Faust's Folly

Author's note:

Please see Pt. 1 for blurb. And, if you haven't read Pt. 1 yet, I strongly recommend doing so before proceeding.

All sensuality (on page or otherwise) takes place between characters who are eighteen or older.

Ten

"Listen up, you contemptible bastard! I do not live by your leave. If I decide to take a break... or God forbid talk one of your most valuable talents out of telling you she's had it with your shit and is signing with a rival production company... then you can just hold your fucking horses until I'm goddamned good and ready to come rub elbows with your stupid flavor of the week. You got that!"

By the time the newcomer finished speaking, Wyatt's ears were ringing. Or, at the very least, he suspected they would be were it not for the fact that he had lost control over each of his senses (in addition to all higher brain functions) the moment he laid eyes on what was, without possibility of doubt, the most literally breathtaking woman he had even seen.

She had a commanding presence, no doubt aided by her unusual height (Wyatt suspected she was nearly as tall as his own one-hundred-eighty-five centimeters). She wore an outfit which announced to the world that she was not someone with whom it would not pay to trifle: a perfectly fitted, deep red pantsuit which projected an aura of strength while doing nothing to hide her undeniable curves. Her dirty blonde hair was pulled into a tight bun, and she wore wire-frame glasses which only served to highlight her bright cerulean eyes: an ensemble which effortlessly awakened a heretofore dormant teacher fantasy in his subconscious. Her voice, a sultry contralto, had a power to it which Wyatt had an instant, and undeniable, desire to hear screaming his name in the throes of passion.

He was brought, at least to a small measure, back to the moment when Scott growled, "How dare you speak to me like that!"

Without conscious thought, Wyatt leapt to his feet to place himself between the newcomer and what his baser instincts screamed was her attacker. Both of the office's other occupants seemed taken aback by his sudden movement, but Wyatt's glare was Scott alone. "You will lower your voice, sir," he seethed with barely contained rage. "And you will not speak to a woman using that tone in my presence."

Scott turned to face him, a look of vindictive superiority on his face. "Just who in the hell do you think you are!" He thumped his chest demonstrably. "I'm the boss around here. Not either of you. Me!"

Wyatt took two steps toward the desk, causing Scott to flinch visibly. The former lowered his voice before hissing, "I think we understand each other."

Scott's complexion paled somewhat, and he turned to the newcomer to stammer, "Ms. Mugello will handle all the details of getting you onboarded. Just let her know if you need anything at all."

Wyatt, anxious to leave Scott's office before he lost the last vestige of his self-control and did something regrettable (like possibly hurting his hand in the process of breaking Scott's nose), snatched his suitcases up without another word and walked toward the door. Ms. Mugello turned to stomp down the corridor, giving Wyatt plenty of opportunity to appreciate the fact that she was at least as compelling to gaze upon from the rear as any other direction. The flawless fit of her pantsuit left little doubt as to her preference in cut of underwear, or the intensity of her workout routine.

She entered a much smaller office and sank heavily into the chair behind the desk. Wyatt stowed his luggage just inside the door and stood before the desk trying very hard to ignore the tantalizing valley of her cleavage which was on full display from his vantage point.

She spent a long moment tapping away at her laptop, ignoring him altogether, before looking up and barking, "What!"

He offered what he hoped was his most charming smile. "Ms.... Mugello was it? I'm sorry, I didn't catch your first name."

"Perhaps because I didn't offer it. Please... sit down. I assure you that you'll have plenty of opportunity to leer at better compensated tits in the very near future."

Wyatt took a seat, a frown creasing his features. "I was not leering, Ms. Mugello. Merely awaiting an invitation to take a seat."

"Ah. You fancy yourself a gentleman, I see. Well, you can drop the act."

"Have you never considered the possibility that it isn't an act?" he asked somewhat defensively before falling quiet when he realized she had once again returned her attention to her laptop.

The silence gave him the chance to gaze around her office. It was notably spartan, containing neither the professional nor the personal touches he had come to expect from a modern woman's office. He did, however, spot a framed Bachelor of Fine Arts in Film Production from a reputable southern California university.

