man, there are WAY worse gigs you could land. It would be weekdays until close. If the hours don’t kill you, I promise, the scenery will! You just gotta remember to keep your wood in your pants and ole Lucy will take care of you. Give her a call.”
Henry took the number and the advice and was hired to work the VIP lounge. Hell-bent on earning his business degree, Henry remained focused, distancing himself from the tawdry temptations that came along with working in a strip club. Drugs, sex, and booze were ample and served up each and every night, all which could have easily been his for the taking. Instead, Henry shielded himself from the temptations. He studied voraciously on his breaks and remained as distanced from the self-indulgence and decadent lifestyle as possible. Which was to say, not the easiest of tasks.
Henry soon became the club’s star bartender. He was quick and efficient. He never gave the girls a tough time, except for when their drink orders were called “out of order.” As all things, Lucy had a set way that she liked things run, and deviating from any of the rules, simply meant lost time, and lost time meant less money to be made. On a bartender’s wage, Henry had to work extra hard to pull down the tips that would fund his dream. He was focused and determined to own his own business someday. Every experience therein was a learning one for Henry.
He was quiet and a bit introverted, but he knew more than anyone everything there was to know about wine. He saved Lucy a ton of money in reorganizing the premium shelves and ordering and managing all the club’s bar supplies by utilizing several new local vendors who were hot with discounts to win their business.
He wore a white tuxedo shirt and a bow tie—club regulations. And his nametag and lace-ups had to shine, or he would not be working that night. Lucy was just as strict with her help as she was with the showgirls who all worked to pack the house.
“The girls bring ’em in, and you see to it that they don’t want to leave. Keep ’em deliciously drunk!”
On Friday nights, Henry co-bartended with Rory Stevens, a muscular black body builder from down South, who was, among many things, a former Chippendale’s dancer. The two made an odd team behind the glistening massive bar. Rory, with his bulging pecs and biceps, and Henry, short and preppy, a squeaky-clean Caucasian frat-boy intellectual type in his aviator specs and mop of wavy hair, cropped short at the neck and around the ears. He had an earnest smile, though, and everyone loved his quirky delivery—always cracking jokes while cutting up the lemon zest and the limes.
The two learned to work the crowd as well as the girls who served the cocktails, pushing booze and selling sexual fantasy. It was all the same, it seemed, after a while. Henry let Rory handle the female patrons who shimmied to the bar with store-bought breasts and drug habits that could knock a bull on its butt, and with agendas of their own.
They would order Kuris and Kahluas straight up, slipping them their phone numbers, breathlessly touting, “I’m a dancer . . . just in from Cincinnati.” Or any such other place. “Do you think you could put in a good word for me with Miss Lucy?” In other words, “Whom do I have to fuck to get hired here?”
Henry handled each situation with professionalism and aplomb, leaving the hound-dogging to Spinner, his crazy roommate and the club’s best deejay, or to Rory, with his thousand-watt smile and amazing dick. Henry had other interests and plans that would take him far—better dreams for himself than just getting by, or getting laid. He saw a future for himself, far beyond all of the superficial bullshit.
Henry had always been aware of La Costa from the day that she started at the club. He remembered seeing Panther touring the new girl with the shy, sad smile. She looked much like the other novices, with the exception, perhaps, of being a lot less confident and slightly fuller-figured, which he found to be incredibly sexy. He had always secretly had a thing for the black girls. When she danced, though, all anyone noticed was the free-spirited way she moved to the music, entrancing her audience.
Over the course of several months, before leaving the Mink Kitty for his dream job in the vineyards of Napa, Henry might have said a total of three words to her—if that. Rarely did she waitress in the main lounge on the nights that he tended bar. And when she performed in the VIP lounge on weekends, her shift ended long before he finished counting out his cash drawer, after which he left for the night.
Sometimes, he, another bartender named Carlo, Rory, and some of the girls would all go out for breakfast in the early morning hours after work. La Costa never joined them. Once, he saw her at a producer’s house party in Malibu, but she looked right through him, and he walked away, dejected, loath to ever try to catch her eye again.
