by Meg Tilly
The president of the Academy was onstage, introducing them now.
“After this,” Peterson said, puffing his chest proudly, “we, my friend, are going to do some serious partying.” He opened his arms expansively, as if he were riding in the lead car of a ticker-tape parade. “And not to worry, I’ve set up everything! One hundred percent paid for! The entire tab is on me!”
Partying was the last thing Mick was in the mood for, but Peterson was so happy, looked so pleased with himself, that Mick slapped an answering smile on his face. “Sounds great.”
“Great?” Peterson squeaked, eyes bulging. “Are you kidding? What I have planned is going to blow your socks off!” Peterson leaned in with a grin and wiggled his bushy eyebrows. “Literally . . .”
Mick stifled a groan, hoping he had read Peterson’s innuendo incorrectly. A slight headache was taking up residence behind his eyes. He was contemplating the relief of begging off with the weight of guilt he would feel for raining on Peterson’s parade.
“And now, the moment you have been waiting for . . . Mick Talford and his producer, Paul Peterson.” The Academy president gestured to the wings, where they were waiting.
“It’s showtime,” Peterson said, slinging a sweaty arm companionably around Mick’s shoulders. “Let’s go do the old razzle-dazzle, my friend.”
Mick took a breath, as if about to plunge into an ice-cold pond, donned the bad-boy Mick Talford swagger and attitude that felt like an ill-fitting suit, and then strode out into the bright lights and onto the stage.
3
“Rachel . . .” The woman at the employment agency glanced down at the form on her clipboard. “Jones?”
Sarah got to her feet. “Yes,” she said. “That would be me.”
“I’m Ellen Davis. This way, please.”
Sarah followed the woman into her office, mouth dry.
Ms. Davis flipped to the next page on her clipboard. Sarah could see over her shoulder that the woman was now reading the fake CV and reference letters Sarah had typed and printed at the public library that morning.
“Have a seat.” Ms. Davis gestured to a chair in front of her desk as she rounded it and sat down.
As Sarah sat, she surreptitiously slid her palms down along her thighs so the black dress pants could erase the slight dampness before clasping her hands in her lap.
The woman flipped to the last page, scanned it, then placed the clipboard on the desk in front of her. “Everything seems in order,” she said. “Your scores on the technical skills test were quite impressive. I don’t foresee a problem getting you placed. What sort of hours are you interested in working?”
“I’m pretty flexible. And it doesn’t have to be office work. Basically, I’ll take whatever job you have available.”
“Nights? Weekends? Long hours okay?”
“Sure.”
“Huh . . . Interesting. Actually—” Ms. Davis’s fingers rapped a quick staccato on the desk as if she were playing descending scales on the piano.
“But I’m not interested in stripping or escort work or anything like that,” Sarah hastily added. This was Hollywood after all. Best to make sure the woman hadn’t gotten the wrong idea.
Ms. Davis didn’t look up, her fingers flying over her keyboard. “Of course. Not to worry. We don’t handle that kind of ‘work placement.’ ” Then she swiveled slightly in her chair, eyes narrowing as she leaned forward, focused on her computer screen. “Ah! Here we go.” A huff of air that could have been laughter escaped her lips. “Well . . . it’s worth a try,” she murmured. “Lord knows, he’s burned his way through all my other options.” Her birdlike gaze moved away from the screen to settle on Sarah’s face, taking in the dark-rimmed glasses. Luckily, the woman’s perusal didn’t linger on the mousy brown hair Sarah had re-dyed in the bathroom sink of the motel room last night.
Sarah looked back, keeping her expression a blank, calm canvas, a polite smile on her face, determined not to let her nerves peek through.
“Plain. Practical. No-nonsense. Might be just what the doctor ordered.” Ms. Davis nodded as her gaze traveled down the conservative cream blouse Sarah had steamed in the shower. She took in the black slacks, the sensible black pumps; then her gaze slid back up to Sarah’s face. “This position requires gumption, backbone, plenty of grit. No running for the hills just because the client has a few rough edges.”
“No, ma’am.” Sarah forced her hands to lie still in her lap. “I understand.”