He squinted at it for a long moment before murmuring, "Amber Evans?"

She glared at him before turning to look at the wall above her, at which point she sighed wearily. "Fucking Scott always insists on me using my, quote, unquote, stage name even though I've never filmed a scene and I never will film a scene. I only put up with it because I think the glimmer of hope that I'll eventually cave keeps him from firing me when I tell him what a piece of shit he is."

"Would it then be reasonable to presume that you prefer to go by Amber?"

"Seeing as how our relationship, such that is it, will be exclusively professional, Ms. Mugello will do fine."

"Come now," he protested with a grin. "Surely there's no need to be so formal. Unless you intend to call me Mr. Magnussen. Even I can admit that's a bit of a mouthful."

"I don't intend to call you anything at all. Get this through your pea brain,Wyatt. My role here is to ensure that you are where you're meant to be, when you're meant to be there. I am neither your friend, nor your lackey. And I'm certainly not going to fuck you."

He bit back his initial retort, opting instead to focus his attention on preventing his outward appearance from conveying either his irritation or his attraction.

At length, she sighed heavily. "I'm sorry. You've done nothing to deserve that."

Wyatt accepted her apology with a conciliatory wave of his hand. "Think nothing of it. So, what exactly is entailed in this, quote, unquote, onboarding? I won't be made to fill out tax forms, I assume."

"Don't be preposterous," she replied with a wry chuckle. "I suspect our great Leering Feeder will attempt to convince the government that this is a joint venture. But that's between you and him. My job, at least as far as the authorities are concerned, is to ensure that you're legally able to film tomorrow." She glanced pointedly at his luggage by the door. "I don't suppose you rented a car."

Wyatt shrugged his shoulders. "I was assured all of those details would be handled for me. Speaking of which, to whom should I speak about recompense for the rideshare I had to get when the car I was promised at the airport failed to show."

She shook her head sadly. "They promised you a car?" He nodded, the disbelief plain on his face. She sighed wearily and pulled her handbag off the floor to extract her wallet.

"What are you doing?" Wyatt asked a bit too loudly.

"Reimbursing you. Scott doesn't even have an accounts payable department. Speaking of which, you should make sure you get whatever he promised you before you film a single scene. Otherwise, he's liable to become quite hard to track down."

"I won't take money from you that he owes me," Wyatt said firmly.

"Think nothing of it. I'll reimburse myself in my own way." She held up a corporate black card to make her point.

"I appreciate the offer. But I'll speak to Scott about it." He smirked before adding, "I can be quite persuasive when I put my mind to it."

She shrugged. "Whatever." She stood and slung her handbag over her shoulder. "Shall we?"

Wyatt stood as well and offered her his best smile. "After you."

***

***

"Welp!" the woman whom Wyatt had been instructed multiple times to only refer to as Ms. Mugello barked as they pulled up to a somewhat run-down mansion in the Hollywood Hills after an exhausting twenty-four hours of alternating between active indifference and aggravated impatience being directed toward him. "This is it. Last chance to back out with your dignity intact."

Wyatt looked over the house with a critical eye. "That ship sailed long ago. Any last-minute advice?"

"Nope," she replied quickly, popping the 'P'.

He turned to face her, steeling his resolve before he shifted to prevent his eyes from straying toward the alluring hint of cleavage the silk blouse she wore afforded. "Seriously? Despite your incredible resolve to give away nothing about yourself, it's pretty obvious you're quite familiar with this industry. Whatever sins you wrongly believe me to have committed, you certainly cannot pretend that I have done anything to you personally. I'd also remind you that the only women to ever say anything negative about me publicly were either pissed because I successfully sued her under New York's revenge porn laws, or they were nearly as annoyed as I was that my inheritance vanished since it meant I had to renege on my commitments to them."

"I still can't believe that the most lucrative case to ever make use of that statute had a man as the plaintiff."

"You think I wanted it that way?" he asked too loudly. "I just wanted the video taken down. I donated the money they made her pay in restitution."

"Yeah right. You can't honestly expect me to believe that a man who'd stoop to this," she indicated the house before them, "would donate three million dollars to charity!"

