“What made you come back here? Besides being cold.”
He swept his hand through the glowing water. “Short story? I realized I’d become someone I didn’t want to be.”
“Long story?” I asked.
“My mom got sick. I came down for her first round of chemo. My sisters were frustrated with me because I was here, but I wasn’t here—I was on my phone all the time, stressed about work. One night I was complaining to my mom that my siblings didn’t understand—I made more money than all of them combined; that meant sacrifice. She said”—he cleared his throat, raised his voice an octave, and put on an island accent far thicker than his own—“‘That is fine, Ricky. Just be sure you are not sacrificing the thing you desire most in the world.’” He laughed and shook his head. “She always knows exactly what to say to me.”
“So when did you move back?”
“About five years ago. I sold all the bullshit, gave up the friends who only cared how much money I made. Down here, I had enough cash to live off for a long time, but I wanted to be around people and do something I enjoyed, so I started running boats and planes.”
“And are you happier?”
He swung his arm out at the ocean. “What do you think?”
I thought a lot of things, not all of them G-rated, looking at this handsome man so comfortable in his own skin. “I think you’re brave,” I said. “To know what you want and give up the things society tells you you’re supposed to desire to live your best life—I wish I could do that. I give you mad props.”
He high-fived my raised palm. “Thanks. I’d love to show you my house sometime, if you want.”
I wanted very much. “What’s it like?”
“It’s old—nearly a hundred years—but it was built well, and I’ve put in a lot of upgrades. It sits on top of a hill looking over the ocean, so it gets a nice breeze, and there’s a sundeck on the roof. My sisters tease me though, because I live like a bachelor.”
I laughed, brazenly laying a hand on his arm. “Lemme guess, a big TV and a brown couch, nothing on the walls?”
“The couch is blue, and my mom paints, so I have a lot of pictures of boats and flowers. And a wall of books, though I can’t claim they’re high literature or anything.”
“What do you like to read?”
“Thrillers, mysteries.” He shrugged. “Books with men and boats in them.”
“Makes sense,” I said. We’d been moving ever closer to each other as we talked, so that now our faces were only inches apart.
“What about you?” he asked.
The wind blew my hair into my face, and he tucked it behind my ear for me, brushing my cheek with his fingertips as he did. My skin buzzed where he’d touched it. “I like…This is a secret. You promise you won’t tell?”
He locked his amber eyes on mine, and for once I didn’t force myself to look away. “Promise.”
“I like romance novels,” I whispered. “The trashier, the better.”
He tossed his head back in laughter. “I would never have guessed it.” He placed a hand on my hip and once again found my gaze. “You are a surprise, you know that?”
“You too,” I murmured.
This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t get involved with someone while I was working. I needed to stay focused. This was a distraction. I needed to…
And his lips were on mine. Soft and smooth and strong, like him. His powerful arms were around me, our bodies pressed together, the bay glowing all around us. It was magical. Terribly, horribly magical. And absolutely wonderful.
My back pocket vibrated, and the ringer cut into the stillness. I didn’t want to get it. I wanted to throw the damn phone in the sea and never answer it again. But I couldn’t do that. Look at me. I was already distracted by this man beyond repair.
“You need to get that?” he asked, his breath hot on my neck.
I sighed, reluctantly reaching for my back pocket. “Yeah.”
He smiled at my hesitation. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The display showed it was Kara, the script supervisor. What could she want at this hour? “Hi, Kara,” I answered.
“Taylor?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s Stella. She’s super wasted, I think.” Her voice sounded distraught. “I found her slumped against the wall by the bathrooms and dragged her outside. I don’t know what to do.”
“Where are you?” I asked.
“By the bench on the beach side of the restaurant.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I hung up the phone and put it back in my pocket. “We gotta go back,” I said regretfully. “Stella’s apparently trashed.”
“She seemed fine last time I saw her,” he said as we tromped out of the water and toward the path leading back to the restaurant. “But that was probably an hour ago.”
