by Mel Curtis
“I want to fall in love first.” Her tone was tighter than her uptight veneer.
“One doesn’t necessarily require – ”
“I want to fall in love!” Ulani’s voice rose loud enough to carry across the room. Her body undulated with tension. “I don’t want casual sex. Frozen pops aren’t for me. And I know I won’t qualify for adoption.”
Portia’s tittering laughter twined with Kaya’s guffaws. Blue had the overwhelming urge to drop to his knees and propose to Ulani just to shut Kaya up. Even Mr. Jiggles, at Blue’s feet, growled in Ulani’s defense.
“Ignore her.” Blue reached across the table to take Ulani’s hand.
Her face flushed.
“Falling in love takes time,” Blue explained, using his indoor voice in the hopes Ulani would follow suit. He couldn’t get a handle on Ulani in her cat suit and volatile emotions. Was she a dominatrix? A devil worshiper? On the wrong meds?
“I don’t have time. I’m on the circuit or I’m training. I’m exhausted. And I’m not getting any younger.”
“Tell me about your job.”
She snorted and sat back, pulling away from Blue. “It’s not a job. It’s a way of life. I’m on 24/7. Look at me.” She spread her hands. “I’m a walking advertisement for the FWA. What guy wants to have a relationship with this?”
The Female Wrestlers Association was the west coast version of the WWE. Ulani may as well have joined the circus. In the FWA, normal wasn’t an option. And yet, Ulani wanted normal.
How hard could it be to find a man who wanted to settle down with an Amazon? Blue held onto the thought. It was either think positive or surrender to the Avengers.
He forced his lips up at the corners. “What guy wouldn’t want you? You’re the ultimate status symbol, better than a Mercedes or the latest iPhone.”
“That sounds nice and all, but I’ve tried a couple of your dad’s programs and so far I haven’t had a second date with anyone. And that Senge guy you’ve been sending me to is creepy.”
Grinning, Blue put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Forget about the past. Your new life is waiting just around the corner.”
She wanted a hook-up? They lived in the land of hook-ups. She wanted a hook-up with a future? He could spin her a future.
All his clients had the same diagnosis in Blue’s book. They needed to get laid.
No need for Dooley’s Rules. All Blue needed was a few willing men and – shebang – client satisfaction.
Things were definitely looking up.
Despite Kaya’s laughter.
Sunday night, Maddy organized her production binder for the Playboy Avengers project, while Vera was out on a dinner date. She paused to admire Blue’s business card. The card stock it was printed on was firm, yet soft. His name was in a font that was steadfast, yet not rigid. The colors –
Someone knocked at the door.
She carried the card with her, tossing it onto the long, narrow table next to the door.
“What are you doing here, Dave?” Coincidence that the same day Maddy registered a new reality show idea, Dave decided to pay her a visit? She thought not.
She didn’t invite him inside.
Blocking her doorway, Maddy reassessed her ex-boyfriend. She used to think he was handsome, but that was before she’d met Blue. Now when she looked at Dave, his body was too short for the length of his face, his chin seemed too sharp, his eyes a shifty gray. The collar of his polo shirt curled in on itself, as if it, too, realized it was embarrassing to belong to Dave.
The feeling that he was the one who got away? Break-up remorse? Regret? Gone.
Free at last.
“You haven’t answered any of my messages.” A plaintive note in his voice reaffirmed her opinion – he was a shit.
Anger pooled in her belly, although she knew anger was wasted on Dave. He had the emotional depth of an empty bottle of water.
He craned his neck to look over her shoulder and tried to step inside.
Maddy stood her ground.
He craned his neck over her other shoulder and tried to move her out of the way.
Maddy swatted his hands off, bumping into the hall table.
Dave sighed. “Maddy, I’m not here for breakup sex.”
If there was a gnat about, it would’ve flown into her gaping mouth.
“I want my goldfish,” he said.
There was a gnat on her doorstep. It was Dave.
Little gnat. Little mind. Little package.
