance of losing it.
One Adam-12, a 211 in progress… One Adam-12, a 415 man with a gun… One Adam-12, a 415 fight group with chains and knives.
Twelve years as a cop, and Sergeant Charlie Willis still thought of Officers Reed and Malloy when he saw a black and white. Even when it was his own. That’s what you get growing up in front of a television set.
He could also thank his mother. Married four or five times (the validity of the Tijuana ceremony was still being hotly debated), and each new hubby was a bigger deadbeat than the last. If they weren’t beating on his mother, they were making moves on Zoe, his early-blooming younger sister. So Charlie found himself unwillingly cast in the role of family cop. By the time he was eighteen, he had subdued so many drunken stepfathers, wife beaters, and would-be