by Keri Hudson
Jack turned to Layla. “Cy Davenport, isn’t that your ex?” Layla nodded.
Footage of redheaded Hollywood legend Ron Howard walking through an airport terminal replaced the other footage, but he was surrounded by men and women holding out their hands to block any questions.
Jack asked Layla, “You don’t think this guy is anything to worry about?”
Layla sighed. “I… I hope not. I mean, he’s always been kinda wild, but he never raised a hand to me. He’s just… intense. And in this business, once you’re branded, it sticks for life; just ask Peewee Herman or R. Kelly. I don't think it’s fair to infer anything until I know for sure.”
Jack nodded, impressed with her sense of reason, her compassion even for a person who could present her a clear and present danger.
The footage ended with the prattle of some talking head behind a desk, but it was quickly replaced by footage of the protests in front of the Staples Center. Familiar white men and mostly women were gathered around the periphery of the Staples Center, where they’d been when Layla faced them down the day before. Their leader was identified by the subtitle as Carla Brunell, of the American Decency League.
“We’re here to raise awareness about something a lot worse than climate change! When our culture is falling apart the way it is? I’m sorry if I’m more worried about my daughter's future than some stupid polar bear. Even they know what we mean!”
The camera panned quickly to a second group of protesters very near the first. Many wore hijabs and robes but others were dressed in the same garb any Los Angeleno might wear. But their skin was uniformly darker, hair black or graying, the population mostly male but some women among them. They held up signs too, making references to Allah and chastity.
“Our Muslim brothers and sisters agree,” Carla Brunell went on, the camera panning back to her. “The problems in our society today don’t stem from the second amendment, and it’s certainly nothing to do with good Christian men and women. It’s the loose morality that’s taking us down, the oversexualization of our society, the degradation of our pure Christian morality. I don’t know much about being a Muslim, but if they’re in favor of a return to decency and humility, a flat-out rejection of pornography in all its many forms… I mean, they don’t do drugs, they don't drink, they don’t sexualize their women. I can say this honestly, as a Christian… if they didn't follow a false God, they could be, y’know, practically as good as real Americans.”
Layla grabbed the remote and hit the mute button, the TV going quiet. “Isn’t Allah just, like, a different name for the same God?”
“Same God,” Jack said, “different prophet; hardly the problem, though.”
After a doubting moment, Layla asked Jack, “What is the problem? You’re not one of those people who think more than two Muslims make up a sleeper cell?”
Jack huffed. “Layla, I've been to Somalia, to Turkey and Istanbul, Dubai and Saudi Arabia—”
“So have I. Jack, you’re not talking to some personal assistant. I’ve toured the world more than once.”
Jack couldn’t deny that she had a point, that she'd earned her perspective. Thinking about his brief time with her, Jack was more and more ready to hear her out, to let her unplumbed intelligence develop. He had a feeling it could yet make the difference between life and death for both of them.
“Anyway,” Jack said, “the more protesters who are hanging around, the more difficult keeping things secure will be.”
“Jack, they’ve got, like, dozens of security guards all over the place. And as for these protesters? They’re all just clamoring for a little camera time, that's all. This ups their profiles, makes it easier to recruit more members, gets more attention at the local chamber of commerce. But none of them really care at all about what they represent. They sure don’t care about global warming.”
“And you do?”
“I do,” Layla said, offense ripe in her tone.
“Just asking. But I guess I should have known.”
“You should have,” Layla agreed. “The Earth is the only planet we’ve got! And it’s… well, it’s in great danger, let’s just put it that way.”
“I agree.”
“A few more decades of this, there won’t be any turning back.”
“I know.”
“That’s why I’m doing this concert, not to… to rehabilitate my reputation, whatever my mother has in mind.”
“She’s not my concern.”
“But I am.”
“Of course,” Jack said. “I’m concerned for your safety, your happiness… you.” A digital pinging sound grabbed their attention from the far corner of the hotel room. “That’s your phone?” Layla nodded. Jack climbed out of bed and crossed to his slacks, the phone still ringing in his pocket. He swiped the screen and raised the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”
“Um, hello, is this… we were calling for Layla Shaye.”
“Why?”
“Oh, well, I’m calling from Patrickson/Dean Entertainment, we produce Odell… with Odell Ojai?” Jack said nothing, letting the man go on. “We were wondering if Miss Shaye would be interested in appearing on our show while she’s in town.”
Jack had no notion of that one way or the other, but he found it odd that they wouldn't contact her manager first. Instead, Jack handed the phone to Layla and watched as she took the call.
“Hello? Yes, this is she… really, Odell… that’s … interesting … sure.” Jack shook his head, but he already knew there was no changing her mind. He didn't want to anyway. Layla’d proven herself worthy enough to make her own choices and not be challenged at every turn.
She wouldn’t listen anyway.
“How about today? Oh, of course… no, I understand. But today’s the only day I’ve got, so…” Layla gave Jack a playful little wink, then returned her attention to the phone. “Oh, okay… I don't mean to disrupt your schedule… okay, then, if you insist. I guess we’ll see you at the CBS studios at noon.”