Her mouth twisted into defensive position. “It’s my fish. You gave it to me.” After he’d dragged her to his niece’s school carnival, won it for his niece, who’d then turned up her spoiled little nose and asked for cash instead.
She’d grown rather fond of that goldfish. It swam in a small bowl behind the kitchen sink, dancing whenever she did the dishes. She had more of an emotional connection with that fish than she did with Dave.
“I’ve decided I want it back.” Dave was barely taller than she was. He strained to see past her, and…was that pudge around his middle?
“Did you gain weight?” She froze. Asking anyone in L.A. what their age or weight was, much less implying they’d aged or gained weight, was strictly verboten, forbidden, fighting words.
Dave drew back, his elongated features aghast. “There’s no reason to get nasty.”
“No reason…” The anger that had been pooling in her belly, bubbled into her veins, strengthening her indignation. “You stole my idea – ”
“It was half my idea.”
“Then I’ll take half your proceeds.”
“Other than a modest advance, I staked everything on the back end.” He sighed wearily. “Which turned out to be a bad decision since your idea sucked.” He wedged himself between her and the doorjamb, his hip bumping the hall table.
She shoved him back hard and slammed the door, heedless of his arm and foot still in the way.
Maddy thought she heard bones crack, but that was probably wishful thinking.
He yowled like a castrated tomcat, stumbling free when she allowed a bit of give.
She slammed the door again, locking the knob, the deadbolt, and chain.
“I could have helped you make this deal, Maddy. I could have arranged a meeting with Plump Bird Studios.”
“I don’t need your help!” Maddy yelled, trembling, her back against the door.
She didn’t move until she heard Dave limp down the stairs.
She didn’t move until she stopped trembling.
And that’s when she realized Blue’s business card was no longer on the hall table.
“You’re sure there’s nothing I can do?” Blue’s body felt sluggish, as if he was being dragged down by cement golf shoes. He sat at his country club’s black marble bar late Monday morning, having just finished the crappiest round of golf in his life. Thanks to his lawyer.
Franklin Kremer slicked his gray comb-over in place, and then spun his Bloody Mary slowly with age-spotted fingers. “There’s been no physical injury. What damage the Avengers have done you’ve immediately fixed without filing a police report or starting an investigation. We have no way to prove who was behind any of these pranks.”
“Pranks? They’re stalking me!”
“Again, we’d have to prove it.”
And Blue hadn’t saved one Avenger thong.
“What about defamation of character?” Blue had been blindsided by the billboard he’d seen on Santa Monica Boulevard as he drove by last night – the one that claimed the Avenger’s Playboy would be unmasked there soon. He’d nearly driven over the curb.
Soon everyone would know Blue had no skills in the relationship department. They’d think he had no skills period. Not as a life coach. Not as a public relations expert. Not as a man.
Oblivious to his panic, Franklin droned on. “We’d have to prove these women lied about the way you ended things, that they hadn’t suffered emotional distress by some unusual aspect to your relationship.”
“I treated them like royalty and then cut them loose. A judge won’t automatically believe them, right? It’s their word against mine.” Their words being lies.
“Well…there’s a burden of proof on both sides. You’d have to prove they negatively impacted your career. How are your billings?”
“Not great.” Everyone wanted to work with Amber. Blue and Cora were assigned the leftovers.
Blue finished his sparkling water and turned to watch Cora whack balls on the driving range. Since he’d had to work all day Sunday, he’d made the executive decision to hold the meeting with Franklin at the country club and invited Cora.
His younger sister was a terrible athlete, more interested in what to wear on the course than in improving her game. But she did like to bash balls, especially when Franklin was around, since he was the executor of their father’s will. She called him her prison guard and pretended each golf ball was a little piece of him.
“I’ve got to get to another meeting.” Franklin finished his Bloody Mary. “Pursue the reality show. The contract looks boilerplate. I’ll call Maddy Polk and get the names of the women she’s identified as Avengers. Then I’ll contact each one and make it clear that they can either cooperate or their next action will receive legal retaliation.”