Henry came to know the other black girl, Panther, quite well. But only regarded her as a wannabe zombie, always hanging on and flirting with anyone who was supplying the best drugs
de jour. It didn’t matter to her who had them—men or women. She would whore herself just to score a hit. Whoever had the best stuff got Panther’s attention for the night. She simply gave it away, like so many of the others, who were also living crazed, dangerous, drug-induced comas until it was time for another evening, another show, another time to do it all over again. “Girls like Panther were like cocktail olives,” he would say, “pickling in their own juices.” Always hanging on, waiting to be devoured.
The whole scene was revolting, really. He had no idea if La Costa was anything like the others. All he did know, was that she lived with Panther and some of the “wilder” strippers, so what else was he to think? Besides, dating Kittens, let alone fraternizing with them, was strictly frowned upon. He was instead, quite complacent to just do his job. In his eyes, every last one of them was off-limits. Period.
He couldn’t have been happier when Gabriel’s hiring assistant phoned him at the club one night right out of the blue. He took the call in the back locker room just before the start of his six p.m. shift, not three days before the Christmas holiday. He grabbed a pricey bottle of champagne from behind the bar, popped the cork, and threw back a celebratory swig. Then, he swaggered through the kitchen, whooping and slapping high-fives with the bus boys and dishwashers along the way. He bounded into Lucy’s office, where he promptly and exuberantly grabbed her and kissed her squarely on the lips, and said, “I love ya, Lucy. But I quit!”
Chapter Thirty-one
New York City
September – 2014
La Costas’s palms were sweating before she even reached the small, nondescript television studio in Midtown Manhattan. Tess was late, as usual, and La Costa was on her own to ferret her way to the lobby entrance that would lead to the set, which she was expected to report to in exactly seven minutes. The cab ride from the airport did little to calm her nerves, and all she could think of was being home, back in California, sitting in her favorite writing chair at her desk. That was her happy place, and where all the magic happened, as far as she was concerned.
Ten minutes later, she was sitting in a stylist’s chair being given a short list of “talking points” that she would be expected to cover in the four-and-a-half-minute segment. Natalie, the androgynous-looking stylist, was quickly assessing the eyelash extensions situation when Tess finally walked in.
“Tess! I’m so glad you made it. I was beginning to think you stood me up!”
“What? No worries. I was on the line with your publicist. A radio station in town that wants you for a call-in interview sometime next week. We are definitely on a roll. Are you ready for Kristen?”
La Costa nodded, and then shooed away the accosting stylist with the lash glue and said, “I’m good, honey. I’ve been tending to my own for years—we’re going to leave them be.”
Natalie obliged and quickly dusted La Costa’s silky skin with an iridescent cream along her neck and décolletage. She was buxom and curvy in all the right places, and the sheen only accentuated her assets.
“That leopard print blouse is perfect!” Tess said, having chosen the ensemble herself from Barneys. Nothing but class and style for her star
author.
A dab of lip-gloss completed the touch-up just as Kristen Michaels bounded into the dressing room, all smiles.
“Hi, ladies, are we ready for a show?”
Tess and Kristen exchanged a near-miss air-kiss on each cheek, and La Costa rose from the makeup chair to shake the hand of her exuberant host.
“Nice to meet you, Kristen. Thank you for having me,” La Costa said.
“Hi, La Costa, so nice to meet you. I promise, this will be painless. Just a few general questions about you, your writing process, and the new book. I will give you free rein to promote the memoir and any of your backlist titles. How does that sound?”
La Costa smiled. “You make it sound easy!”
“Like coffee clutching, really. Just be you and it will come off perfect, I’m sure,” the Kathy Lee Gifford doppelganger said brightly. “I’ll have my assistant, Topher, come for you two minutes out.”
She waved them off with a fifty-watt smile in her perfect designer shift dress with zero cellulite evident on her stick-thin arms.