The woman’s fingers rapped on the desk again. “Most of the specifications fit.” Her unblinking eyes narrowed to a laser-like focus. Suddenly she shrugged and then relaxed in her chair. “The job pays twenty-four dollars an hour. It’s live-in. Is that a problem?”
A problem? A heaven-sent gift from God was more like it. Sarah’s mind flashed to handing over her last hundred-dollar bill to pay for the motel last night. The eleven o’clock checkout meant returning to the motel after her visit to the library and packing all her belongings in the trunk of her car. She would have preferred for Charlie to have the run of the motel room, as he was not a fan of car travel. It wasn’t ideal, but she’d had to leave him in the car with the windows cracked open during this interview, yowling in his carrier bag as if he were being murdered. Didn’t have enough to cover another night, $56.95 to her name. “Live-in is fine. Preferable, actually.”
“Wonderful. When can you start?”
Sarah released the breath she’d been holding. “Whenever,” she said, as if she wasn’t in dire financial straits and planning on sleeping in her car tonight. “I could start today if you like?”
“Even better.” Ms. Davis scribbled something on a slip of paper. “Here’s the name and address. Mick Talford. Hopefully, Rachel, you’ll last longer than the previous assistants I’ve sent.”
Rachel? For a split second Sarah’s mind blanked. Oh yes! Rachel.
“I’ll do my best.” Sarah smiled in a reassuring manner even though her heart had skipped a beat.
Ms. Davis stood, rounded the desk, and handed the paper to Sarah. “The client is a talented director. Good luck,” she said, shaking Sarah’s hand. “You’ll need it.”
4
Mick dumped two Advil into his hand, swallowed them dry. Leaned against the bathroom counter and stared into the mirror. He looked like shit. All work and no play. Hell, he couldn’t even remember what “play” was anymore. He could hear the sounds of Peterson’s party through the closed door. So many people, overflowing his living room, his kitchen, the gardens, swarming the place like cockroaches. The bacchanalian revels had been going strong for seventeen hours, and no one was showing any signs of leaving. When people got tired, they’d sleep on the spot, or stumble into one of his spare bedrooms, or pass out on a chair, a sofa, or one of the loungers by the pool. A few had been sprawled out on the lawn until the early-morning sprinklers had awoken them. Luckily, his bedroom was vacant. When the partying hordes had arrived, he’d taken the precaution and locked his bedroom, both from the hall and the door leading in from the garden. He hadn’t done that the first time Peterson and his mob of sycophants had taken over his house. He’d ended up needing to purchase a new bed and bedding. Mick glanced at the clock. Three thirty p.m. Mick had hoped against hope that when morning arrived everyone would disperse, but they hadn’t. As long as Peterson’s store of booze and gigantic serving bowl of cocaine remained, Mick would have an impossible time clearing his house of unwanted guests. Couldn’t throw them out, as he had a reputation to maintain. The “Wildman,” the “rebel from the wrong side of the tracks, who burned bright and lived hard.” It was exhausting keeping up the facade.
He heard his bedroom door open. The high-pitched sound of inebriated giggling. Shit. Had forgotten to relock the bedroom door behind him. He scrubbed his hands across his face.
“Yoo-hoo . . . Where are you, Mick?” More giggles.
“We playing hide-and-seek?”
Damn. Clearly there was more than one woman needing removal from his sanctuary. Great. If Mick had to guess, it was probably a couple of the hookers Peterson had sicced on him the moment the Mercedes van spewed the gaggle of working girls onto his driveway.
He straightened, exhaled, and exited the bathroom.
“Hey! Here’s the man of the hour,” squealed a peroxide blonde who was wearing a sheer tank top, a skintight, aqua leather mini, and clear platform shoes with a goldfish swimming inside. “What luck! And me, all hot and bothered and ready to party.” She flung herself onto his bed. Her braless double-Ds remained pointing skyward, a clear indication that a surgeon was responsible for her bountiful breasts. She struck a pose that would have had any normal red-blooded man’s tool leaping to attention. What she didn’t realize was that type of porn star sexuality always worked as a highly efficient cock-blocker for Mick. The blonde shifted her body, her long legs rubbing against each other like a cat in heat, before she let them spread, as she licked her pouty lower lip.
