Free Crush by Phoef Sutton

her.
    After all, it was what she was paying him for, wasn’t it?

EIGHT
    A t that time of night, it only took her about a half an hour to get from Bel Air to the Venice canals. Not the Italian ones, the California ones. Dug in 1904 by a tobacco millionaire with delusions of grandeur, they originally stretched through sixteen miles of charming cottages and waterways, spanned with arching bridges. Images of graceful boating from house to house fell prey to the practicality of the automobile, and most of the canals were filled in and converted to roads in the thirties. Six blocks were spared this improvement, more from neglect than a spirit of preservation. These six blocks of algae-covered, slug-infested waterways lay hidden and forgotten by all but the beatniks and the bohemians and the hippies until the housing boom of the nineties. Then they were spruced up, scrubbed off, and dredged—and, lo and behold, one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the greater Los Angeles area was born.
    Amelia piloted her Vespa along one of these canals,between a now-sparkling waterway on one side and fairytale cottages on the other. The houses had been built originally to identical specifications, quaint little summer cottages with porches and broad windows facing the canals, but the influx of money had recently caused them to grow as large as their footprints would allow. Only a few of the original cottages remained, dwarfed on either side by gargantuan neighbors, and it was to one of these that Amelia pulled up, doffing her helmet. The windows were blacked out from inside, but this didn’t seem to bother her as she dashed up the steps, slipped a house key into the lock, and opened the door.
    A blinding light from within greeted her. Rush stepped up from behind her, grabbing her arm. She looked at him with mild surprise. “Where did you come from?”
    Before he could answer, an annoyed voice came from inside the house. “Sis, you ruined the take!”
    It took Rush a second to adjust his eyes to the brightness that issued from the front door. Inside, the house was filled with all manner of lighting equipment, all pointing toward a poorly dressed set that Rush guessed was supposed to represent an office, judging from the desk, phone, and filing drawers. Two women in tight-fitting business suits looked toward the door in mild annoyance, which was nothing compared to the look of downright pissed-off-ness on the face of the man between them. Who was naked. And sportingan enormous erection.
    Rush spun Amelia around and covered her eyes.
    Amelia brushed his arm away. “Jesus, you act like I’ve never seen a wang before.”
    Rush was about to say that he didn’t care what she had seen before but there would be no wangs on his watch, when the naked man started yelling at another man who was holding a high-end video camera. “Damn it, Franklin,” the man yelled, his penis bobbing in time, “I thought you said this would be a professional shoot!”
    The cameraman was a kid, barely older than Amelia, with red hair and freckles. He looked like Opie in a perverted version of Mayberry. From his name Rush knew that he was Amelia’s brother. He defended himself vociferously. “It is! That’s the Money,” he said, pointing at Amelia. “Now come on, let’s do this!”
    The penis was drooping by now. “Aw, man, I lost my edge,” the naked man said, near tears. “I’m not a machine.” He turned to one of the lanky, dark-haired women next to him. “You want to help me out here?”
    The tall woman rolled her eyes, grabbed her bag, and strutted toward the door. She tossed her head back to taunt, “ Raz’yoba .”
    Rush addressed her in Russian, “ Kak dela ?”
    She spit at him on her way out, “ Yeb vas! ”
    Amelia flipped her the finger, then turned to her brother. “What are you doing here? This is my house, remember?! Mom