Fresh Off the Bus

The time had come.

* * *

"We have to talk."

Amberly stopped and swiveled on her heels to face her boyfriend. They were at his condo in Hollywood, having arrived there after a pleasant, if strangely quiet lunch at the Ivy (complete with paparazzi and admiring onlookers). He was sitting on the couch, a sober expression on his face, but it was his tone more than anything (hesitant and uncomfortable, which he never was) that let her know immediately something was not right.

"What's wrong?" she asked, going to sit with him. His eyes were lowered and for the briefest instant, Betty's face flashed before her eyes.

"We have to talk," he said again.

She nodded. "Yes, you said that. What's wrong?"

He sighed and looked away from her. "I'm not very good at this, particularly when it's someone like you, who's actually a good person."

Amberly was nineteen and not very worldly, but she was not ignorant and nor was she oblivious, and for those reasons she knew what was probably happening, despite the surprise and disappointment that realization caused within her, not to mention the hurt.

Still, she had to hear it. "What are you trying to say, Parker?" she asked.

He looked at her, then looked away, then sighed yet again. "I don't think this is going to work out," he said finally.

Amberly was more than just surprised when she heard his words. She was shocked. Her heart was suddenly pounding in her chest and there was a fierce sort of ringing in her ears, and her face felt hot all over. She understood what was happening: she was getting dumped.

After less than a month.

After he fucked her butt silly that morning.

And with little in the way of any kind of warning.

"What do you mean?" she asked, voice wavering. She wanted to hear exactly what he meant.

He shrugged. "I just don't think this is going to work out," he said again. "You're beautiful and sweet, and genuine and kind, and I'm . . . I'm not any of those things."

Amberly frowned and for the first time felt her eyes began to itch. Soon, she knew, the tears would come. "Of course, you are," she countered.

"No," he said flatly, "I'm not."

She stared at him, confused. "I don't care if you don't see it yourself," she told him softly. It was clear he was unhappy, but Amberly did not understand his reasoning. "I like you, you like me, and that's all that matters."

Parker chuckled, and the tone of the sound shocked Amberly almost as much as the conversation they were having: there was no mirth in his laugh, none at all, just a heavy dose of condescension, and only one word came to mind to describe it. But in their time together Parker Wellington had never seemed like awickedsort of man.

He shook his head and sighed again; this time, though, the sigh was less melancholic and more exasperated. "I'm not the monogamous type," he told her. "Mostly, I just like to party and have lots of sex."

"Most guys do."

"True, but most guys don't have as much success as me. I can have any girl I want."

Amberly sat back and considered his words for a long time, as well as his actions over the course of their time together. "Was that all I was?" she asked in a whisper, a sick feeling rising in her stomach. She crossed her arms tight beneath her breasts like a barrier. "Were you with me just to fuck me?"

"No, of course not," he said with a dismissive wave, but for the first time since she had met him weeks ago in the restaurant, sadly and unfortunately, Amberly was not convinced by what he was saying.

The tears began to flow.

She cupped her face in her hands and cried for long moments, then lifted her head again and looked into his eyes. He seemed extremely uncomfortable and more than a little unhappy, and in that moment Amberly realized why: he was not unhappy because their short relationship was ending, he was unhappy because he had to go through thehassleof ending it. He wasinconvenienced, which made him uncomfortable, and he had todeal, which made him unhappy.

And through the tears and the hurt, those realizations added another layer of emotion to the state of Amberly Faye: anger. "I want you to say it," she demanded.

"I think it would be best if we didn't see each other anymore," the man answered, so quickly and surely it heaped more hurt on her. "I like you, Amberly; you're a sweet girl and beautiful, but some guys are just not boyfriend material. Some guys know how to be what women want them to be, at least for awhile, and that's me."

The whirlwind was over, Amberly thought ruefully as she listened to his words. It was her own fault, she knew; she should've listened to Betty, who told her exactly what would happen, and she should've listened to the saner side of her mind, which had always known it was true.

"Was anything real?"

Parker shrugged. "We had some good times, didn't we? We had a lot of fun together, right? You're a beautiful girl with an unbelievable body," he said, smiling then as if remembering one of the myriad times he'd sampled her flesh, "and our good timesdefinitelyoutweighed our bad."