Ah. The old no-undies maneuver. He glanced away.
Her redheaded companion trailed her hand along the top of Mick’s dresser. “We’re no-limitations kind of gals,” purred the redhead. “If you know what I mean.” She was being flirtatious, but he could see the hard edges and bitterness lurking behind her smile. Her years were well masked but starting to show. He hoped she had saved, had a backup plan. So many working girls squandered whatever they earned, as if investing or saving the cash would affix the memory of the earning into their psyche.
“Thank you, ladies, but I’m going to have to decline your kind offer.”
“Why? What’s the problem?” The blonde sat up, her eyes slightly unfocused from booze or drugs. “I can cure limp dick like nobody’s business.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about. Seriously. It’s no big deal for pros like us,” the redhead chimed in, sashaying toward him, her hips undulating, sliding her arms around his neck like a noose. “See, we’ve been watching ever since we got here. You haven’t hooked up with anyone yet. Peterson’s worried. And when Peterson’s not pleased, the bonuses are less hefty. So . . .”
Mick disengaged her arms from his neck, holding his breath to avoid breathing in the smell of heavy perfume, lipstick, and sweat. “Again. Thank you for your generous offer.” He stepped back. “However, I’m going to have to ask you ladies to vacate my bedroom. There are plenty of people who would appreciate your talents. I suggest you—”
The redhead’s eyes narrowed. “Be that way. We were prepared to play nice, Mick, but you’ve screwed the pooch now.” She lifted her fingers to her mouth and emitted an earsplitting whistle. The door burst open. Peterson marched into the room in his birthday suit, holding a purloined sunflower from Mick’s garden over his head like a baton twirler at the head of a parade. Mick shut his eyes, wishing he could eradicate the image of Pete’s tiny mushroom-sized dick bobbing around. No luck. Peterson bopped him on the head with the sunflower, as if he were a king dubbing a knight, and the gang of naked, dripping-wet revelers that had swarmed into the room grabbed Mick and hoisted him over their shoulders like a human sacrifice. They carted Mick out of his bedroom, through the hall, into the living room, and through the double doors, straight into the garden and heading for the pool.
“Peterson,” Mick growled through clenched teeth. “This is not funny. If you value your life, you will—”
“It’s for your own good, Mick, my man. You’ve lost your joie de vivre.” Peterson was red-faced and roaring with laughter. “Off with his clothes!” At first Mick attempted to free himself, but the drunken, grinning lunatics were crowding in close, clutching at him, pinning him, ripping at his shirt, his pants. Mick made an executive decision. It wasn’t worth injuring anybody and enduring a lawsuit. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Peterson proudly overseeing. Waving that damned sunflower as if he were conducting a symphony at Carnegie Hall. “Into the pool! Into the pool! It’s time for a celebratory swim!” Peterson sang.
“Peterson. Don’t even—” Mick was hoisted in the air. “For Chrissake—the water in the pool looks like a fucking swamp—”
“Aaaand . . . a one . . . two . . . three!” Mick felt the hands release their grasp on his ankles and wrists. As he soared through the air, he sucked in oxygen and braced himself for the smack when his body made contact with the surface of the sludgy green-tinged water. Down, down he sank. Then, once submerged, it was almost peaceful. The water muted the noise above him. He could see more bodies hit the water. Lack of apparel seemed to be the common theme. For a moment, he wished he had gills so he could stay in the relative quiet, swim around on the bottom of the pool until everyone went home.
When he finally surfaced, climbed out of the pool, and shook the water from his eyes, the crowd had moved on to new entertainments. A threesome was taking place in the lower garden and apparently welcomed an audience. He glanced around for his clothes. Found them scattered like water lilies on the pool’s surface, sinking slowly downward. He would gather them later. Mick sloshed along the Spanish tiles around the pool’s edge to the bathhouse, water streaming down his body. He wasn’t too hopeful, but it was worth a try. Yep. The stack of towels that had filled the bathhouse linen cupboard when he’d purchased the place had been depleted. When or by whom? He had no idea. Mick sighed.
