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Hollywood Sinners
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LA, Summer 2009

If Nancy Dagarro knew anything, she knew that men were simple creatures. It didn`t take much to make them believe they were the victim, and, eventually, the victim always talks.

Jimmy Hart was no exception.

`Your wife`s away so much,` she sympathised. `It`s no wonder you get lonely.`

`Hey,` he teased as they arrived at the Bel Air mansion he shared with Kate diLaurentis, `keep it down or my neighbours`ll want a piece of you next.`

The thrill was totally part of it. You could tell.

`Don`t worry,` she replied, `I`m careful.` He thought she was drunk. She wasn`t. In the past, at the beginning, she`d tried it; nervous, then, about securing what she needed and frightened at the cost at which it came. Over time, she`d learned to be strong. It had always been in her, a strength born long ago, and now she was learning to use it.

Inside, the place was as Nancy had expected. She`d read about it - Kate and her Perfect Hollywood Pad. Perfect except for a husband who was sleeping around.

`Want a drink?` he asked, fixing her one anyway. He was swaying on the spot, just a bit but enough for her to know the sex would be mercifully quick. This was the worst part: the waiting, the not knowing how much he`d take, what kind of a lover he was, the extent of his private desires. But Jimmy Hart was worth the risk: her scoop would be, at last, the evidence that broke him. He used women; it was about time a woman used him back.

How far would she have to go?

You`ve already crossed the line. On this side, there were no boundaries.

No doubt Jimmy had hit the bars in celebration of his wife`s absence. By the time Nancy had tracked him down in a joint on Venice, unshaven in a baseball cap, liquor in hand and a perky brunette bobbing on his knee, it was clear he intended to make the most of it. The club wasn`t a typical celebrity haunt - he`d been clever to source it, she cleverer to find him out. Within minutes, the invitation came. What do you say we get out of here. It was never a question. The brunette scowled at her: in all ways Nancy was superior, like a photograph sharpened into focus.

Like a lot of movie stars, he was unexceptional to look at, extremely photogenic but in real life quite ordinary. Not like her. At twenty-five, Nancy Dagarro was exotic in her beauty, with inky black eyes and hair the colour of grit-thick coffee. Sure, he preferred blondes, but the hair did it for all guys. Her trademark: a dark, untamed lash, quicker than the wind.

`Should we take this upstairs?` she purred now, touching her lips to the drink. It was potent. She wasn`t about to get wrecked - not when there was a job to do. In this kind of game, focus was everything.

Jimmy slipped his hands round her waist, squeezed her ass too hard. `That`s a little conventional for an unconventional girl.`

She hated it when they made judgements about her. They knew shit about her life, the road that had brought her here.

`What did you have in mind?` she challenged.

Roughly, he kissed her. He tasted of whisky, sweet and strong. Immediately she was aware of his hard-on - how could she miss it? She`d heard about Jimmy`s size, no wonder he imagined there was more than enough to go around.

A*****e.

They stumbled through to the kitchen, his hands buried in her hair and his tongue buried in her mouth, where he thrust her back against the breakfast bar. Things were moving quickly - just the way she liked it. The sooner this was over, the sooner they could get down to business.

Slowly, with purpose, she placed her purse on the side.

Jimmy tore her clothes, sucking and biting like a man possessed. He was tough, wanted to push her to her limits and only retreat when she called his name, told him he was too hot, too big, too much. Part of it.

`Suck me off,` he commanded, dropping his pants. His c**k sprang forth, a colossus.

Blow jobs were strictly out of bounds. Nancy had her own reasons. She found herself unable to look at it, this weapon he brandished, fierce and stiff and ready to make her gag.

`I want you in me,` she breathed, reclining and parting her legs. A decoy, and he was too thick, too overcome with desire, to notice. She stroked herself - the only act that had ever brought her pleasure, if truth were told - and watched his face slacken with wanting.