Just as La Costa managed to thank her again, Kristen was gone, clicking away down the hall in her Christian Louboutins with a bevy of production assistants in her wake.
Tess felt La Costa’s tension and reassured, “It’s just like talking to a friend. Forget the lights and the cameras, and the millions of eyes on you.”
“You mean, the tens of thousands of eyes. This is just a local show,” La Costa said, starting to click her acrylic talons together, which she did when she felt out of her depth.
“No, actually, this little segment is going live to all of the affiliates for the parent network. It is the quickest way to reach as many viewers as possible—coast to coast,” Tess said, addressing the stylist. “Maybe a little bit more powder on her forehead? She’s looking a bit warm. Jesus, La Costa, try not to sweat until it’s over.”
Just before La Costa could find the words to end the madness of what felt like a bad dream, the production assistant appeared in the doorway.
“It’s time, Ms. Reed. They’re ready for you.”
La Costa took a deep breath, steadied her resolve, and prayed for the best.
It wouldn’t be the first time she had to play to an intimidating crowd.
The interview went flawlessly. La Costa shone like the star that she was. Kristen was kind and affable, giving La Costa the spotlight, which made the four-and-a-half-minute interview seem like a friendly conversation with a friend. The camera loved La Costa. She settled into talking one-on-one with Kristen, just like she had done with Felicia, the magazine reporter back in her beach home. It was no different, really. She did not focus on the bright lights that bounced off reflector screens, or the steady blinking red glow of the two cameras that were trained on each of them; or the movements in the shadows off set of the technicians that scurried about, waving their arms, or some of whom just stood watching. It was a show, and La Costa was the star. It was her moment, and rather than shield herself with a wall of protective placidity, she let herself be completely in the moment. It felt wonderful to simply be authentic and to live her truth.
Tess stood proud and still in the darkness, looking on. Take it all in, La Costa. You deserve it. Everyone is watching!
* * *
Everyone, indeed, was watching. Clear across the country, in La Jolla, the East-Coast live broadcast aired some time after seven a.m., streaming on the small television monitor that Henry had mounted beneath the oak cabinets above the kitchen counter. He had previously turned on the morning news before stepping out to run the dog around the block and to get the newspaper from the driveway. When he walked back into the sunny kitchen, he poured himself a second cup of coffee, reached for his reading glasses, and turned up the volume with the remote. He caught a glimpse of the end of the interview with Kristen Michaels featuring a beautiful black woman with a stunning wide smile and sparkling eyes. It was then that he saw it—the title font on the bottom of the screen, framing a closeup shot of her face, which read: LA COSTA REED – BESTSELLING AUTHOR.
The words stopped Henry’s heart cold. There she was again! He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It definitely was her! Then he wondered, What were the chances?
And thirty-five hundred miles away, at a women’s correctional institution in Brooksville, Florida, so too, did a gaunt, forty-five-year-old woman with a scraggly salt-and-pepper braid wearing a faded blue bandanna see that same image emanating from a television screen set up in the crowded recreation center. She watched with cold, blank eyes as La Costa nodded and smiled gregariously, bathed in the bright lights of the news studio and the interviewer’s accolades.
The woman sat in silence as she dragged a ragged fingernail back and forth across the small tattoo of a black panther etched on her wrist, and continued to stare at the screen—slowly seething.
Chapter Thirty-two
La Jolla, California
Finding La Costa was not going to be easy. When Henry phoned the publisher and asked for the name of the agency representing her, he learned that she actually had two, one for her books and the other, who managed her press and personal appearances. Months earlier, Tess Kardamakis had decided to hire on a publicist to help with visibility.
What was he doing? He scribbled down the numbers for the publicist but hit a dead end when he tried to ask for personal information. A helpful millennial-type receptionist suggested that he check Ms. Reed’s website for a list of promotional appearances for the upcoming weeks. He did just that. All were at local bookstores and auditoriums in and around Manhattan. He deduced that the East Coast was most likely her home. Discouraged, he decided that would end the extent of his sleuthing efforts. What was he? A stalker? No chance!