“She has issues with substances,” I said. “So…who knows.”
He led me by the hand through the trees and back to the ironshore beach. We hurried across the sand to the restaurant, where Kara sat next to Stella’s slumped form on the bench.
“What happened to her?” Rick asked as we approached, sliding in next to Stella and slipping his arm around her to sit her up. She wasn’t quite unconscious, but her head lolled at an odd angle and she couldn’t keep her eyes open.
“I don’t know,” Kara said. “I found her like this. I brought her out here because I figured she could use some fresh air.”
“Thank you,” I said, impressed that birdlike Kara had managed to carry Stella out here on her own. “Where’s Felicity?”
“Not sure. I think I saw her leave with Jackson. That’s why I called you.”
I assessed Stella. “Could she have hit her head or something?”
Stella’s eyes fluttered as Rick inspected her head. “She doesn’t have any marks,” he said. She didn’t resist as he pulled back each eyelid, turning her face to the light. “Her pupils look normal. What was she drinking?”
“Gin, I think,” I said. “She takes pills too. Maybe it’s the way they mixed with the alcohol?”
“We should probably make her throw up if we can,” Rick said.
“Not here,” I said, checking over my shoulder to make sure Madison wasn’t lurking in the shadows with her cell phone. “She’ll be mortified if anyone sees her like this.”
Rick scooped her up easily and carried her away from the hubbub of the restaurant, past the benches and onto the shadowy beach. I called Felicity. She answered on the first ring. “Taylor. What’s up?”
“Where are you?”
“In the port.”
Thank God this island was so small. “Can you come to the beach on the other side of the jetty? Stella’s really wasted.”
I waved from the pathway to the beach when Felicity came running around the front of the building two minutes later with Jackson hot on her heels. “Sorry. She was fine when I left her.” She dropped to her knees next to Stella. “Where’s her bag?”
Kara handed Felicity Stella’s purse, and Felicity rifled through it, extracting a little blue pouch. She unzipped the pouch and removed four different-colored pill holders, carefully counting the pills in each.
“She hasn’t taken any extra pills,” Felicity said. “And her regular medication shouldn’t interact this badly with alcohol.”
“This badly?” I asked.
Felicity sat in the sand next to Stella, who rested her head in her lap. “I do my best to moderate, but she drinks. Often heavily, on more pills than she’s on right now. And she doesn’t become this incoherent. She’s got a tolerance like a horse.”
“How many drinks did she have tonight?” Rick asked.
“One, as far as I know, and a shot of tequila,” Felicity replied.
“Who gave her the drink?” Jackson asked.
“Cole,” I said.
Rick raised his brows, and we all exchanged a weighted glance.
“Dear old Dad,” Jackson said bitterly. “I wouldn’t put it pa
st him.”
“But why?” I asked.
Felicity looked up at me. “Same reason he said that shit to you tonight.”
“To flex his power.” Jackson clenched his jaw. “It’s mind games. He’s played them with me my entire life.”
“Shit,” Kara breathed. “I mean, I knew he was a dick, but…wow.”
“I should never have taken his money,” Jackson muttered. “Maybe I should pull the plug on this thing.”
“Don’t make any decisions tonight,” Felicity said.
“She’s right,” I agreed. “And talk to Stella first. Maybe she remembers something or has different ideas about what happened. This is all just conjecture right now.”
I talked a good line, but the memory of my own inexplicable blackout with Cole had reared its ugly head. Had I not overindulged that evening at all but been drugged by my boss? And if he’d drugged me, what else had he done to me? I desperately wanted to dismiss the idea, but the jack had popped out of the box.