Layla swiped the screen and handed the phone back to Jack. “Ever been to a television studio?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jack stood near the stage as Layla stepped out to the applause of the studio audience. The host, a tall, slender African American fellow with a friendly smile, clapped with them and then shook her hand before sitting down with her in the pair of chairs set up on the stage. Fake plants and other garish trappings gave the show’s set the look of somebody’s living room, though Jack found it hard to imagine anybody would be even subconsciously impressed.
The audience finally went quiet and the cameras pulled in a bit closer.
“Layla Shaye,” Odell Ojai said, “what a thrill! Not the first time we’ve tried, have to say.”
“Oh, I’m sorry about that, Odell, I had no idea. I’m a big fan!” The audience applauded and Layla sat there beaming. It was clear that she knew how to play an audience, her host, just about anyone.
Just about, Jack thought, wondering if he was really as impervious to her influence as he thought.
Layla said to her host, “I’m just not in L.A. that often.”
“You moved out to New York a few years back.”
Layla nodded as the cameras rolled in closer. “Moving out has been, well, it was an adventure, for sure. But we’d been an East Coast family, and New York, well, it’s New York.” People cheered, Layla shrugged and smiled at her host. But Jack knew she was hiding the pain of losing her father after his mischosen step to move his family out west so his wife could pursue their daughter's career.
Odell went on, “So it must be nostalgic to be back for this concert. How exciting! You, Elton John, everybody’s performing at this one.”
Layla nodded as Jack surveyed the crowd, nothing unusual to excite his interest. “It’s for a great cause,” Layla said. “Climate change really is the central issue of our time.”
Odell nodded. “Yet it doesn’t even seem to be the central issue of the action around the stadium. What’s with all t
he protests? Some of them have named you in particular.”
Layla offered a light air, seeming to be nonplussed by the ugliness gathering around her. “Y’know, I understand that everybody has their perspective, and that’s what America is all about. I know a lot of people find what I do to be... challenging, and I do want to challenge people. That’s what art does. But I really don't want to get involved in anybody’s political angle. My concern is with the climate.”
The audience applauded, Jack surveying them before returning his attention to Layla on the stage.
Odell asked her, “And what about Cy Davenport? Have you heard anything from him?”
Layla seemed to wrestle with what to say. “Not for a few days. He did call me from the set of his new film, but… where he is now, I really don’t have any idea. I hope he’s all right, of course.”
“He’s volatile.”
“Yes,” Layla said without the need to consider.
“Violent.”
This did seem to require some thought, as Layla paused and bit her lower lip. “He was never that way with me, but… I haven’t seen him for several months, and from the things I’ve heard, well… I can’t comment on his mental state, but I do hope he goes back to work, goes back home, checks himself in somewhere. He’s a good man, but he may need some help, some guidance.” Layla glanced at Jack in the wings with a private little smile. “We all need that from time to time. But if Cy is lucky and smart, as smart as I know he is, he’ll allow those people who love him to help him. If he can just do that, just… open himself up a bit, I'm sure he’ll be fine.”
The audience applauded again, a warm wave passing through Jack’s body.
“And what about the footage of you at Yamashiro. Is that your bodyguard?”
“That is my head of security, yes. We were having dinner and the fans got a little too close. That's really all there is to it. Now I know that people want to make something out of a thing like that. But this gentleman, whom I will allow to remain nameless, is of the highest quality of character and he’s the best in his profession.”
Odell asked, “Do you have security issues? I hear you fired your security staff.”
“Y’know, really, my mother, who manages me, and other people, the concert promoter, they have a lot more to do with all that than I do. I’m more worried the performances, of course the climate… the big things. I don't mean to sound like a spoiled brat or anything, but… I do what I can do, and I let the pros take care of the rest.”
“Okay,” Odell said, “fair enough. We’re going to take a quick break and we’ll be back with more from Layla Shaye!” The crowd applauded, the cameras rolled back from the stage, and the show’s theme music played over the studio speakers.
“What… the… fuck?”
Jack turned to see Lorelei Schaffer approaching, her face in a heavily made-up snarl. Jack just shrugged, but she demanded, “Why wasn’t I asked about this?”
“They called your daughter directly. She decided to do it.”
“I’m her manager!”
“I don’t care.”
“Now, you listen to me—” But Jack just stared her down, a powerful sneer on his upper lip. He didn’t say any more and he didn't need to. “Fine,” Lorelei said, “I’ll deal with my daughter directly.”
“No.”
After another stunned silence, Lorelei demanded, “What?”
“Matter of security,” Jack said. He didn’t have to say more and he didn’t. Lorelei was in no position to challenge him, and Jack had an increasing feeling that he had to take a stronger hand in things.
Lorelei raised her flattened hands and shook her head. “Y’know what? Go ahead, you and my daughter play your little games. Just make sure she shows up at the concert. I’ll text her the details.”
