by Zoey Dean
"Kill them," Sam repeated.
"Fair enough. Listen. They're on a digital media card."
The next thing Sam heard was a loud crunch, like a boot heel coming down on a piece of ceramic underfoot.
"That was the card. I just stepped on it. It's now in five pieces. Those pictures are gone. In fact, they never existed." Melanie told her.
"You've still got my credit card number?"
"I do," Melanie acknowledged.
"Put the bill through. And thanks, Melanie. I'm sure you did a great job."
Sam's voice was hollow. She'd either done something kind and noble, or she'd just made the stupidest mistake of her young life. She said goodbye, called Parker, and left him the world's briefest message, saying that the photos were destroyed, but that he still had her eternal gratitude. When she hung up again, she sat in the Hummer, staring into space.
Kind, noble, or stupid. The worst part of it was, there was absolutely no way to know for sure.
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We Call It the Fire Drill
"Turn left up ahead." Champagne pointed to the "I next intersection. Anna was driving her repaired silver Lexus; it was funny to recall how she had met Caine in the first place, when he'd driven to her rescue after a car accident. Plus, the accident had occurred right about where they were at the moment, on Sawtelle near Washington Boulevard. It was a gritty section of town, bisected by the 405 freeway, home to auto body shops, liquor stores, roofing and hardware wholesalers, and the occasional adult entertainment establishment.
They'd come directly from the fashion show rehearsal. Anna had on chocolate brown Ralph Lauren cords and a cream-colored sleeveless cotton Chloe shirt her best friend, Cyn, had gotten her for her sixteenth birthday. Cammie wore something she'd picked up at the Beverly Center--a Juicy Couture tube top that exposed about six inches of her perfectly tanned midriff, and a microminiskirt made from the same cherry red silk. Trendy, Anna knew, but cute and comfortable
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all the same. Champagne sported skinny-legged blue pants of dubious designer origins with a blue Dodgers T-shirt. Anna guessed that she'd had it forever.
She had to admit she was rather looking forward to visiting a firehouse, since she'd never been in one before. She stopped at a red light. "Do they really slide down those poles?"
Champagne, who was sitting next to her, looked startled. "How did you know?"
"It's in every movie about firemen."
"Oh, right." Champagne smiled. "Yep. They definitely use the pole. They use the pole all the time."
"Are you sure you know where you're going?" Cammie called out, suddenly alert. "Because this is one scuzzy part of town."
"Definitely," Champagne confirmed. "Can I ask you guys something? Did you see the photos yet? The ones that Phillip guy took in Pacific Palisades? That was so much fun. I can't believe that models get to do that for a living."
"Uh-huh," Cammie replied. "We saw them. You rocked."
Her face lit up. "Really?"
"Even Phillip said so," Anna happily assured her.
"Wow." Champagne marveled. "And he works with a lot of top models. So now what do I have to do? Or was that it?"
"We're not going to rush anything," Cammie told her. "A young model needs to be brought along slowly."
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Anna knew that wasn't exactly the truth. The night after the photo shoot, she and Cammie had gone back to Cammie's house with the three digital camera media cards that Phillip had given them. It was the first time that she had been in the Sheppard home since she'd come to Los Angeles, and she admired the decorating scheme that had been instituted in a recent renovation by Cammie's stepmother. Every room was done in shades of a single color, but each room had a different overall theme. The living room was modern white on white. The kitchen was French classic, burgundy on burgundy. The family room was industrial gray on gray, with only slight variations across the board.
Cammie didn't offer to show Anna her room. Instead she made espresso in a French press, then carried it and two cups downstairs to the lowest level, which not only featured an indoor lap-swimming pool that connected to the larger outdoor pool, a British billiards table, and an array of classic pinball machines, but also a corner office filled with computer equipment. This wasn't her dad's actual home office--Cammie explained that her father had one of those up on the main floor. But it did have a high-powered P4 Dell box with endless memory, a forty-inch Samsung plasma monitor, and an HP Photosmart professional photo printer.