It was all the encouragement he needed. As Jimmy pounded enthusiastically into her, Nancy turned her head and blankly observed the crystal fruit bowl on Kate diLaurentis`s breakfast bar. Through quivering frames it was impossible to tell if the fruit was real or some high-priced fakery the woman had sourced from a downtown boutique. Real or fake, fake or real. Was there a difference? Did it matter?

She had underestimated him. Jimmy was an animal, his stamina undeadened by alcohol. Flipping her round, he took her from behind, slapping her ass and pulling her hair. In the window she saw his bucking reflection cut out against the night - he did too. He was raising one arm, admiring it, flexing it; now both, f***ing her and himself at the same time.

Nancy thought of the bigger picture. Always think of the bigger picture.

She was here for a reason, and that reason was to get dirt on this bastard.

Thanks to her, Star Confidential would be the only rag in town with the story. They`d keep the evidence, wait it out till the moment was right - Jimmy`s new movie, Kate`s new fashion venture, an issue over the kids - before unleashing the goods. Everybody knew Kate diLaurentis paid through the balls to keep these things quiet.

Because, of course, everybody knew that Jimmy was at it 24/7 with a string of women - girls, mostly - who weren`t his wife. Until now, there`d been nothing to back it up: Hollywood was rife with slander but it was proof that counted. Nancy was about to get it.

At last, he came. Deflating against her, he heaved and panted like he`d run for hours.

`That was incredible,` he groaned. `Was it good for you?`

Nancy suspected he couldn`t give a crap if it was good for her or not - and it hadn`t been.

`Amazing,` she lied.

Satisfied, he withdrew, expertly slipping off the condom, tying it and tossing it in the trash. He kicked the can towards the door, a reminder to take it out.

`Let me go freshen up.` Nancy threw him a coquettish glance. She pulled on her jeans. `Where`s the bathroom?`

Naked, Jimmy opened the refrigerator door. He stood surveying its contents, eventually selecting a carton of yoghurt. She prayed he was only intent on eating it.

`Hmm?`

`The bathroom,` she repeated, smoothly collecting her purse.

He must have caught on a barb in her tone, a change from the girl he`d brought home. He frowned. `Down the hall, second left, third door on the right.`

There, at the sink, Nancy washed her hands, scrubbing them thoroughly. She did the same to the rest of her body and tied back her hair. From her bag she took a toothbrush, slathered it generously in paste and brushed her teeth.

Next, the voice recorder. Concealed in the lining of her purse, it was invisible to a target - even if the worst were to happen and he went through her belongings. Listening for Jimmy, satisfied he must still be in the kitchen, she extracted it and turned the volume right down.

Rewind. Click.

The sounds of Jimmy pummelling into her, his grunts and shouts interspersed with her own muffled gasps. With some men she was forced to ask them to say her name, pretend it was a turn-on, but with Jimmy there was no need, he did it anyway. Staking his claim.

She forwarded, set the tape to begin recording once more. Detached, matter-of-fact, it was the way to get s*** achieved. Nancy met her own image in the mirror and stared down her demons: the voices that questioned her integrity.

At first, she`d paid other women to do it, hookers in need of a buck, all too happy to take the equipment and give it their best shot. Only that became too much of a risk. Some recordings got scratched; some didn`t take at all; some acted so jumpy they messed the whole thing up.

And so, six months back, she had made the decision to do it herself.

Her editor could never find out - no one could. She was a reporter, a professional.

A professional liar.

They`d never understand. Sex was no big deal. It was one of her strengths, her body an asset she was prepared to employ to secure the things she wanted. Nancy neither enjoyed nor disliked it; all it had ever been was a means to an end. She was good, she played the part, knew what to do to make them come quickly and when they came it was over. What she didn`t like was when they insisted on pleasuring her, because she found no pleasure in it.

How could she . . . after the commune? After she had learned what it meant to close her body off at the sound of approaching footsteps. After she had discovered that flesh and soul were two different things. Separate. They could take her body but that was as far as it went.

