by Ian Bull
He moves to the slow lane. We’re close, thank god. My brain is like Swiss cheese.
“There’s a guy named Major Glenn Ward I want you to meet,” Carl says. “He’s a cyber expert I work with. He can explain where you went wrong.”
Why is Carl offering up someone to help me? I glance at Julia, expecting her to object to his offer, but she stares out the window.
Carl turns down into the driveway to Rikki Lassen’s beach house. I shiver and my stomach drops, which is what happens when I’m ashamed. She’s dead because of me, and I’m going to recover in the home she’ll never see again.
“Who’s he?” Carl asks as the gate to the estate opens in front of us.
A fat guy with a beard, Hawaiian print shirt, and a dirty USC hat leans against an old Cadillac Sedan de Ville parked next to the gate. He’s also got a camera around his neck and a thick brace on his leg. I’m glad we’re all behind dark tinted glass.
“That’s the paparazzo I kicked,” Julia says.
“His name is Simon Le Clerq,” I say. “He and I were colleagues once.”
“Talk to me, Julia Travers!” he shouts. “I’m going to the cops unless you come talk to me! I have serious injuries because of you!”
Carl eases the wide Porsche Cayenne through the narrow gate.
“Don’t stop,” Julia says, then ducks as if he can see her through the tinted windows.
Le Clerq lifts his camera and snaps photos. “You assaulted me! I have a lawsuit!”
We ease through the gate. I’m too sore to turn around, but I can hear it closing behind us.
“Le Clerq knows enough not to trespass,” I say.
Julia opens the front door and Carl helps me limp past the kitchen to the living room. The sofa and pillows are orange and pink, like a sunset. Julia opens the curtains and reveals floor-to-ceiling windows, with the Pacific Ocean cutting a blue line across the glass.
“Nice place,” Carl says.
My head throbs and my chest hurts. “I have to pass out,” I say, and head down a hall to find a bedroom—but Carl stops me and props me up against a wall.
“I won’t be here when you wake up,” he says. “Your funeral is Thursday at Carew and English Mortuary in San Francisco. It’s a closed casket and a private service. Just family.”
“Did you arrange that, too?”
“Yes, but Julia paid for it. It cost her ten thousand dollars.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“You don’t think people are watching? Seeing what Julia does next? What your family does? Hopefully your brother can keep your mom and dad quiet. That jackass parked out in front wants to know everything, and I don’t think he’s going to stop looking.”
“Okay, I get it.”
“They’ll shoot Julia next,” he says. “You know that, right? And then what will you do?”
“I just don’t like owing her money.”
“Oh, the macho Latin thing? Maybe that’s your problem.”
My head moves from dull throb to full-on pounding, and I feel every wound under my bandages. I want to yell at him to mind his own business, but I might pass out.
“She’s world famous, and who are you? You’ve earned how much? Half a million bucks maybe, taking all those tabloid pictures when you were a paparazzo? She probably makes ten times that per movie, while you spent the rest of what you got on our adventure in the Bahamas. And now your wallet’s almost empty, you got nothing going on, and you can’t handle it.”
I focus on a framed watercolor on the wall instead of answering him. It’s a beach scene, with a dad playing in the sand with two daughters, surrounded by plastic buckets, shovels, umbrellas, and towels, with the blue ocean behind them. Rikki must have painted it years ago, when her family was young and they were happy, before her divorce.
“Yo, Earth to Quintana. She’s the best thing that ever happened to you. Don’t blow it.”
He’s right. If something happened to her because of me, I’d have to kill myself. Then I look at the watercolor again and think of Rikki. She’s dead because of them, not me. I can imagine what she’d say to me right now, if she could:
You screw up and get me killed? And then you give up? I would hunt them down and get my justice from every one of them. Think of that when you’re lying in my bed at night.
The buzz in my ears increases and the hallway tilts. I’m going down. Carl grabs me under the armpits and holds me off the floor. He helps me stagger into the bedroom. Julia is already there. She was listening. They’re up to something. She eases me down on the bed, yanks off my shoes, and pulls a white comforter over me. She touches my forehead, and the coolness of her hand seeps right into my skull.
I love you, Julia. I can fix everything.
I think it, but don’t say it.
She shuts the door.
Chapter 7
* * *
Julia Travers
Day 2: Sunday Evening
Los Angeles, California
It’s ten p.m., and Steven’s been asleep for eleven hours. He didn’t move for so long I thought he was dead, so I held my compact under his nose until I saw his warm breath mist up the mirror.
I wish he’d wake up. I’m lonely.
I pace the house. I walk to the front door and check outside. I walk past the guest bedroom and look in on Steven, then into the living room, and then out the glass doors out onto the balcony, where I can stare out at the sea.
I can hear Steven teasing me—It’s not a sea, it’s an ocean.
I can smell the salt and hear the surf, but there’s no moon yet tonight. Leaning against the railing, I peer down at the sand twenty feet below. Water runs up under the house and back again. I wish I could ride that wave out to sea and keep going to Japan.
The phone only rang three times today. My parents, who want me to come home; my agent, Paul, checking up on me; and Detective Mendoza from the LAPD, with more questions about Rikki. I have a million texts, but I’m too distracted to work my thumbs right now.