One thousand points of cheerful light delivered at one thousand dollars an hour. And Cora had wondered why Blue was irritated this morning.
He was still annoyed when he opened the back of his SUV and golf balls cascaded out, nearly knocking him and Cora to the pavement. Thousands of those little suckers bounced their way down the slight incline to the club house.
Cora giggled, digging her cell phone out of her pocket.
“Don’t you dare Tweet this.”
“Aw, come on. As pranks go, it’s priceless.”
He pocketed her cell.
The balls pelted the doors of the country club like a furious hail storm, leaving a froth of white six inches deep blocking the exit. People pressed their faces against the glass doors and windows.
Anxious to escape, Blue tossed both golf bags into the back of the Cayenne on top of a pink thong. “Let’s go before someone asks us what happened.”
Cora moved at a slower pace, clearly enjoying the surprised looks of the members trapped inside the club house. “When did you become such a dickhead?”
“When I started hanging out with you.” He was only half joking.
Chapter 8
Privately, Cora admitted to a weakness. Or two.
She liked unattached sex. And she’d recently come to love her big brother like she was supposed to, not just a polite, holiday hugging relationship like they’d had the past few years. They were close. They told each other things…Well, maybe not everything.
She’d do anything to make sure Blue was happy. He hadn’t been happy since their father died. Not that she’d been living her dream life since then either, but there were plenty of opportunities ahead of her. This year was to be endured. And if, by the grace of God, she fulfilled her sales quota in the process, so much the better.
And so when one of her childhood friends, Portia Francis, had come to Cora asking her to help the Avengers with some pranks, she’d agreed, not because Portia had claimed the pranks would make Blue laugh. Cora wasn’t an idiot. Her brother wasn’t the joke-appreciating kind. But Cora had believed that this would convince her brother that none of those bitches was good enough for him, even if one of them was her dear friend.
Sure, it was shitty. But that’s what her father would have done. And weren’t they working at their father’s life coaching agency? Blue would thank her someday.
Not that Cora was one hundred percent behind the Avengers. She would’ve stopped feeding them information about Blue weeks ago, except for Portia. Theirs was a friendship formed when Portia was a child actor and Cora’s dad was hired to keep her grounded. The actress was the only one Cora told about the odd condition of her dad’s will – not the sales quota (which she’d never meet), but the condition that said she couldn’t buy any new clothes or shoes for a year. A year!
When she’d told Portia, her friend had come over with her stylist, and gone through Cora’s wardrobe, taking half a closet-full of clothes away to be adjusted by a seamstress – hems up, pants legs slimmed down, sleeves taken off blouses, and so on, until it felt like Cora had a new wardrobe for the season.
A girl couldn’t survive in Hollywood on last year’s fashions. Cora wouldn’t have made it through these past few months unscathed without Portia. But the Avengers were getting tiresome.
After the golf ball incident, Cora went to meet Portia at Ammo for lunch. The high end restaurant off Santa Monica Boulevard was a common power lunch spot, known for its farm fresh offerings.
Wearing a white strapless sundress with a soft lace overlay, Portia greeted her with cheek-aimed air kisses. “Are you hungry? Let’s split the brown rice stir fry.”
Cora agreed, pointing to Portia’s dress. “Is that Samuel Cinansck?” The gleam and stylish cut of the dress made Cora feel her reworked Tahari blouse and navy skirt came from Kmart.
Damn it, Daddy.
Her father had always been the oddest of disciplinarians. What had she done to deserve this punishment?
Portia grinned. “It is Cinansck. Isn’t it fabulous?” And then her smile faded. “What was I thinking, wearing this today? God, I’m such a bitch. You have what? Nine more months to go before you can shop again? That was so inconsiderate of me.”
“You’re trying to land that new Cal Lazarus role, right?” Cora glanced around the dining room, spotting two movie producers, including Cal, plus a well-known Hollywood agent, and Jack.