Not all leads were interested in getting her undressed. Back at the Hollywood homes they shared with their wives and kids, they wanted her to dance. They wanted to get loaded. They wanted to touch her hair. They wanted her to listen, for the one thing stars had in common was that they talked about themselves. Sometimes, they wept because riches couldn`t buy happiness. Sometimes, she held them and murmured empty assurances. Most wanting action wanted head, but not once had she obliged. Never that.

Nancy achieved results. Her position was growing at the paper; her reputation was soaring. In the thirty months she had worked for Star Confidential, she had brought to their door sensational exposés of the likes they had never seen. How had she done it? The only logical way, she told them: by going straight to the source. That was all they needed to know.

Replacing the machine, Nancy slung her bag over her shoulder and exited the bathroom.

Jimmy was in the lounge, sprawled across the couch, a tumbler of dark liquid in his hand. He was still exposed, his d*** half-hard, and she hoped he wasn`t going to want another go. She had stage one locked down - now she had to hear him seal his own fate.

`Come here,` he instructed, patting the seat next to him. His eyes were swimming now, an hour, maybe, from passing out.

She obliged, holding her bag in her lap, contained - prim, even - after their liaison. Her apparent shyness made him reach for her. Tonight she was Rachel, one of her invented girls, her fictitious backgrounds - Rachel had the picket-fence upbringing - because she sensed Jimmy Hart was a man who liked a good girl. For other men she would adapt: some liked her wild, or sad, or broken. In reality she was all of these things.

`Want me to f*** you a different way?` he growled, taking her hand and leading it to his d***. For men like Jimmy, it was about ego. Touching her body was one thing; having her touch his, an assurance he still had the magic, was entirely another.

`I want you again,` he declared. `Get on your knees.`

`Do you like all the girls as much as me?` Nancy asked, playing the innocent, the insecure. She hated the ring of obsequiousness but used it as an excuse to withdraw her hand.

Jimmy grinned - he was accustomed to women demanding his undivided attention.

`Just you,` he replied, reclaiming her fingers.

`Am I the best?` she breathed. `Tell me I`m better than the others.`

`You`re the best,` he choked.

`Am I better than your wife?`

His eyes were screwed tight, his face reddening, slipping and sliding in her grasp. He`d tell her anything right now. Who cared if it was the truth?

`Better than Kate,` he panted. `Better than anyone.`

`Do you want to see me again, Jimmy?`

`Yeah. Every f***ing day.`

`What about when your wife`s home?`

`I`ll find a way. I`ll find a—`

`You promise?`

`I promise I`ll— F**!`

He came fiercely. Nancy pulled her palm away in time and a jet of it spurted across the room and slashed across a photo of him and Kate on their wedding day.

She smiled. `That`s all I wanted to know.`

Jimmy collapsed back against the cushions, exhausted. His arm dropped down by his side and knocked over the tumbler of brandy. Promptly, he began to snore.

Back in the kitchen, before she left, Nancy helped herself to a drink from the refrigerator. She stood by the window, looking out at the black night, until she felt better.

Kate`s fruit bowl caught her eye. She reached for an apple, lifted it and saw it was made of glass. The fragility made her want to smash it.

Instead she ran her thumb across its blood-red surface before, carefully, putting it back.

*

There was no need to see him again. Nancy supplied the tape and her report to Star Confidential the very next morning. She had a new lead to pursue, another A-list powerhouse doing the dirty on his girl. There was work to be done.

Even if Jimmy wanted to find her, he`d never be able to. Hers was a different name, a separate identity: he`d be chasing a shadow.

It might be months; it might be years. But when the time came, Nancy Dagarro would pass the newsstand and see her article and feel that, in some small way, justice had been done.

She wasn`t afraid of Jimmy Hart. She wasn`t afraid of any man.

Revenge.

A private smile, and she would dissolve into the crowds, lonely as a ghost.

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