The constant stress knot in my stomach is worse today. An acting job would fix it. Then I could disappear into my work again and forget who I am for another three months.
Rikki’s funeral is Thursday afternoon at Forest Lawn Cemetery. Hundreds of people will be there, along with cameras from all the news stations and tabloids. Rikki’s assistant texted me the info so I could attend. I offered to share my memories but I’ve gotten no response.
So I walk circles in her house, passing her artwork on the walls, the throw pillows, and the periwinkle bowls full of sea glass that she and her daughters gathered on the beach over the years. This place was her sanctuary, and she let me live here when I needed one.
The mail must have come yesterday. That’s something I can do—I can check on the mail. I creep out the front door and up to the driveway gate, where the mailbox is embedded in the stone wall. I don’t know if Simon Le Clerq is on the other side. The mailbox creaks as I open it.
“Is that you, Julia Travers?”
I grab the mail just as he opens the box from the other side, his red, bloated shouting face filling the opening for a microsecond before I slam the box shut.
“You assaulted me!”
I dash back into the house. The neighbors will call the Malibu Police soon. He can’t lie in wait for me like this, and they’ll get sick of his ugly Cadillac in our shared driveway.
I have one letter in a pink envelope with a seashell stamp. It’s from Rikki; a letter from a dead woman. My hands shake so much that I tear the envelope to shreds as I open it, then pull out two handwritten pages of scented purple stationary embossed with her initials.
Dear Julia —
Tonight, you host the Technical Oscars. It’ll be a crazy day, but I know you’ll be perfect. I’ve been your manager for one year. You came to me last March, and asked me to repair your image and get your career back on track. Tonight proves that we did it.
However, the job has been hard. This must sound crazy c
oming from the tough bitch with the thick skin, but the truth is, we don’t know each other at all. We’ve never gone out, we’ve never gossiped, we’ve never shopped, we’ve never even shared a glass of wine. I don’t think Steven is good for you, but we’re not allowed to talk about that. We’re not allowed to talk about your only friend, Trishelle, whom I’ve never met. Your entire life is off-limits.
What happened to you must have been horrible. You and Trishelle were kidnapped. You were forced to act in a movie or be killed, knowing you’d be killed anyway. It must have taken incredible strength to escape. We’ve never talked about it, yet I’m the one whom you hired to “put that all behind you.” I’m not saying you need to get over it, or process it, or any other self-help crap. Everyone suffers in life. But we must share our suffering, because it makes us human, and it makes life easier to endure for everybody.
Let me share what’s happened to me: I loved my husband for twenty years, until he spent all my money on gambling and other women. I have two daughters, Jackie and Helia, whom I love desperately. Jackie is a veterinarian, but Helia has autism and will live in a group home her entire life. I also have two parents with Alzheimer’s who no longer remember me.
We all have shit in our lives, Julia. Your shit in the Bahamas lasted a week. My shit lasts decades. You know what’s ironic? What you call the worst experience of your life has ended up being great for your career (with some help from me).
Our contract is up. I don’t think we should renew. It’s time for you to work on yourself. Stay in the beach house as long as you want. You’re a fantastic tenant. You may never want to speak to me again after reading this letter, but I say what I think, which is why people hire me. Maybe in a few years we’ll work together again. Crazier things have happened. Knock ’em dead tonight, babe. Then again, as you read this, I know you already did.
—Rikki
Her perfume rises off the paper as the kitchen clock ticks, twisting the knot in my stomach tighter. She’s right about me. I fixed my career, but I didn’t fix myself.
I walk out on the balcony. A crescent moon now sits on the horizon, like a shell earring. I need Trishelle. If she’d only come down from Toronto for me….
“What are you doing?”
Steven’s voice makes me jump. He stands by the fireplace, still half inside the hallway.
“Waiting for you to wake up.”
“People could be watching. And listening. Come inside.”
I think he’s being paranoid, until I look out to sea and see a red light from a boat bobbing on the water. I step back inside, shut the sliding doors, and pull the curtains closed.
“How are you feeling?”
He raises his left arm and almost gets it to shoulder height before wincing. “I heal pretty fast. I think it’s because I’m a good sleeper.”
He looks like an older Channing Tatum, in his loose t-shirt and jeans. I can’t even tell he’s injured. He’s not gorgeous, but he’s comfortable in his own skin. It makes him sexy, but I’m still too angry at him to ever admit that.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should never have come to your show.”
“Why didn’t you tell me people were following you?”
“I didn’t know. It was just a feeling I had. I wanted you to be safe. I made a mistake.”
“Your mistake was investigating the names on the flash drive in the first place.”
“They’re criminals. Someone has to stop them.” He slides down onto the couch. He backs into the pillows like they’re hot coals. I’m a little glad that he’s in pain.
“Live here with me while you heal.”
He notices my outfit, which I wore just for him—jeans with a zippered hoodie and just a bra underneath. It was his favorite when we were together. He likes to reach under the hoodie and touch my skin and breasts, or slide his hands into my back jean pockets and pull me toward him. I slide down onto the couch across from him, letting him see my curves. With enough guilt and sex appeal, I may be able to control him.