Cammie had sat down at the computer and worked for five solid hours, reviewing each and every one of the photographs of Champagne that Phillip had taken, often asking Anna for an honest opinion. Anna was surprised.
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Even more than that, she was impressed. Cammie had always seemed to her the personification of indolent rich Beverly Hills youth, for whom determination meant deciding which day spa to visit. But here, she watched her making a huge effort for a girl she barely knew.
"Do you think Champagne will appreciate all this?" Anna had asked, motioning to the monitor.
Cammie shrugged, scrolled over to another photo on the monitor, and opened it up. A stunning extreme close-up of Champagne in profile. "No clue. Grateful would be nice, but not necessary. The girl has a dream. I'm her fairy godmother. Maybe. If it works, she'll have a new life. If it doesn't work, she'll have had some fun. I'd call that a win-win, wouldn't you?"
Maybe this was why Adam was so into Cammie. Maybe be he had fallen for this side of the girl--a side that Anna couldn't say she had ever seen before.
Finally, they decided on five photos to send to Lizbette back in New York. Two were extreme close-ups of Champagne's captivating face, one a profile from the neck up, one a full-length picture of her lying back on the rocks in the unzipped evening gown, and the last another filmy full-length portrait, where she looked young, vulnerable, and innocent in the white gauze shirt. Cammie had skipped right past the fur coat and panties thing, saying overt nudity was most likely not a look Lizbette would embrace for her cosmetics line for young women.
When they were finally done, Anna had saved all the
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photographs in a zip file and e-mailed the file to Lizbette's American headquarters back in New York. That had been two days ago. In the meantime, she hadn't heard anything. Cammie had wanted to call after twenty-four hours, but Anna knew this was exactly the wrong thing to do. Women like Lizbette never wanted to be pushed. It was Cammie's job now to wait graciously, and that was exactly what they were going to do. Anna also decreed that they should not mention the cosmetics or the new campaign to Champagne. There was no reason to get Champagne's hopes up unnecessarily.
The light changed, and Anna made the right turn. They passed more warehouses and low-rent business storefronts. "Whatever you say, Cammie. Okay, just ahead is the firehouse," Champagne instructed. "Turn in there."
There was no sign. Just a small nondescript warehouse and a jammed parking lot.
"This is the firehouse?" It didn't look like any fire-house Anna had ever seen.
"Definitely," Champagne assured them.
Anna was lucky to find a single unoccupied spot at the far end next to a Dumpster. When she got out of the Lexus, she heard pounding music coming from the warehouse. There was also a flashing neon sign that she noticed for the first time: THE FIREHOUSE: EAT, DRINK, AND BE RESCUED!
Cammie was grinning as she pushed the curls off her face. "Okay, what the hell is up with this?"
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Champagne went wide-eyed and hitched a thumb toward the sign.
"Firemen," she replied innocently.
"So, let me make sure I'm following," Anna observed, as she dropped her key ring into her ancient dove gray Chanel leather purse. "Your friends are strippers?"
"Nah. Not strippers," Champagne said with a smile. "I wouldn't call them that."
Cammie winked. "Anna is disappointed. Right, Anna?"
"Not really."
&nb
sp; Anna saw Cammie link her arm though Champagne's. "Good. So, let's head on in and see if these guys can put out some fires. And . . . whether any of them are model material."
Champagne grinned. "Fires, I don't know about. Model material? Just wait."
Anna was thrilled that her worst expectations were dashed.
Far from being a seedy strip joint, the Firehouse was much closer to a cross between the famous New York City bar Coyote Ugly and the original Hard Rock Cafe. Done in a firefighting theme, the walls featured bright murals and posters from firehouses and fire crews the world over, in a score of different languages. One end of the enormous room was dominated by an actual turn-of-the century horse-drawn fire engine that had been gutted so that diners could sit at tables inside. The main bar had bar stools shaped like firemen's hats,
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and the menu featured only spicy foods ranging in hot-ness from "hot" to "radioactive."