Amberly stared at the man sitting before her. Parker Wellington had transformed before her very eyes; the man sitting with her now did not resemble the man she had come to know these past days and weeks, and she was beginning to realize the man she had come to know did not even really exist. There was Parker Wellington and there was the front Parker Wellington put on for her and others, the lies he told to lure girls in, and there was nothing in-between. Her tears were flowing freely, but she no longer cared if he saw them. She no longer cared what he thought.

"I need to be alone right now," she said in a low, hard voice. "Please leave."

He frowned. "This is my condo . . . " he began, but she cut him off.

"I need to be alone right now," she repeated. Her eyes were like daggers, her voice was even harder than before. "LEAVE."

Parker did not argue further. "I'm sorry you got hurt, Amberly," he told her as he rose to his feet, but he did not really sound sad at all; his voice sounded socasual, which infuriated her further. He continued to speak, digging himself deeper. Not, it was clear, that he cared. "I'm sorry things ended so suddenly, but it's the best way to do it. I'd like to think we're still friends. You can still come to me for help or advice or . . . anything you want. Just give me a call. Let yourself out when you want."

I'm sorryyougot hurt, not I'm sorryIhurt you; the man was utterly clueless. Amberly had a pretty good idea what he meant byanything you want, too: if you're horny and want to booty call an ex-boyfriend who fucked you and then fucked you over, give him a call.

"Goodbye, Parker," was all Amberly said, not looking at him anymore.

"Goodbye, Amberly," he said, and the door closed behind him.

* * *

Eddie heard the back door open and felt the car shake, and he looked into the mirror reflecting back through the divider to find his young boss slipping into the compartment, sunglasses down over his eyes.

"Sir?" Eddie asked, adjusting his black driver's hat.

The man did not answer, which was not uncommon. He flipped open his cell phone and punched in a number, and raised it to his ear. There was a short pause before he spoke.

"Where are you?" was all he said, and then, moments later, "I'll meet you at the yacht."

Eddie started the engine, anticipating, but waited for his actual orders before pulling away from the curb. It was protocol; too often young drivers assumed they knew where they were supposed to go, only to be proven wrong with as little as a curt reprimand or as much as walking papers.

"One hour," his boss said after another pause. "Overnight."

Eddie wondered just who the guy was speaking to. A girl, obviously, but it would take a soothsayer with a considerable laundry list of potential names to figure it out.

"I don't care," he snapped, "make it happen."

Another pause, and then the mystery was settled. Eddie should have known; those two young socialites were thick as thieves and twice as devious, and had been fucking on-and-off for as long as Eddie had been the limo driver. In fact, several of their sessions had gone down right in the back of the limo, to Eddie's great visual delight: the girl had an unbelievable body and an absolutely ridiculous ass.

"Oh, and Allegra?" the man had said. "Bring your lube."

"Sir?" Eddie asked again.

"The yacht," Parker Wellington said.

Which meant Eddie's assumption had been spot on.

* * *

It was nearing four in the afternoon when Amberly finally got home. She was not tired, but she was weary; crying and a great emotional expenditure tended to do that to a person.

She opened the door and trudged inside, and almost immediately heard the voice of her roommate. "Amberly!" the girl called as she sprung up from the couch. "What happened?"

"Nothing, nothing," Amberly said in a quiet voice as she set down her bag. "I'm fine."

Betty said sharply, "You're not fine. You've been crying. A lot."

"I know, but . . . "

Amberly trailed off. She met Betty's eyes and felt her lower lip begin to quiver, and just when she felt she was ready to be strong, another fresh wave of tears came unbidden to her eyes.

Betty softened. "Amberly?" she asked gently.

"You were right about Parker," Amberly wavered. "He's . . . not what I thought he was."

There was no hint oftold you soin Betty's face as she said, "Oh, Amberly, honey, I'm so sorry."

And so Amberly let her older, wiser roommate guide her over to the couch and fix her up on some pillows, and what followed could only be described as a good old-fashioned session of cry and comfort, Amberly effecting the former with Betty offering the latter, and after many tears and hugs, and many soulful sentiments, it was quite clear that Amberly, while hurting now, was a strong girl who would be more than alright in the end.