"Honestly, whether you believe me or not is immaterial. It is a matter of public record in any case." He pulled the door handle to open the door before adding, "I guess if you're really not going to give me any advice, then I can take it from here. Thanks for all your help."

Wyatt could not help but allow his parting comment to drip with sarcasm, despite the intense attraction he felt toward the woman beside him. He stalked to the back of the car and extracted his luggage before gently closing the boot lid and heading toward the house without looking back. Since he had become a multi-millionaire in the blink of an eye upon turning eighteen, Wyatt had dealt with countless assumptions made about him. Words like spoiled, privileged, and undeserving were amongst the gentler labels assigned to him by people he would never meet. He tried not to think about why it bothered him to such a larger degree that a woman he had known for so short a time would make the same assumptions, just as he tried to ignore the crippling feeling of loss he felt at the idea that he would never again lay eyes on Amber Evans (or Madison Mugello).

He spirits soared when he heard her beautiful voice call out, "Wait!" He stopped and turned back to see her hurrying in his direction. He was immediately disappointed, however, when she said, "You can't get in without the code."

He frowned, but said nothing. She led him into the house, and he was immediately confronted with a profound sense of unease. He knew it was due, at least in part, to the smell. He struggled to define that which was assaulting his olfactory senses, and his hand went unwittingly to his nose to ward it off. The best he could come up with to describe what he was encountering was the worst possible mixture of a candle store and a chemical toilet which had been left unattended for a week in Alabama in the middle of the summer.

"Sweet Jesus," he gasped.

Madison turned to regard him somewhat sympathetically. "You get used to it. It'll be better tomorrow. The cleaning crew always comes first thing on Monday morning. Word of advice, don't sit on anything unless you've personally wiped it down first." As she spoke, she indicated a tub of antiseptic wipes which, now that Wyatt took a moment to look around, were liberally sprinkled throughout the house.

She led him into the main room of the house. There they found over a dozen individuals clustered so tightly around what Wyatt assumed was a couch that he was unable to ascertain what it was which drew their attention.

The pair made their way into the kitchen, where she wiped down one of the breakfast room chairs before taking a seat. He followed her example, but quipped, "Surely this flimsy table is safe, right?"

"I can assure you that there is literally no part of this structure, with the possible exception of the ceiling, which had not been fucked on or against... or in." To make her point, she gestured in the direction of the living area where Wyatt could see that a woman was having sex with three men while the room's remaining occupants captured the action by way of an array of electronic devices. The female performer was laying on what appeared to be a toddler's crib and her only remaining clothing was a bonnet she wore on her head.

"What the fuck?" Wyatt muttered.

"Never kink shame," his companion corrected.

"I'm not sure it counts unless the party in question actually has the kink. Somehow, I doubt that applies in this situation."

"Perhaps. Put it pays to be cautious. You asked earlier for advice. The best I can give you is to ignore any scenes in which you are not a participant. You will see some seriously fucked up shit in this house if you're here long enough. And there's no quicker way to become a pariah in this industry than to judge someone based on what they do on camera. These people are sex workers. Just like you. This is a job. Nothing more. Behaving as though anyone here is doing anything beyond acting is a sure way to make enemies. Fast."

"Thanks," he replied warmly. "I really appreciate that."

"Don't read too much into it," she retorted. "I also am just doing my job. As I stated previously. I don't fuck the, quote, unquote, talent."

"I'm not trying to fuck you Amb... Ms. Mugello," he hastily corrected after spotting the fire in her eyes. "I'm just trying to be friendly. You know, new guy in a strange town trying to make friends with his new coworkers." He glanced in the direction of the living room before muttering, "Not everything is about sex. I mean honestly, does every new performer that comes through the door basically sexually assault you or is this about me specifically?"

She sighed wearily and opened her mouth to speak, but a shriek of pain from the other room cut her off. Wyatt stood quickly and looked toward the scene that was being filmed to see the female performer desperately trying to push one of her costars away as she weakly gasped, "Cut!"

The man cruelly spat, "Shut the fuck up, Baby Girl."

"Please," she whimpered. "You're hurting me."