As for the help, Champagne had been right. There was plenty of model material. The waiters and bartenders wore jeans, red suspenders, and firemen's boots. That was it. All of them were bare-chested, all of them had chests well chiseled either by months in the gym or the Almighty, and all of them were--as advertised--exceptionally good-looking. In the parlance of the Firehouse, definitely hot. Loud rock and roll played over the sound system, and the firemen-waiters boogied to the music as they delivered food and drink orders. That wasn't such an easy thing to do, because the tables were filled with rowdy cocktailers and patrons, nearly all of them female, nearly all of them dressed like they'd just come from work.
As the three girls were led to an empty table by the fireman-host, the rock music stopped, a fire bell clanged, and red lights whirled. Four firemen-waiters came sliding down a floor-to-ceiling fire pole, all of them holding shot glasses full of red alcohol. Not a drop was spilled. They jogged in a conga line over to the table that had ordered the shots and presented them to the delighted women with chivalrous bows.
"Been here before?" the host asked Anna jovially, as he seated them. He was a little older than the other firemen, with dark brown hair, a chiseled jawline, and a set of deep dimples when he smiled. His hat indicated that he was the "chief."
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Anna shook her head.
"Order shots all around, you get that treatment," he advised. "We call it the Fire Drill. Have fun--your waiter will be here in a minute."
It didn't take Anna long to get into the carefree and energetic mood of the club. Everyone was having fun, judging from the laughter, clapping, and raucous cheering whenever the firemen did their Fire Drill, which seemed to happen every five minutes or so. There was an obvious bachelorette party three tables away, complete with a blond and silicone-buxom bride-to-be in a veil. Yes, her mind did ponder what it meant to objectify people--male or female--which this club definitely was doing. Yes, she did wonder what kind of guy would choose to work here. But honestly? She was having--
Champagne stood abruptly and cupped her hands. "Hey, Bryson! Come wait on us!"
A shaggy-haired blond waiter who couldn't have been older than twenty cut through the crowd toward them. He wore the same jeans-and-suspenders getup as all the other staff. When he got to the table, Champagne flung her arms around him for an enormous hug and introduced him to Anna and Cammie.
"You guys know each other, I take it," Cammie observed, smirking.
"We definitely do. What's up, doll?" He kissed Champagne on the cheek and then looked back at the table. "So, how do you guys know my cousin?"
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"They're ... friends of mine," Champagne explained.
"From her summer volunteer thing," Cammie added.
"Very cool."
"Bryson--before we order, I need to ask you something!" Champagne had to shout to be heard as the music cranked up again.
"Sure, anything! But quick--I've got tables."
Champagne stood, took a few steps away, and motioned for him to join her. Anna's first instinct was to go with the girl, but Cammie put a hand on her forearm. "I think she's got it covered."
"Done! We've got our models!"
Anna turned. Champagne stood behind her and Cammie, looking triumphant. "Bryson said yes. And he's bringing four of his buds!"
"I'll call Mrs. Vanderleer first," Cammie assured Anna. "And I'll take some pictures with my camera-phone. She won't be disappointed."
Anna was proud of Champagne for her coup. She'd really come to like the plucky younger girl. Champagne so genuinely wanted to be helpful, once again Anna couldn't imagine how anyone who'd talked to this girl for more than three minutes could possibly think she was a thief. "Nice job!" She had to shout over the music, which the DJ had just taken to an entire other level. How did you do it?"
"Bryson's not just my cousin. He's my friend!"
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They stayed for quite a while, ordering hot wings, tamales, and Cokes. Bryson brought over a couple of other waiters who he thought might be good for the show. One was tall, with close-cropped dark hair, and the other was shorter, with a gorgeous smile and incredibly wide shoulders. Each was a remarkable male specimen. Cammie was Cammie. She flirted outrageously. Anna was quieter but friendly. She was listening to one of Bryson's friends--Granite was the name he went by--tell a joke, when the music stopped, the fire bell clanged, and the red light whirled. By now, everyone in the place had started to clap rhythmically whenever the Fire Drill bell sounded. Anna clapped right along, until the last fireman came down the pole.