Betty was absolutely sure of it.

Epilogue: Planting Seeds

The man with the frizzy white hair picked up the phone. "Speak!" he ordered whomever it was as he rifled through a series of papers on his desk.

"Please hold for Mister Bullock Greene," a lovely female said on the other end of the line.

The white-haired man stopped rifling. He stopped tapping his feet. He stopped movement of any kind. It was a rare thing for Henry Talent to go completely calm, but such moments were, in fact, known to happen, particularly when he found himself face-to-face (or ear-to-ear, as it were) with genuine Hollywood power players.

Of which, Bullock Greene was most certainly one.

"Talent," a crisp male voice said after a time.

"Bullock," Henry said casually.

"I've met one of yours," the man revealed, "and I like her: Amberly Faye."

Henry was not surprised; after so many years in the business, it was very difficult to surprise him anymore. The girl was a household name in the industry after her dalliance with serial socialite Parker Wellington, which he had expected would help her, and she was gorgeous, which was an absolute requirement. His little southern belle might make it, after all; the odds had been against her and Henry himself had not given her much chance, particularly after she voiced her objection to nudity, but it just went to show that in show business, you just never know.

"She's radiant," Henry extolled. "I've been getting calls left and right." It was a bit of an overstatement, but not by too much. The girl was definitely on the radar.

"Arrange a meeting," Bullock stated, as if Henry worked for him. It was the way of Hollywood big shots; take, take, take, and never ask. Henry was not offended; it was par for the course.

"I'll need further information before I advise my client to attend such a meeting," Henry returned. "Why don't we get together and discuss what kind of role you're thinking of."

There was silence on the other end, then, "I've got something special in mind for her. You need to know nothing more than that. Arrange a meeting, a private meeting between myself and Miss Faye, and I'll put three of your clients in my next movie. Nothing large, but speaking roles. You have my word."

The reply was a bullet and just as fast. "Done!" Henry Talent exclaimed.

And for the first time in a long time, the old man was absolutely stunned.

* * *

In the heart of his sprawling production complex, seated at his mahogany desk in a plush and custom-built leather chair, Bullock Greene set down the receiver of his office landline phone and flipped open his personal cellular.

He had three phones and a blackberry device, plus his hard office line and a line routed via satellite into his car, as well as two separate email accounts. Most of the apparatuses were business-related; the only personal communicative channels, in fact, were an email through hotmail and the flip-phone he was currently holding. Very few had knowledge of either.

He punched in the number and waited as three long rings passed.

"I knew you'd be calling," the voice on the other end of the line answered without preamble.

"You know my particular tastes," Bullock stated matter-of-factly.

The man chuckled. "Do you need my help?" he asked.

"No," Bullock informed him. "Plans are already in motion. This is a courtesy call."

"I see," the other said. "You owe me one, you know."

Bullock grinned, though no one was near to see it. "Perhaps," he allowed, "if I'm satisfied with the fruits of my efforts."

"I told you, Bull," Parker Wellington said with another chuckle, "the juice is worth the squeeze."

* * *

Parker Wellington tossed his phone onto the chair and sighed. He would miss Amberly Faye; the girl was gorgeous with a body unlike almost any other. He had wanted at least another few weeks to truly get her out of his system and sample all her delights, but it was not to be.

He sighed again and stripped off his jeans, and turned back to the bed to watch as the raven-haired girl wiggled her bottom at him. She was on her hands and knees, and way ahead of him.

"I'm ready for you, Parker," the girl purred lustily.

He did not reply, but made his way to the edge of the bed, his eyes taking in the whole of her rounded backside: her luscious rump, tight and firm and glorious; the quivering pink flesh between her legs, slick with need; and the rosebud above, crinkled and puckered, and unclaimed.

Parker grinned wickedly: until now, he thought, and moved forward to claim his latest prize.

End ofFresh Off the Bus by Jack and Josephine Cutter. A sequel is planned, following further the exploits of Amberly Faye. Future stories starring some or all of these characters might also be forthcoming based upon response and demand and characters featured herein may also be found in other works by the authors, published or forthcoming. Email feedback to the address in my profile.