“You’d better leave me alone,” she warned, struggling ferociously. “Otherwise I’m screaming rape.”
“Scream away,” he said. “Nobody’ll hear you.”
“This sucks!” she shrieked.
“Didn’t your mommy warn you? Never go home with a stranger,” he said, tearing at the buttons of her pajama top. “Why’d you come with me if you didn’t want it? Pushing your little titties up against me on the bike. You know you want it.”
He had one hand on her left breast. She kneed him in the groin as hard as she could.
“Jesus!” he groaned. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting out of here—that’s what,” she shouted, rolling off the bed, grabbing her dress and shoes from the floor and racing for the door before he could do anything about it.
She made it outside and began running down the muddy garden path toward the front of the house.
A dog started to bark, but she didn’t care. She kept running as fast as she could.
Oh God, this is like, the nightmare day of all time, she thought, hiding behind a tree, trying to shelter herself from the rain as she shimmied into her dress. In the distance, Sam emerged from his house and began calling her name. She stayed silent. After a while he went back inside, slamming the door behind him.
What a loser geek! Him with his Tom Cruise smile and spiky hair. Brad Pitt he wasn’t.
She waited until she saw the light go out in his house. Then she spotted a piece of broken glass on the ground, crept back down there and punctured the tires on his precious motorbike. That would teach the moron not to mess with Summer Weston.
Now it was past midnight and she was freezing to death, starving hungry, wet, tired and miserable. Maybe leaving Chicago hadn’t been such a good idea after all. Although anything was better than life with Daddy Dearest.
Shivering, she set off down the street.
By the time she reached Ventura Boulevard, unexpected tears were rolling down her cheeks, mingling with the rain. She’d thought she could handle being out on her own, only now she had no money, couldn’t trust anybody and had nowhere to go.
She hesitated on the corner. A truck shrieked to a stop.
“Wanna ride?” a man said, leaning out his window, a big leer spread across his ruddy face.
“Come on,” his companion encouraged. “We ain’t gonna bite. Jump in, we’ll show ya the sights. Get ya outta the rain.”
“Yeah,” the first man sniggered. “We’ll even throw in ten bucks if you’re a real good little girlie.”
She turned and ran in the other direction, not stopping until she reached an all-night deli.
“Is there a phone I can use?” she said to the Mexican parking valet.
“Over there,” he said.
“I uh . . . don’t have money,” she said. “Can you lend me a quarter to make a call? I’ll bring it back tomorrow. Promise.”
The valet shrugged. He felt sorry for the young girl. She was soaked and miserable. “Looks like you can use it more than me,” he said, handing her the change.
Gratefully she took the quarter and ran to the phone booth. She’d made a momentous decision. She was telling Nikki everything.
She dialed her mother’s number, praying she was home.
Someone answered the phone. Unfortunately that someone was her father.
“Oh God no!” she gasped, slamming the phone down and bursting into tears.
What was she going to do now?
CHAPTER
69
IF MADELAINE FRANCIS WAS IN L.A., Joey figured, she had to be registered at a hotel. He tried the Beverly Hills Hotel first. They’d never heard of her. Next, the Hilton—same thing. Then The Regent Beverly Wilshire. “One moment, please,” the operator said. “I’ll connect you.”
Fuck Richard Barry. The prick wanted Lara back and he’d go to any lengths to get her, including tracking Madelaine Francis.
“Hello?” Madelaine’s voice, sounding sleepy.
“Madelaine?” he said, hardly able to believe it.
“Who’s this?
“Joey.”
“Oh.” A long pause. “What do you want?”
What the fuck did she think he wanted? “Did you go with Richard Barry to see Lara Ivory this morning?”
She took her time before answering. “Who told you that?” she said at last.
“Did you?”
“Yes,” she admitted, refusing to be intimidated. “I was there.”
“Couldn’t accept me being happy, huh?”