Then she stopped. Because she realized that she recognized the Botticelli tattoos on the arm of the final fireman.
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The Opposite of the Last Sentence
Anna watched as it took a moment for Caine to register what he was actually seeing
--Anna, probably the last person he ever expected to see at the Firehouse, at the Firehouse. Watching him.
He did a literal double take.
He delivered the shots, took his bow, and then bounded over to her table. Anna could say this for him: His sangfroid was as steady with his shirt off and women cheering as it was with his shirt on at the top of a Ferris wheel on the Santa Monica pier.
"Hi. I never--"
"Yes, I'm sure you never did think you'd see me here," Anna finished his sentence for him.
She didn't need to hear the rest of his sentiment, even as she introduced him to Champagne and reacquainted him with Cammie. The evil smile on Cammie's face--it had to be 50 obvious that Anna had no clue that Caine moonlighted at this place--made her feel mortified. Caine said he'd love to get her a drink at the bar and would meet her there in three minutes. She took her time in rising.
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She was grateful for the chance to think a little bit first. So many thoughts were running through her overloaded brain. Her problems with Ben had stemmed from a lack of honesty in their relationship. She'd been so sure that Caine was older, wiser, different. Did any guys tell the truth . . . ever? But what did Caine owe her, really? It wasn't like he was working for a male escort service. He wasn't even a stripper.
She slid onto the stool next him--he offered her a bottle of water. "Sorry for the surprise. Buy you something stronger? I've got about fifteen before I'm due out there on the floor again." Again, he seemed to have recovered quickly from his initial surprise at finding her there.
"I'm good." She looked at him curiously. "So, boring money manager by day, object of female lust at the Firehouse by night?"
"I have a wide variety of interests." Caine laughed, then got the bartender to pour him a glass of orange juice.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Anna asked directly.
He shrugged. "Didn't seem relevant. Yet. It's kind of early for us to be baring our souls to each other. Three weeks? But now that you're here, ask away."
"Why . . . why do you do this?"
"I've got massive debts from undergraduate and grad school. This is how I'm paying them off. It's honorable work." He took a sip of his drink.
"U
mm . . . my father has to be paying you well. He
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says you're a genius. Maybe you should ask him for a raise." Anna tried to stop her tone from sounding preachy, as she knew it did. "Did you think you couldn't tell me?"
"I thought it might bother you, yeah," Caine admitted reluctantly, and drank some more of his juice. "Look, don't take this the wrong way, Anna, but you're very young and--"
"Inexperienced. You were going to say 'inexperienced.'"
"Am I wrong?"
"I'm not . . . entirely inexperienced." She felt heat rush to her face. "I was . . . with Ben."
Caine grinned. "Ah. You mean with in the biblical sense. So if you had been with me in Jackson Sharpe's office the other night, it would be the second time."
"If you mean my second guy, yes. You would be the second guy."
"That's what I figured." He nodded sagely. "Which is fine. But that's why I decided to let you take the lead on all that, so that you'd feel comfortable." He downed the last of his juice and motioned to the bartender for another. "Would you like something stronger? You've barely touched that water."
She shook her head. Across the room, Anna saw Cammie dancing with a buff Latino fireman to Santana's "Smooth." Caine put his hand on her arm to get her attention, then quickly withdrew it. "Honestly, I'm an adventurous guy--always have been. I hitch
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hiked across Europe when I was sixteen. When I was eighteen, I drove my motorcycle cross-country with a girl I met along the way. Working for your dad, living this suit-and tie kind of life . . . it's new for me. So if you were looking for a straight-arrow financial planner--"
"I wasn't looking for anything," she protested. She didn't want him to think she was presumptuous. "And I plan to have a lot of adventures myself."
"Oh, you do, do you?"
She gave him a look that her mother would be proud of. "Don't you dare patronize me. I thought you were better than that."
Caine nodded slowly. "You're right. I apologize. I really would have gotten around to telling you about this. I think."
"Let me ask you something. If I had wanted to . . . go further in Jackson's office that night . . . would we have?" Anna folded her arms.