Wyatt vaguely heard Madison's panicked shout behind him as he rushed toward the living room, but the entirety of his being was consumed by the genuine fear on the face of the female performer.

The man assaulting her looked in Wyatt's direction as the latter approached and gleefully chortled, "What the fuck do you want?"

Wyatt was beyond words, but his balled-up fists left little doubt as to his intentions. His foe grinned evilly and rushed in Wyatt's direction, unleashing a jab aimed at his jaw. Wyatt grabbed the man's wrist and yanked, jerking him off balance to send him tumbling in the direction of a coffee table which was smashed into kindling with a deafening crash. Wyatt jumped on top of his enemy, pinning his dominant upper arm to the carpet with a well-placed knee as he delivered a finishing blow to the man's jaw.

A massive force impacted with the middle of Wyatt's back, threatening to send him sprawling onto the ground next to his foe. He managed to roll with the blow, however, and came to rest on his knees to regard one of the other performers who was glaring at him menacingly as Wyatt struggled to regain his balance after the shove he endured.

Wyatt stood slowly and dropped into a ready stance while he evaluated the new opponent. The man was brutish in stature, but his stance suggested his experience with violence ended at bar brawls and street fights. "Your boy here only got a piece of what he deserved. He's damn lucky all I did was break his nose." His fallen foe chose this moment to groan loudly and try to roll over, whereupon Wyatt unleashed a devastating kick to his midsection before calmly adding, "And break a few ribs. Don't make the mistake of thinking you've got the upper hand here, sir. I'm content letting you and your friend walk right now, so long as I don't see your faces again. But if you'd rather dance, I'd be more than happy to put you in the ER right next to this dumb bastard."

It took mere seconds for the men to hold up their hands in surrender and stalk towards the building entry, snatching their clothes from a table as they left.

Eleven

"Where the fuck is he!" Scott thundered as he entered the mansion euphemistically known as 'The Studio' several hours after the altercation.

Wyatt was again seated in the breakfast room of the house, although he did not miss the fact that none of the house's other residents were willing to come within five meters of him.

After the departure of the last two potential combatants, Wyatt had again gone against the wishes of nearly all of the building's residents by calling emergency services and requesting a pair of ambulances in addition to the police. The male performer was taken into custody and transported to the hospital under arrest to attend to his injuries. The female performer had refused medical treatment and had left in Madison's company.

Wyatt had not had a chance to speak to Ms. Mugello following the incident, although he had little doubt he had earned her displeasure based on how she had screamed before he broke up the assault (to say nothing of the heated look she had given him upon her departure).

The house's remaining denizens had uniformly remained present; something Wyatt strongly suspected was the work of his, quote, unquote, employer. As he had quietly passed the afternoon, doing little more than drinking the occasional bottle of water and watching the pitiful clean-up efforts. Several other individuals, including someone whom he suspected was his intended co-performer, were turned away while they waited for the man Madison had referred to as their Leering Feeder. More than anything, Wyatt wished he had had the chance to speak at length with the woman whose assault he had interrupted. Fleeting snippets of overheard conversation and glimpses of her wide eyes gave him little insight as to her mindset. His only comfort had come from the undeniable gratitude he had seen in her expression immediately following the departure of her 'co-star'.

Wyatt made of a show of ignoring Scott's arrival, but that effort came to an abrupt end when Scott angrily gripped the sleeve of a young production assistant's shirt and screamed, "Tell me!" in their face.

"Enough!" Wyatt barked.

Scott's gaze swung in his direction, and he hurried toward him as quickly as his substantial bulk would allow. He slowed, however, when it became clear to him that, not only did the object of his ire have no intention of backing down, but that Wyatt was more than primed for a confrontation.

Coming to a halt just out of arm's reach, Scott placed his hands on his hips and boomed, "What the hell is wrong with you, rich boy?"

"I might ask you that same question," Wyatt replied stoically.

"You're fucking fired. You cost me twice as much with that dumb fucking stunt as I'm even paying you."

"Fine by me," Wyatt replied with a shrug. "I got my money already, so I've got no qualms if you no longer wish me to fulfill my end of the agreement."

"Fuck that," Scott barked. "You'll repay every God damned cent."