Still, he continued to think about La Costa. He simply could not get her out of his mind.
Two months and seven well-worn La Costa Reed paperbacks later, Henry passed a big box bookstore in San Diego one afternoon and caught sight of something that caused his heart to skip a beat. It was that familiar smile—La Costa’s smile, on a life-size poster of her in the window. The caption read: MEET LA COSTA REED, AUTHOR OF NO SECRETS. HER LATEST AND REVEALING BIOGRAPHY ON SALE HERE! Special in-store appearance. Saturday, twelve p.m. until three p.m.
He could barely believe his fate! Once he pulled himself together, and blessed the gods of unexplainable serendipity, he grinned all the way home, but not before buying her celebrated memoir.
He devoured the memoir in a marathon eight-hour read that lasted until dawn, making him late for work at the bistro that next morning.
What were the chances that La Costa Reed would be right there in California that weekend? In his part of the world, no less? And, most importantly, would she remember him? He was certain that he still had that tuxedo shirt and black tie stored away . . . someplace.
Henry was excited and apprehensive all at the same time. Even if La Costa did remember him, would she be at liberty to talk about the past? Obviously, it was not a deep, dark secret that she had blotted from her life, or she would not have chronicled her life story now, post-celebrity. A shameful stint as a nightclub stripper, one would think would be something she might have chosen to bend the truth about. Instead, from what he had read, she was owning it boldly.
Henry had done his homework. La Costa was forty-three, single, and had never been married. She had a sixteen-year-old son named Louis, whose last name was Jackson, her real surname, he presumed. She was now touting a fancy pen name that suited her well. La Costa’s writing credits consisted of an early biography of Georgia Byrne, the modeling industry maven, which included a television movie, the four-book contemporary romance “Vixen” series, the six-book “Rebecca Steele” mystery/romance series, along with a handful of stand-alone steamy romance titles that were often sold in box sets by the publisher. These, added to her controversial memoir, rounded out her current catalog. In addition, La Costa also maintained a fan blog and frequently submitted exposés for several national women’s magaz
ines, including High Style, of which, she appeared in a four-page spread about her life with the release of No Secrets back in the August issue. A frustrated and closeted writer himself, Henry marveled at her unprecedented success. He truly could not have been happier for her.
Other than these publicly disclosed details, the other areas of La Costa’s private life were non-existent. He was certain from the website, media kits, interviews, and back-of-the-book jacket biographies, that La Costa previously had never let the rest of the world—her public—know how very close to home her first central character, Vivian Dunn, mirrored her own past and background. At least, what he assumed it to be. Now he wondered, Would she appreciate a reminder from a time in her life she might rather forget? He wrestled with the dilemma until his gut reaction won the bitter battle waging within. Everything seemed to indicate that the time would be right. He would reach out to her.
From a street side window, Henry watched as La Costa greeted a never-ending throng of fans, some two to three hundred at a time, lined up along the aisles of the mammoth bookstore for over two and a half hours, for a signed book jacket, and to shake hands with the beloved author. She had the same expressive brown eyes he had remembered, and he could see the expert way she used them to entrance her admirers.
La Costa was a natural beauty. He knew it back then and found it to be even more true now, some twenty-five years later, as she sat there, strong, confident, and elegant, a far cry from the woman he had once known, who was a lost and frightened young girl, all of those years ago. He had decided not to approach her just then, or to intrude on her spotlight. There would be another opportunity. Still, there was, in spite of all the accolades and attention, the same spellbinding smile as she moved her attention from one person to the next, poised and perfect in her stunning black and ivory Chanel suit. He watched her from a distance a few minutes more, and hopped in his Jeep for the short drive back up the coast, unable to remove the permanent smile that had him grinning for the rest of the afternoon and into his dreams that night.
Sexy Ink! Page 14