“I can’t,” he says, forcing himself to look out the window instead of at me.
“Why not?” I ask, lowering my chin while looking up at him. He loves that flirty glance.
“Because I want to know who the man behind the curtain is,” he says. “Xander Constantinou didn’t act alone; the list proves that he was collaborating with someone.”
I’m a successful actress, the envy of women everywhere, according to magazines, yet I can’t get an ex-boyfriend to fall for me. People warned me that being a successful actress can ruin your love life, but this is ridiculous.
“Why was it so hard for you when we were dating?”
“Do you really want to talk about that again?” he asks with a condescending sigh that is so irritating, like I just asked to borrow money from him.
“Women can be with successful men. Why can’t it be the other way around?”
“I admire your success. I just don’t like the circus that goes along with it,” he says.
We stare at each other as the clock ticks. I need to try another track; my goal is to convince him to stop his search and stay in Los Angeles, not rehash our relationship.
“If you leave, I’m going to call the officer and the FBI agent and tell them everything,” I say, my voice rising. “That they were trying to kill you, not Rikki.”
“They’ll figure that out soon enough anyway. That’s why I have to leave and finish this.”
“I hate you,” I say, feeling exactly the opposite. I tuck my legs up on the couch and try to disappear into the soft cushions.
“Thank you for arranging my fake funeral,” he says. “I owe you for that.”
“I am debating whether I should even attend.”
“Don’t. The tabloids will turn it into a zoo and freak out my mother.”
He moves his left arm, testing his range again. When he can do it without wincing, he’ll leave, which may be as early as tomorrow.
I have only one card left to play, literally. “If you won’t stay, at least take this.” I pull out a black credit card and toss it across the table. His eyes widen.
“That’s a black American Express Card.”
“It’s got just my initials on it. No name. I ordered it when you were in the hospital.”
“The perks of stardom?” he asks. “Except I don’t want it.”
“It’s not a perk. It’s an insurance policy. Use it to buy something. A coffee at Starbucks. It will tell me where you are. That way, if you get in trouble, I can help you.”
He eyes it with suspicion, then picks it off the table. “Thanks, Flaquita,” he says.
He winces as he raises himself up off the soft cushions. Little stains appear on the side of his t-shirt; his wounds are weeping. “I have to change my bandages,” he says.
In the kitchen, we open the first aid bag the hospital gave him. I pull on a pair of sterile gloves. He takes off his shirt, and his brown body is lean and ripped. He’s lost weight since I saw him last. Four white gauze bandages cover the oozing wounds where the bullets hit the vest. Tugging at the tape, I pull off the first wet bandage, and he hisses. The second doesn’t go any better.
“You do it too slow,” he sneers as he yanks off the last two bandages. The wounds have moist scabs, but they look like they’re healing.
Pulling up a chair, I tear off strips of medical tape and stick them on the edge of the counter, then rip open the gauze packages. As Steven leans against the kitchen counter, I place a large gauze square over each wound and tape down each side. I run my fingers across the bandages.
He shivers as his skin gets goosebumps. “That tickles.”
I lean forward and kiss where his smooth skin turns bumpy and purple. I look up. He smiles and helps me to my feet. I tingle everywhere, and his hands tremble with the shared electricity. He pulls me close.
We kiss. It’s soft at first—dry, tiny kisses where his lips dance across mine. Then I lock my lips on his and we kiss long and hard. It’s
our first in six months.
I know what he’s thinking, because I’m thinking it, too. We’ll be together tonight, but after that, we may never kiss again. We may never see each other again. Why mention it? It will only take away from the moment.
He wraps his fingers in my hair. He doesn’t wince when I touch his side. He’s in a different zone now. He slides his hands under my pullover and touches my bare back.
‘You’ve gained weight,” he says as he grabs my hips. “That’s good. You need curves.”
He deserves a kiss for that. His hands touch my breasts through my bra. He exhales.
“Am I hurting you?” I ask, pulling away.
“That’s not pain I’m feeling,” he says, and tugs me toward the guest bedroom.
He eases down onto the guest bed, wincing. Once he’s flat, he guides me next to him.
“You’ll have to do a lot of the work.”
“Fine by me,” I say, and I can see him smile in the dark.
I get on top and straddle him and rub my jeans against his. I can feel him stiffen between my legs. It’s been so long I could climax with all my clothes on, his jeans against mine, but he grabs my hips and makes me stop.
“Slower,” he whispers. “I have to remember this.”
“You will, I promise,” I whisper, and he laughs.
“We were good at this. I miss it.”
“Is that all you miss?” I ask, then immediately regret asking.
I put my finger on his lips so he doesn’t have to answer, then pull off my top and toss it to the side. He reaches up and snaps off my bra. He cups my breasts, and I move against him. I’m getting too excited again, so I lie down so my torso is against his, my bare skin against his bare skin, nipple to nipple, and I can feel his heartbeat almost match mine. We slow down and sigh and hold each other, rocking. I hear the waves in the distance.
Chapter 8
* * *
Robert Snow
Day 3: Monday
Los Angeles, California
