Not So Model Home - By David James Page 0,48

going to be all that witty, but a punch in the mouth was a punch in the mouth.

“And you, Mister . . . French fry. Gilles,” he said, pronouncing the silent “s” at the end of his name. “Gilles who squeals during sex. Like a pig. That rubber pig mask he wears during sex! That izzz too funnnny! Oink, oink, Gilles!”

Gilles got up from the table in a huff and headed in the direction of the sideboard to pour himself another tall glass of tomato juice.

Lance Greenly, who was standing behind the sidelines watching the luncheon being filmed, suddenly spoke up—a rare occurrence since he almost never talked. And talk he did. Or he raised his voice a little beyond his usual squeak. And shook as he talked, he was so angry.

“You’re all a bunch of nitwits! Empty-headed nitwits! Here, Ian supports you and gives you more money than you deserve, and still it’s never enough. It just turns my stomach to think of the money you’ve taken and never said thanks to Ian. And now here you are, trying to get your hands on even more! Disgusting!” he finished, then walked away.

Everyone was speechless for a millisecond, then resumed whatever they were doing. My cell phone rang, causing me to scramble to get it out of my purse and fumble to turn it off.

“I thought we made an announ-ze-ment,” Aleksei said, slurring his speech, “that we were to turn our fuckin’ zell-phones off before we started filming. I guezz that applies to everyone except beards!” he finished, laughing at his own joke, even though it was a private joke.

Darryn got up from the table to get more food at the buffet on the sideboard. And to get away from the toxic atmosphere at the table.

I finally got my cell phone out as it continued to ring and vibrate in my hand like a cicada on too much caffeine. I got my finger into the On/Off switch and promptly broke a nail in a jagged—and painful—rip halfway down to my cuticle. “Ow!” I shouted, and shook my hand to relieve the pain. “Okay, it’s off!” I almost shouted back.

Exactly four seconds later, my phone rang again. I thought I had turned it off, but I guess I didn’t push the slider Silence button completely off. I tried again, but with my broken nail, it wasn’t easy. Or painless. Success at last. I threw the phone down on the table.

“And I wuh like to say somesin to Auror . . . a. . . . roar-ah now,” Aleksei said, the slurs insinuating their way into more words. He threw back another glass of wine, missing most of his mouth and saturating his shirt collar.

My cellphone came to life again, vibrating on the tabletop, which amplified the buzzing tenfold as it danced around, doing the hokeypokey. Aleksei, ready to lock his targeting mechanism onto anything that moved or left a heat signature, fired away at me.

“Ar-man-dah,” he managed to get out. “I know you have sexual needzzz like the rest of uz, but please get your ga-damn vibrator off the table and keep it in the drawer in your ni . . . stand,” he said, laughing.

I was shocked at how fast the wine was going to his head. He was getting insanely drunk by the second.

“So where was I?” he asked, giggling at forgetting his train of thought, which was currently derailed. A train wreck, to be more accurate. “Oh, yeah, Au . . . Au. . . . Wowah!” More giggling. “Wait, I forgot,” he said, falling blessedly silent.

Marcus tried to wrestle the conversation back to something more inert. “Well, wonderful meal, Ian. I guess we’ll have to think of something to do to work this meal off,” he said with a lascivious smile at Ian.

“Yes, it is,” Darryn said from a safe distance as he spooned some tomatoes onto his plate. “I mean, a wonderful meal, that is.” He finished, then again took his place next to me.

My phone buzzed again. I looked around and challenged everyone within eyesight to call me on it. Just try me, my eyes blazed. Someone was desperately trying to reach me. Alex, calling to tell me Knucklehead had inadvertently set the house on fire? One of my listings had a gas leak and exploded, leveling the Vista Las Palmas neighborhood? I looked at the phone and it was an MMS multimedia message of a guy’s asshole. Yes, someone had sent me a picture