Part IV:
Advisory
Felicity
Eighteen Months Ago
Beyond a guarded, unmarked door in a dead-end alley a stone’s throw from the tourists and junkies that trample the stars of Hollywood Boulevard, the walls of the dimly lit club shudder with throbbing bass. The beat reverberates through my platform stilettos and up my legs under my black leather minidress, where it quivers beneath my skin in sync with the pounding of my heart. The vibration shakes loose my thoughts, rattling them around in my head until they’re as soft as powdered sugar; a trip to the dance floor melts them into sweet perspiration on my glistening skin.
I don’t need to work at the Ninth Circle. My mother’s lump of cash has only grown with wise investments in crypto.
But I can lose myself here.
The darkness and the drums negate the need for idle chitchat, and combined with the drugs and alcohol, allow a loosening of inhibition that compels authenticity. This is the place where the id comes to play.
I sling bottles of alcohol at more than ten times the price you’d pay in a store, with a side of fruit juice and a heavy dose of cleavage. Sometimes the customers get handsy (the women as often as the men), but I don’t mind. Like Iris said, I’m selling a fantasy. I give them just enough of what it is they need—to feel sexy, special, wanted—then I retreat to my doorman building in West Hollywood and watch the sun come up from my balcony with a view all the way to the Pacific Ocean.
That’s not to say I don’t occasionally go home with one if he strikes my fancy—to his place, never mine, and I never stay overnight. If he comes back to the club hoping for another round, I make it clear that’s impossible. If he doesn’t get the hint, I have Marty throw him out. Marty’s had more than his share of my body, but it’s a fair exchange; he keeps me safe. Anyway, he’s sexy in a Jason Statham way when he’s not too drunk, and he never asks questions. I’m twenty-one now, but I’ve been working here off the record nearly two years, and I’ve never had to so much as show an ID.
I started at the Ninth Circle because I’d heard from a girl in my acting class that it was where Cole hung out. She’d apparently met him there the first time she slept with him. Yes, I take acting classes. Not because I still dream of becoming a movie star—I’ve long since given that up in favor of exacting revenge on my mother’s killer—but because I have to be convincing in whatever role I need to play to achieve that goal.
Cole’s an easier target than Stella, who had a rough ride in the years following my mother’s death and has become somewhat of a recluse since the meat grinder of public opinion spat her out. Also, men like Cole are so simple. They all want one thing. I figured I’d meet Cole and worm my way into his life, find out what really happened to my mother, then figure out what to do about it. But around the time of my arrival, he took off for London to shoot a movie. After that, he went to rehab, then he got a sober girlfriend, and on like this for over a year.
Until tonight.
I spied him the moment he walked in, running his silver-ringed fingers through those famous dark locks. He was dressed in black—leather jacket, ripped jeans, motorcycle boots—traveling with a good-looking younger actor I recognized and another guy in a suit who was probably an agent or a producer or something. He didn’t scan the room the way guests usually do as the velvet door closes behind them; he didn’t need to. Everyone continued right on dancing or drinking or hustling without any indication they’d registered the newly arrived star, but they knew he was there, and they were glad.
Celebrities are a common occurrence in the Ninth Circle—what it’s known for even. It’s a place they can go and fly under the radar, not be bothered or photographed while they let their hair down. Everyone’s beautiful; everyone’s cool. And yet each time a celebrity passes beneath the pink neon sign warning “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” the energy in the room surges. On a night when multiple celebrities are in attendance, the electricity is palpable. This is one of those nights.
But I don’t care about the others; I only want Cole.
I’ve imagined this moment so many times in the eleven years since I woke up motherless in the hospital; I should be ready. But I am in no way prepared for the onslaught of emotions that crashes over me as I saunter over to his table, my heart pounding harder than the bass that shakes the walls of the cave-like club.
Suddenly I’m eighteen again, climbing out of Fred’s truck at the bus depot on a warm June evening, my suitcase in hand, the urn of my mother’s ashes wrapped carefully among my clothes. I’d been touched they let me take her with me, surprised by the hard-earned $500 they gave me for graduation, moved they waited until the 180 West pulled out of the station, waving as we chugged away into the sunset. But I was so glad the Pennsylvania chapter of my life was over.