“Get real, Joey,” she snapped, suddenly losing it. “I’m thrilled you’re happy. Not so thrilled that you stole my money. What would you like me to do? Sit back and let you trample all over me twice? Oh no, young man, Lara Ivory deserves better than you.”
“You’ve got your money,” he said.
“I waited six years for the first payment,” she said curtly. “And no thanks to you I deducted the rest from your check on the movie.”
“What did you tell Lara?”
“I simply made her aware of who you are. Good God, Joey, you certainly fed her a crock of shit. A fiancée indeed! Frightened to mention you were living with an old bag like me? Did I embarrass you that much?”
“Where’s she gone?”
“I have no idea. But I’m delighted to hear that she has gone. At least she came to her senses.”
“I don’t suppose it matters to you, Madelaine, but you’ve ruined my life.”
“Don’t mention it, Joey. You’ve already ruined mine.”
And she slammed the phone down.
He stared into space for a moment. Richard Barry had screwed him, destroyed the only chance of happiness he’d ever had. And the slick sonofabitch was probably with Lara now, consoling her, telling her what a lousy, no-good bastard Joey Lorenzo was.
Well, yeah, maybe he was a bastard. And yes, he should have paid Madelaine back long ago.
But what opportunity had he had when he was locked up in jail for a crime he didn’t commit.
What fucking opportunity?
• •
The same day Joey took Madelaine’s savings, he hopped a plane to St. Louis, where he got a cab to Adelaide’s apartment.
When she opened the door, he was shocked. He hadn’t seen her in several years. Her long, dark hair was matted around her shoulders, her face was puffy, with dark circles under her eyes and orange lipstick smeared crookedly on swollen lips. She wore a stained pink peignoir, from which peeped a torn white bra. She also had a black eye and a chipped front tooth.
Who was this addled old woman? It certainly wasn’t the beautiful mother he’d left behind.
“I knew you’d come, son,” she said. “Knew you wouldn’t let me down.”
Why was she calling him son? She’d never done so before.
“Okay, what’s the deal here?” he said.
“I . . . I got into trouble playing the ponies. Borrowed money at the track. You know what it’s like when you’re on a roll. You think it’ll never end, then it all falls to pieces—and the people I borrowed from . . . they’re not very nice . . . and these threats have been coming . . .”
There was something not quite honest about her story. She was stammering too much, eyes downcast, unable to look at him.
“Where’d you get the black eye, Ma?”
“I fell,” she stammered.
“Who are these people you owe money to?”
“A . . . a syndicate. You know—they send collectors. A couple of guys came to the door. I’m frightened, Joey.”
“What’s Danny got to say about it?”
“Danny!” She called out her boyfriend’s name.
Danny wandered in from the bedroom, clad in the definitive gangster outfit. Black shirt, white tie and spiffy black suit. Like Pete Lorenzo, Danny was a petty hood, only instead of being forty years older than her, he was ten years younger. “Hey, Joey,” he said. “How’s it goin ’.”
“Not so g
reat,” Joey replied. “Not when I see my mother lookin ’ like this. What happened to her?”
Danny shrugged. “Beats me.”
“You live with her. Aren’t you supposed to be watchin’ out for her?”
“The broad’s a drunk—what can I tell you?”
“Don’t call my mother a broad.”
Danny shrugged. “Whatever y’say, Joey.”
“So tell me about the gamblin’ debts.”
“All I know is she’s gotta pay. You bring us the money?”
Joey resented the way he said us—since when was Danny involved?
“I saw you in Solid, son,” his mother ventured, lower lip quivering. “I was so proud, watchin’ you up there on the screen.”
“How come you didn’t call?”
“I was going to, and then I was uh . . . busy.”
Oh yeah. She wasn’t too busy to call when she needed money.
“How’d you chip your tooth?” he asked. “Another fall?”
Danny sniggered. “Yeah, the cunt can’t walk straight when she’s drunk.”
Joey threw him a long, hard look. “What did you say?”
“I tell it like it is,” Danny said, picking his teeth with a matchbook. “Don’t sit well with you, Joey boy? Well, fuck you. You’re not the one stuck here lookin’ after the old broad.”
