Three, Two, One (321)

When the desktop comes up, there are only three file folders to choose from. One is called In progress. One is called Completed. And one is called Blue.

The satisfaction that I get from having him figured out evaporates when I double-click the file and images come up in a cascade of windows.

What the fuck is this?

I really expected a note. Hey, Blue, I got your number, you snoopy bitch. I’m normal, JD is normal. Now be a good girl and open your legs and wait for us on the bed.

That note is not a bad way to go. I’m just saying.

But that’s not what this is at all. These are the photos he was looking at the other day when I was in here. Beautiful, retouched photos. Black and white artsy photos that have the lights and shadows manipulated in such a way that you only see what he wants you to see.

And they are not just of me, but all three of us. Dozens and dozens of them in the tub. Ark on one side, JD, with me in his arms on the other. The steam from the hot water obscuring our faces, but not the intentions of the people.

Most of them are blurry, because he was using a long exposure time to capture the light bouncing off the mist in the air, and we were moving around. But there are enough in focus to fall in love with this newly discovered artist side of the strait-laced wannabe.

“Goddamn,” I whisper. “Could you be any more perfect?”

There are also several videos of that scene out on the terrace where they both had their fingers inside of me.

Those make me wet. No. Those make me throb.

I wonder how far Ark wants to take this threesome stuff. He doesn’t act bisexual at all. JD I can see. He seems more open.

Maybe because he’s a porn star, stupid.

Right.

I close all the windows and open up the other folder called In progress. This one has two movies with last Sunday’s date. The day JD brought me home. The day he made these movies with us in the tub.

My jealousy kicks in because these movies are of a girl sucking off Ark, not JD.

Asshole.

Why this ticks me off, I’m not sure. But it does. I open the attached documents to see if I can find out who she is, and there is one contract and the sum she was paid. Ten thousand dollars.

Jesus Christ. If I had an ID I could make one movie and go home.

No, my mind interrupts. I can’t go home until I find Janine and write this story.

The girl’s name is Lanie Porter. She’s thirty-two, redhead, blue eyes, and she looks like a hooker. Gross.

OK, I’m done with the desktop folders. It’s all on the up and up. He’s got contracts, STD tests, and photocopies of their driver’s licenses. It’s obvious to me that Ark’s real business is not this public fuck porn. Because that’s all legitimate and I just know that deep down, he’s as illegitimate as they come.

I check the hard drive for more folders, but there are none. Which means he uses this computer for personal stuff and maybe the initial steps in the digital record chain, and then all the files get transferred somewhere else.

I look over at the three tall filing cabinets that look like expensive pieces of modern art made of steel, wire, and glass.

No. That’s too easy. He wouldn’t keep paper records. Would he?

Obviously if one has filing cabinets—custom-made filing cabinets, no less—one keeps files in them. I pull on the latch on the stainless steel box but it’s locked.

I try each one, but nope. They are all locked.

If this was a nineteen-twenties gumshoe movie where the reporter was the heroine, I’d find the key in the oversized desk drawer. But the desk has no drawer and even if it did, I’d never find the key in there. Because the lock on those filing cabinets requires a fingerprint and a code.

“OK, then,” I say to myself as I walk out of his office and slide the doors closed behind me. “Operation Ambush Ark is over.” I’ve got nothing but an unsettled feeling about those pictures of us. It was like… it was like… he was creating something from it. But I’m not sure what.

I shake it off. Because that stuff was personal and if I want to know personal stuff, I’ll have to ask him myself. So I walk down the hallway to JD’s bedroom and then flick the lights on before entering.

JD’s room has the same custom furniture as Ark’s office, and the rest of the house, for that matter. Steel boxes instead of cabinets. Cables and wires to add to the industrial effect. And glass. But there are some subtle differences between the two rooms.

One, JD is not neat like Ark. His shit is all over the place. And two, he’s not nearly as worried about security. Because he’s got porn everywhere. Most of it is him getting his dick sucked by these random girls. Girls who look a lot more enthusiastic than that one blowing Ark, that’s for sure. And JD is animated and talkative in his starring roles. He pulls their hair and slaps their faces. He always makes them come, too. It’s just fingering, but hey, it counts.

Ark never acted like that with the woman in his movies. And that makes me feel better for some reason.

JD, for being the guy who does all the acting, has plenty of cameras in his possession. Big expensive ones with zoom lenses. Small pocket-sized ones. Video cameras, everything from a professional one that goes on your shoulder, to a little hand-held hiding in the back of a knocked-over stack of video games.

The cameras all have photos of him and girls on them. Some sexual, some not. Just random conversations with people.

But this little hand-held video camera has more than forty hours of video on it. All of it is of JD, and none of it has girls. Because it’s a video diary. The last entry was five days ago. The day he met me.