A couple ensconced on a lounge chair glanced over as Mick strode by. “Hey, Mick,” the guy said, giving him a thumbs-up. “Loved Retribution, and this party is fire.” The guy’s girlfriend had multiple body piercings and a tattoo sleeve. Her gaze trailed the expanse of Mick’s naked body. “Yeah,” she cooed, her eyes turning sultry. “Real fine . . .” Making it clear that if Mick crooked his little finger, she’d come running.
There was a time when a party like this would have rocked Mick’s boat. Women looking him over would have caused his chest to swell just a little and his ego to expand. Not anymore. Weirdly, it made him feel a deep-seated melancholy, a sense of isolation, as if people with a moral compass were a myth. Decency and human kindness were a fairy tale made up as a bedtime story to lull innocent gullible children into thinking the world was a good and wonderful place.
He entered from the garden through the kitchen door. Ding dong . . . Ding dong . . . The doorbell was ringing. Ding dong . . . Nobody was answering it. Ding dong . . . Ding dong . . .
He strode down the hall and pulled the door open. “If you’re here for Peterson, he’s out back in the garden.” Mick stepped aside to let her pass.
However, the prim Mary Poppins creature that was perched on the doorstep just blinked at him. Her mousy brown hair was scraped severely back from her face and corralled in a tight knot at the back of her head. Thick-framed glasses stood in stark relief against the creamy paleness of her complexion. Her eyes, wide behind the charcoal frames. She had surprisingly long, lush lashes. Her uniform, for that was all one could call it, was boring. Conservative. Black slacks, neat cream blouse, sensible footwear. Must be one of those evangelical types banging on doors trying to save the world and selling unsuspecting fools a promise of heaven. Either that or it was a costume and she’d been hired to strip. “The Peterson party is out back,” he repeated.
Her gaze slid downward, then abruptly jerked up to lock on to his eyes. A flush rose upward from her neck, suffusing her face with color.
Not a stripper. The blush made that obvious. She must be there to try to convert him. Belatedly, he realized he was sans apparel. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward. How many times had he been deep in the work only to be disturbed by some uninvited do-gooder trying to help him find salvation, or someone fundraising, or political canvassing. Didn’t matter how often, or politely, he would inform them he was not interested. Every month or so someone else would ring his doorbell. This will teach ’em to knock willy-nilly, uninvited, on a stranger’s door. He nonchalantly stretched
and leaned against the doorframe as if he always strode around nude. It was difficult, but he managed to suppress his laughter. Wish I’d thought of this sooner. Maybe answering the door naked will get me put on a do-not-disturb list.
5
He was naked. The man—who supposedly was her new employer—had answered the door unshaven, stark naked, dripping wet, and hung like a bull. Not that the size of his appendage had any bearing on the matter. Why the hell did you look down? Sarah squeezed her eyes shut, could feel the heat in her face. She had two choices. She could turn around, get in her car, and start the long drive down Mulholland Drive with the desperate hope that she could land another position before night fell. Or she could take this job, which would mean a place for her and Charlie to sleep and hot water. That would mean putting up with this jerk for a week or two while she replenished her cash stores. Whereas sleeping in her car, who knew what sort of assholes she’d run into? Lord knew, she seemed to have a talent for running into more than her fair share.
Sarah took a second to center herself, unclenched her fists, then opened her eyes. “Mick Talford, I presume?” she said, smiling blandly, keeping her gaze and her chin up. “I’m Rachel Jones from the Windham Employment Agency, your new assistant.”
He blinked, the cocky grin vanishing from his face. “My assistant?” He scowled. Music and the sound of the party were blasting past him, spilling through the doorway to envelop her like a hot desert wind.
“I was told this was a live-in position.” She could smell the fragrance wafting up from the huge vase of white trumpet lilies that was sitting on the front doorstep. As she’d approached the mansion, she had noticed flowers with the small envelope with Mick Talford scrawled in gold cursive nestled among the blooms. Before ringing the doorbell, Sarah had bent over and inhaled deeply, savoring their scent as she let memories of a happier time wash over her. Her mother had always placed a vase of fresh lilies in the entryway. At the thought of her mother, the longing and loss stiffened Sarah’s spine. “If you would please direct me to my quarters so I can settle in? Once you’ve made yourself presentable, I’d be happy to meet with you and discuss what my duties will be.”