“You’d better watch your mouth,” Joey said.
Danny narrowed his eyes. “The pretty actor boy’s gonna tell me what t’do?”
“You’re an asshole,” Joey said.
“Now, now, guys,” Adelaide interrupted, like she was Lana Turner in some old gangster movie. “Don’t want you fighting over me.”
Joey felt like crying. She didn’t get it, did she? This pathetic old woman was his mother, his once beautiful Adelaide, the shining light of his life—who’d never given a shit about him. Now she was this drunken crone, with a boyfriend from hell.
“I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do,” he said. “I’ll meet with the guys you owe. Make a deal with ’em. Okay?”
“Not okay,” Danny said quickly. “We need cash now.”
“Back off,” Joey said. “You’re not gettin’ shit till I straighten this out.”
“There’s only one way to straighten it out,” Danny said. “And that’s t’hand me the money.”
“Yes, Joey,” Adelaide said anxiously. “Give Danny the money, then you can go home.”
What did they take him for—a fucking bank? Give them the money and get the fuck out. What was going on here?
“You have it, don’t you?” Adelaide asked.
“Some of it,” he answered cautiously.
“Hope you didn’t leave nothin’ at your hotel,” Danny said.
“I’m not at a hotel.”
“Then you got it on you?”
“Maybe.”
“Hand it over, Joey boy.”
“Do it,” Adelaide encouraged, wringing her hands.
“The only way you’re gettin’ the money is when I pay it to the people she owes.”
“Dumb prick!” Danny exploded. And before Joey knew what was happening, Danny had pulled a gun and was pointing it in his direction. “Drop the wad on the table, sonny, and get out.”
Adelaide said nothing. She watched.
“What kind of a setup is this?” Joey demanded.
“I’m sorry,” Adelaide murmured.
Sorry didn’t cut it. He was burning up. He certainly hadn’t come back to St. Louis to be told what to do by some broken-down hood. And the motherfucker was holding a gun on him. No way was this prick getting away with this crap. Besides, Danny was too much of a coward to use it. Joey could see the yellow in his eyes.
He kicked out like he’d seen in the movies. Danny fell, and the gun went flying out of his hand.
“Dumb punk,” Danny roared, scrambling across the floor for his weapon.
“I’m a punk, huh?” Joey said, kicking the gun away. “Wanna show me what kinda punk I am?”
“Stop it,” Adelaide groaned. “Please stop it.”
Danny staggered to his feet and threw a punch. Joey retaliated, catching him on the chin.
“Cocksucker!” Danny yelled. “You got no idea who you’re dealin ’ with.”
“Who gives a shit?” Joey responded, struggling with the man. “I want you out of my mother’s life.”
“You call her your mother,” Danny sneered. “I call her a dumb hooker cunt.”
Now they were rolling on the floor, exchanging blows. And then Danny pinned Joey down, grabbed a bookend from a nearby shelf and smashed the side of Joey’s head with such force that he lost consciousness for a moment. In the distance he heard a shot and thought that was it—he was gone.
He managed to open his eyes. Danny was slumped on the floor, blood pumping from a hole in his neck. Adelaide was standing next to him, shaking from head to toe, holding the gun.
“Oh fuck, Ma,” Joey groaned, staggering to his feet. “What’ve you done now? Oh fuck!” He snatched the gun out of her hand and made her sit down. Then he ran into the kitchen for a bottle of brandy and forced her to take a couple of swigs.
Neighbors began hammering on the door. A rough male voice. “Everything all right in there? What’s goin’ on? We ’ve called the cops.”
Without really thinking about it, he grabbed a cloth from the kitchen and wiped the handle of the gun clean. Then he put his own prints on it. “You didn’t do it, Ma,” he said, sweat mixing with the blood trickling down his face. “Remember, you didn’t do it—I did. I was defending you. Okay?”
“Yes, son,” she repeated in a quavery voice. “I didn’t do it. You did.”