She walked away, and Jack said, “Keep us posted.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
After the taping, Jack took Layla to arrange a car and home rental. A few calls were well placed, and her name also went a long way to speeding things along, so it wasn’t long before they were driving in a silver Mercedes-Benz E-Class convertible up winding Mulholland Boulevard toward a mansion they would share for the next three days.
Looking out over the hills, she asked, “You really think this house is necessary?”
“I do,” Jack said, “but not necessarily for your security.” Reading the tilt of her head, Jack said, “You need time away from all those people, your… your fans, your entourage, your handlers.”
“Aren’t you my handler now?”
“No, Layla, no… I’m your liberator. Security? I’m here to set you free.”
Another car’s engine roared up behind them, and both Jack and Layla looked back. It was a lime-green Suzuki Jimny, boxy and awkward. It came up fast, very nearly ramming them from behind.
Jack muttered, “What the hell?” He extended his hand out to wave the car around and past them. But the Suzuki stayed behind them, gunning the engine and approaching even closer from behind.
Layla asked, “What the hell?”
Jack shook his head. “S’not good.” Jack stepped on the gas, the Suzuki lurching forward. He pushed the little car along the winding mountain roadway, notorious for how many luckless fools had plunged over the side and to their deaths hundreds of feet below.
It looked to Jack as if there might just be two more. The Suzuki roared up behind them again, inches from hitting them.
Layla asked, “What’s going on?”
Jack searched his imagination for some explanation other than the obvious; there wasn’t one. “They’re trying to run us off the road!”
“What? Who?”
“Don’t know,” Jack said, eyes fixed on the road, hands clutching the steering wheel. “Can you shoot?”
“What, a gun?”
“Of course a gun!”
“I… no, I… I never have.”
Jack leaned forward. “Behind my back.” Layla reached in and pulled his Cobra handgun from his waistband. “Just point and shoot!”
Crunch!
The Mercedes jostled as the Suzuki rammed it from behind, tires skidding, coming very close to smashing into the flimsy guardrail. The gun fell out of Layla’s hand, flying over the side of the convertible car to the side of the winding mountain road.
Layla said, “Shit! Sorry! Shit, shit, shit!”
The car behind them roared again and it rammed them a second time. Jack said, “Hold on!” But it was too late. Their car slid forward, careening into the turn and then smashing into the guardrail. It broke out in front of them and they flew over the hill and into the chasm below.
Layla screamed and Jack knew there was no time to waste. He wasn’t likely to survive the crash in his human form, and he wouldn’t be able to save Layla. So Jack pulled his seatbelt off and pushed the button opening Layla’s as well. He shifted in a flash to his lupine form, clothes torn away to the last shred, his body suddenly too big to fit in the driver’s seat. Jack leapt up, bit into Layla’s shoulder just strong enough to secure his grip, and jumped away from the car as it fell to its fate.
The Mercedes landed with a terrific crash behind them, an explosion sending a wave of heat up at them from behind. Jack had jumped toward the sharp hillside, leaving the car to crash as he landed among the bushes and bramble. Layla seemed dazed in his jaws, but she also seemed unhurt by their landing. Jack dug his paws into the hillside to stop their downward slide, finally coming to rest just a few yards above the burning car.
Jack listened for the roar of the other car’s engine, quickly getting fainter but still going strong, the culprits making their getaway as fast as they could without confirming the result.
Typical, Jack thought as he crouched low, looking around before turning to climb up the hill, hindquarters first so he could drag Layla up to the road. It was a long, difficult drag, but Jack’s lupine strength was far greater than any man’s and it wasn’t long before he managed to get her back up to Mulholland.
“Jack? Jack! Are you okay? What—what happened? Where are your clothes?”
“They caught fire, had to leave them at the bottom of the hill.”
Layla nodded, seeming to think about it as the sirens got louder, nearby lights flashing red and blue. But her expression changed, head tilting as she refocused on Jack as if seeing him anew.
A helicopter flew overhead and then turned to hover.
“No,” she said, “that’s not true… that’s not true!”
“Layla, take it easy. You’ve been in a severe accident, you need to get checked out, we both do. Your brain—”
“No, Jack, no… not my brain, you… your body. You… you’re not human!”
Jack looked around to see an ambulance, a police car, and two fire engines arriving from the west.
The police car skidded to a halt and two uniformed officers stepped out, guns drawn. “Los Angeles Police Department, show us your hands!” Jack and Layla both raised their empty hands. They looked over Jack’s naked body, then at Layla. “Are you all right, miss?”
Layla looked at Jack, then at the burning wreckage below. “Yes, I… my boyfriend here almost caught fire, we barely made it out alive!”
The two uniformed officers glanced at each other and holstered their guns while paramedics rushed up with a pair of gurneys, one covering Jack with a thin, blue blanket.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Good Samaritan hospital, across the I-10 freeway from Downtown Los Angeles proper, was already attracting throngs of fans and news crews, some in choppers hovering around the building.
Jack and Layla stood at the window of her small private room, Layla pressing her palm to the window as she looked down.
“Look,” she said, her voice whispery, “look how they came out to show their support, see if I was okay, show me how much they love me.”
