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If Only One Night	By : IosPillowBook Category: Individual Celebrities > Orlando Bloom Views: 2061 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know Orlando Bloom. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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So Orlando should have been warned, at least twice. If not his sense of professionalism, then his inner voice should have told him that, normally, you don't enter an exclusive gallery through the backyard door, by means of some simple sleight of hand, with no alarm systems going off immediately.

A few seconds before, he had watched a man leave the gallery. After locking the entrance door that man had walked down the street speedily, off into the night. Orlando hadn't seen the man's face, but from the the almost shoulder-length, sandy hair he had assumed that this must be the man from his photo.

Normally, Orlando would have followed the target back to his apartment, would have checked out the house and its neighbourhood only to come back several hours later and finish his appointed task. So why did he make a different choice this time? Just out of curiosity?

What does it matter, in the end, if you know why things happen? They happen nevertheless.

Only the streetlights and the occasional headlights of a car driving by lit up the suite of high-ceilinged rooms at this hour. Otherwise, it was quite dark. Orlando couldn't make out much of the paintings looming left and right in the shadows. Under his feet, the wooden floorboards make soft creaking sounds.

Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks. His heart almost skipped a beat.

There was something.

Noises. Muffled sighs. Faint sounds of laboured breathing. Could it be there was someone else?

With each step the sounds grew louder. Orlando wanted shut them out. He didn't want to hear. He wanted to put his hands over his ears, but found he could not. He wanted to go back, leave as quickly as possible. Instead, as if drawn by some invisible force, his feet started to move again, taking him to that part of the gallery where the disturbing noises came from.

This room was as poorly lit as the ones before. Apart from the sounds, however, there was no indication of somebody else's presence. For a long while, Orlando just stood there, unable to move, neither backward nor forward, as if glued to floor. His heart was racing and if he hadn't crossed his arms before his chest, his hands would have been shaking.

Finally, he realized what had caused all this.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" said a voice right behind him. At the same moment, the sounds died off and lights flashed up, brightly illuminating the room. Orlando blinked. For a few seconds he could hardly see anything.

"It's called "Fuck Machine"," the man behind him stated, all matter-of-fact, pointing to an object set on a pedestal.

This "work-of-art" was some black mass the size of a large gymnastics ball, consisting of some indefinable material, something like a highly flexible mixture of rubber and velvet. When on performance mode it was contracting continuously, but irregularly, in sync with the sounds it was uttering.

"It's from a young British artist, Dominic Monaghan. Brilliant piece. Caused quite a scandal at the opening."

Orlando turned around and froze instantly. Standing right in front of him was the one man he didn't want to meet of all people - no one else but the gallery owner himself.

For a flash second, he considered drawing his gun and finish why he come for. Unthinkingly, unprofessionally, however, he had not come fully prepared. The sound absorber had not been attached yet. And from the street outside people could easily spot them through the huge windows, especially with all the lights turned on. No, doing it now would draw too much attention.

But these were mere technicalities.

Orlando had never again shot a person whose eyes were still open.

"Though I don't think you've come for the art or did you?" Mr. Mortensen scrutinized him, apparently quite unperturbed as if he was catching unwanted nightly visitors on a regular basis. Fear? If that man was in any way startled by Orlando's sudden appearance he hid it well.

"No," Orlando replied, ducking and making a quick panther-like move to sprint past the man. Just get out of here, then figure out what to do next.

But his opposite had been on guard, too. Faster than Orlando would have thought possible he found himself smashed up against a wall, his arms restrained by a firm grip.

"You didn't really think I'd let you escape that easily," the other man remarked dryly. "What do you want here?"

Orlando lifted his chin and a small, disdainful smile curled his lips. So he had let himself be caught like a silly school boy. Ridiculous. How could that have happened at all?

He'd find a way out of this.

"I was … curious," he said boldly. Under the bright spot lights his impenetrable coolness had instantly returned.

"Curious?" The pressure on his arm increased, the other man was so close now that Orlando could feel his breath on his face. "And your "curiosity" couldn't be satisfied during the normal opening hours?"

"No." Orlando replied, studying his adversary intently. These fine wrinkles around the man's eyes hadn't existed on the photo. There was something else, too, something a photo couldn't capture. That very something that makes people turn their heads the moment this person enters a room.

Right now, a dangerous sparkle flared up in these grey eyes.

"Boy, don't you think you can fuck with me. I want an explanation. Now."

Orlando shrugged his shoulders. "Do I look like a thief?"

"How am I to know how a thief looks? I've never met one before."

"Of course not." Mild look of enduring patience, well-practiced, Orlando knows he's good at this. "Look, it was a bet. And, by the way, I'd really appreciate if you loosen up on this insanely firm grip. A silly bet, true. My friends didn't believe I'd easily manage to slip inside. Naturally, I had to prove them wrong."