“Take the money,” he said, pulling the wad from his jacket pocket. “Somebody must’ve called the police. I’m not runnin’. I’ll tell ’em it was self-defense.”
Self-defense. Sure. He got eight years for manslaughter—out in six for good behavior—and that’s why Madelaine didn’t get her money.
His mother never visited him in jail. When he got out he discovered she’d moved to Puerto Rico with a lounge singer and left no forwarding address.
He got on a plane and went back to New York.
• •
Six years of his life locked up for a crime he didn’t commit. Six lost years of harsh punishment that gave him nightmares whenever he remembered.
And then Lara had entered his life, and everything changed. He had a chance at genuine happiness. A chance that Richard Barry had now taken and ground underfoot.
Screw Richard Barry and everything he represented. Screw the jealous prick who’d trashed his future.
Determined to find Lara, he picked up the phone and called the sonofabitch.
“What do you want?” Richard asked, cold as a three-day-old corpse.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
“Looking for Lara?” Richard taunted.
“Where the fuck is she?”
“Y’know, Joey, I’d love to tell you she’s with me,” Richard said, continuing to taunt him. “But unfortunately, I have no idea where she is.”
“You had to screw it up, didn’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“I made her happy. We were together like you and she never were. You couldn’t stand it, could you?”
“Spare me the sob story,” Richard said. “I know what’s best for Lara. I always have. And when she comes back, it’s me she’ll be with, not a two-bit loser like you.”
Joey slammed the phone down; he’d heard enough. The important thing was to get to Lara before Richard poisoned her against him even more.
Where would she go? That was the question.
Cassie. Yes, she would know.
He frantically scanned Lara’s phone book until he found Cassie’s home number.
A woman answered the phone. “Cassie?” he said.
“No, I’m Maggie, her sister. Who’s this?”
“Joey Lorenzo, Lara’s uh . . . fiancé. Is Cassie around?”
&nb
sp; “She won’t be home tonight. She’s spending the night with Lara. Didn’t they tell you?”
“Yeah, I uh . . . forgot. Lara left me a note, guess it got thrown out. Where were they going again?”
“The house at the beach.”
“You mean Nikki’s house at the beach?”
“No. The one Lara rented last year.”
“That’s right. I’m supposed to meet them later. What’s that address?”
“Let me see . . . You go to the first turn past Point Dume Road, and it’s the big house at the end.”
“Is there a phone number?”
“No, but if Cassie calls, shall I tell her you’re coming?”
“Don’t bother, Maggie. Thought I’d surprise ’em.”
Within minutes he was in the Mercedes and on his way.
• •
Lara was getting restless sitting in the dark, waiting for Cassie to return. She remembered waiting once before—huddled in a chair in a motel room—waiting until her father shot himself to death.
Joey had helped her get over a lot of her fears; he’d opened up her life with his warmth and love.
She sighed; maybe it wasn’t fair, running away without giving him a chance to explain.
But what if he touched her? What if he overcame her with his lethal charm? A charm she found so utterly irresistible.
No, it was too dangerous to put herself in that position.
She remembered his face as he explained about his fictitious fiancée, and the story he’d come up with about Phillipa trying to commit suicide. How sincere he’d seemed, how genuine and concerned.
What a bunch of bullshit! And she’d fallen for it. Taken in every lying word. How could she have?
She needed to talk to Nikki—get it all out. Nikki would help her to be strong, and right now she could use all the support she could get.
Outside the wind was howling, and in the distance she could hear thunder. On the weather report this morning the weatherman had said a September storm was blowing in. El Niño was warming the waters around Malibu, causing a series of storms and bad weather. This was supposed to be the first of many.
Why had she acted so hastily? One call to the realtor and she could’ve gotten the electricity turned on and a fridge stocked with food. Lights and a telephone would be very welcome right now.
Cassie had left Lara’s suitcase in the hall. She rummaged through it, finding a warm track suit, thick socks and running shoes. She put on the outfit and felt better—certainly warmer.
Thrill Page 42