Her favorite booty-caller ignored her.
She ignored the tingle between her thighs. “The dress is perfect.” Cora’s gaze moved on to Portia’s hair.
“Don’t start on my hair.” Portia touched her blond locks. She never let her hair down. Today, she’d parted it on the side and interwoven four braids around the left side of her face in a way that was both casual and elegantly messy. “I need to shed that child actor image.”
“Then cut it short, dye it crimson and spike it up, like Kaya.”
Portia’s blue eyes widened. “My fans would freak.”
Portia would freak if she knew Cora was getting multiple orgasms from Jack Gordon. All her friend knew was that her stable of buddies included an older man, not one of the most powerful, sexy figures in L.A. sports.
“Flattery will get you nowhere.” Portia waved the waiter over and placed their order. “How was the wedding?”
Cora flipped her dark, straight hair over one shoulder. “It was the event of the season. Anyone who was anyone was there.” And then some.
“I’m sorry I missed it,” Portia said tightly.
Now it was Cora’s turn to apologize. “Unless you were my date, there was no way Amber was going to let you in.” She’d been dateless, but there’d been enough of Evan’s NBA basketball team there that she’d had a choice of whether or not to go home alone. She’d surprised herself when she’d chosen to go home solo.
She caught Jack’s eye and heat pooled in her belly. With effort, Cora managed to keep up her end of the conversation. “It was as if Amber knew you were an Avenger.”
Portia’s blue eyes iced over. “You didn’t tell her, did you? It’d ruin me.”
Cora was more of the opinion that it would make Portia more interesting to the media, but they’d covered that turf in the past.
Portia’s phone started singing Dancing Queen, a ring tone she’d picked out when she signed on for the latest round of Dancing with the Stars. Her phone call negated the need to reassure her friend she hadn’t betrayed her trust.
While Portia talked, Cora checked her phone for messages. None. Not even an annoying text from Amber asking her to do something for the Foundation.
She texted Jack: Fuck me. Men’s room. Now.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jack re
ach for his phone. It was a risk, changing the rules of their sex life, which had been limited to her condo. But it was spontaneous and a surprise. In her experience, men liked that.
She was wet just imagining Jack inside her.
Cora excused herself and threaded her way to the rear of the restaurant. She glanced over her shoulder when she reached the men’s room. The coast was clear. She darted inside – one urinal, one stall.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Masculine, not the click-clack of a woman’s heel.
It was Jack!
But what if it wasn’t?
Shit.
She darted into the stall and locked herself in, backing into the corner, hoping that if it wasn’t Jack that whoever it was wouldn’t see her rhinestone studded Jimmy Choos.
The door to the men’s room opened. A heavy breather hefted himself over to the urinal. Did his business in fits and starts. Left without washing his hands.
The eew factor was starting to squelch her excitement.
Cora waited. And waited.
Jack didn’t come.
Anger twined with frustration, threaded with humiliation, braided her insides into tight knots.
What a fool she was. It was the first time she felt any sympathy with the Avengers.
She reached under her skirt, removed her panties, opened the stall door and hung her black silk thong on the urinal faucet.
Cora stomped out of the men’s room and into the chest of Cal Lazarus, the producer Portia was stalking.
“Excuse me,” she gasped, alarmed when the heat of embarrassment flushed up her throat and into her cheeks. She sidled around him and stopped. There was no way she was walking like a flustered debutant into Jack’s line of sight. She paced the restroom vestibule, waiting for her cheeks to cool, and was struck with an idea.
Cal emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later. He was tall and toned, with silver threading his thick brown hair. His brown eyes were kind, not the promise-of-great-sex kind, but the kind of eyes that said he was aware you existed.
“Cal, you probably don’t remember me. I’m Dooley Rule’s daughter, Cora. We met years ago.” When she was in high school and could have cared less about the power player. She took Cal’s arm and guided him toward the main dining room, smiling as if she’d just been taken to heaven.