"You don't seem drunk to me."

"One doesn't have to be boozed to make stupid bets, just extremely bored. Can you … relate to that, Mr. … Mr.?"

"Viggo Mortensen. I own this gallery."

"Very impressive. But you don't own me, Viggo. Oh, I can imagine that you may enjoy getting all close-up and personal with such a young hot thing like me, but for my part, I'd rather …"

With an exasperated snort, Viggo stepped back, shaking his head. He raised his hands, fingers spread wide as if he had touched a vespiary. "It's beyond me why I don't call the police and let them settle this."

"Feel free," Orlando stated, still leaning against the wall, all casual and at ease now. "My father has good lawyers."

"Yeah, why not make a call?" Viggo said, eyes narrowing, turning back to Orlando. "Quite simply because I have the feeling there's more to this story than just some rich kids' antics."

He was standing right in front of Orlando now, glaring at him in silent rage. Putting one hand on the wall above Orlando's shoulder, he leant in closer.

"I've been watching you for a while *before* I switched on the lights. Must have seen someone else then. Someone squirming as if he was sick. Someone whose breathing almost sounded like this machine," he nodded to the black object, watching Orlando with narrowed eyes. "Shall I turn it on again?"

Orlando swallowed and for a tiny second his lower lip quivered.

"Sure, why not? We can spend the rest of the night watching that fucked-up thing shiver and moan. Feel free to lecture me on that psycho crap on end."

"Psycho crap? I'm not blind, boy. I saw what I saw. I know this is a controversial object. It tends to polarize people and I've seen all kind of reactions, from outright laughter to open disgust. But the effect it had on you was something I've never experienced before."

"Yeah, maybe it was some very personal comment on the lousiness of so-called modern art."

Again, Orlando made an attempt to walk away, but Viggo didn't let him, blocking his way effectively and as solid as a rock.

What to do now? How to get out of here? Suddenly, Orlando felt sweat breaking out on his forehead. All this was going in a direction he didn't like at all. Things had happened so quickly. First, those sounds in the darkness, then the bright lights flashing up at him and now these inquisitive eyes that didn't stop scanning his face.

Everything had gone wrong.

He felt trapped.

"It reminded you of something, didn't it?"

"No, it didn't." Orlando hissed between clenched teeth.

"Not exactly what you'd call a pleasant memory, right?" Viggo insisted, tracing a finger along the side of Orlando's face.

Orlando flinched. Instantly, his body became rigid. Involuntarily, he held his breath.

"Something you'd like to forget, but find you can't?"

Fingers closing around Orlando's chin, as if to pull him closer. Fingers wandering deeper, creeping under Orlando's shirt collar, lingering on an exposed collarbone before opening another shirt button. A thumb coming to rest on one of Orlando's hipbones.

Orlando felt paralysed. There it was again, that sense of vertigo, as if a giant snake was winding itself around his limbs, suffocating him very, very slowly. It was like a kind of chain-reaction. He could do nothing to stop those hands from going even further down, close around him and cup him firmly. It was disgusting, yet at the same time it was …

Viggo's smile was inscrutable. His hand had stopped exactly below Orlando's navel. "You hate it, don't you? But at the same time there's nothing you want more."

Orlando thought his bones had turned to water. He could hardly stand upright anymore. "Just let me go," he whispered, hands dug into the wall behind him as if he could find a hold there.

For a moment, time stretched infinitely, though it was no time at all, just the fraction of a second that determins whether a rock will fall to the left or to the right, whether a train will derail or not. They stared at each other, their faces so close now. Not a word was spoken.

Finally, Viggo took a deep breath and stepped back. "So go. *I* wouldn't force you." Suddenly, his eyes became soft. "Never. Ever".

A single tear ran down the side of Orlando's face. Hastily, he wiped it off. "Fuck you, man, I … I …"

Viggo's eyes widened as if in surprise. Awkwardly, he ran a hand through his hair while nervous red spots appeared on his cheeks. "God, what have I done? This was just gross."

Suddenly, his voice had lost all of its former determination. "Even if I caught you here, I didn't have the right to treat you like this. Maybe you came to spy on the alarm systems, maybe you didn't. I still don't dig your story, but …what can I say? I am … I am sorry. You owe me no more explanations, just the promise, not to repeat a stupid stunt like this."

Opening his hand, Viggo pointed towards the entrance. "You'd better go now."

Absent-mindedly, he ran his thumb along his lower lip. Looking away from Orlando, he shook his head again as if questioning his own words before they were even spoken.

"I wish we had met not like this. I wish we could have just … talked. "

Wordlessly, Orlando turned around to walk back to the entrance. But halfway back to the foyer he stopped abruptly.

"No," he said very quietly, turning around. "Let's talk now. That young artist, tell me more about him. What did he say about this object?"

TBC
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If Only One Night