I slept fitfully on the bus through the night and got off in the morning somewhere in southern Illinois, where I dragged my roller bag down the road to a used car lot and bought a ten-year-old gold Accord with my pile of cash. Iris had always said Japanese cars never die. I drove recklessly across Missouri and Oklahoma with the windows down, eating kettle corn from a bag between my knees. I talked my way out of my first speeding ticket in Albuquerque, twirling my long blond ponytail nervously while allowing tears to pool in my big blue eyes. “I’m going to Hollywood to become an actress,” I pleaded. “I only have enough money to get me through the first week till I can find a job. If I get a ticket, well—I’ll have to go back home.”
He caved.
When I got to Hollywood, it was love at first sight. The palm trees, the strip malls, the sunshine, the seediness. Los Angeles is awash in contradictions, a place where you can find a star who makes twenty mil a picture in line at a two-dollar taco stand with its sign written in Korean. Nobody cares who you are or where you came from unless you’re a celebrity, in which case they care very, very much—but only as it applies to them. It’s such an unabashedly selfish city. The last bastion of the Wild West, where anything can happen.
I promptly paid an exorbitant amount of money for a mostly clean apartment on the first floor of an old stucco building, got a job as a waitress at a café around the corner, and began taking advantage of all the city had to offer: acting lessons to change my personality on a dime, makeup classes to alter my appearance at will, Krav Maga to protect myself. Posing as an actor researching a role for a film, I befriended a pharmacist and learned the dosages and combinations of pills to induce sleep or cause death. I bought a 9mm Beretta and practiced at the shooting range downtown while cops in the next lane looked on, impressed with my steadily improving aim.
I didn’t want to know anyone and didn’t want anyone to know me, but I found it difficult not to make friends. For a place as cutthroat as LA, everyone was so incredibly friendly. I didn’t show up for parties, turned down invitations to premieres and lunches and dinners with people’s parents visiting from out of town, kept my romantic entanglements to one-night stands; still I was gifted random succ
ulents and free Reiki sessions.
I resolved to move when my lease came up every year to prevent the neighbors from growing too attached and used an ever-changing stage name: Jasmine James became Olivia O’Hara became my current handle, Nikki Nimes. Everybody out here uses stage names anyway, so no one bats an eye when you christen yourself with a different moniker than the one your parents chose. I’m not a spy; I don’t have a stash of false passports and wigs, but with each name change comes a new backstory and a makeover that includes a fashion overhaul as well as an eye color and hairstyle switch. I also swap acting studios every semester to evade my fellow thespians—although I have discovered that actors make the most suitable friends, so self-centered they rarely remember anything about you.
If I want to accomplish my goal—whatever it turns out to be—I have to be a blank slate, ready to take on whatever identity I need to succeed. I’ve achieved that mostly; with the exception of Marty and this one girl Lacey, who’s worked at the Ninth Circle longer and probably has more to hide than me, I’m pretty much anonymous.
And now, nearly three years since I drew my first breath on the West Coast, Cole Power is finally in my crosshairs.
I catch my reflection in the gilded mirror above his table as I stand before him in the pool where the blue and pink lights converge, illuminating my body in their glow.
“Jesus,” Cole says, staring up at me. “If I’d known they’d started hiring girls that looked like you, I’d have been back sooner.”
This may be easier than I thought. “That’s very kind of you.” I lean down so that my boobs nearly spill out of my low-cut dress, right at eye level. “What can I get you guys to start tonight?”
“I’m a whiskey kinda guy myself, but get whatever you want.” He doesn’t even make an attempt to pretend he’s not staring at my chest. “You’re having a drink with us.”
“Thank you,” I purr, ever so lightly touching his knee. “So a bottle of Dom Pérignon and a bottle of Johnnie Walker—Black, Red, Blue?”
The Siren Page 21
