by Mel Curtis
“Welcome to the neighborhood!” A portly geriatric man too big for pastels, outfitted nevertheless in a pink checked shirt with purple suspenders, wobbled at the front door, a newspaper in one hand. As he lost his balance, he stepped forward and bear hugged Amber, and then used her shoulders to steady himself.
Amber didn’t know what to think. Had she just done a good deed? Or been a victim of a sex pervert?
Behind him, a petite grandmotherly type in a pink velour jogging suit held up a plate of muffins. “We brought breakfast.”
“Name’s Sonny Zablonski. This here’s my missus. We’re house staff. Live in the little house out back.”
“Uhh…” For as long as Amber could remember, her dad had employed housekeepers from Mexico that barely spoke English and arrived every day from the bus stop down the street. But then again, she hadn’t seen Dooley for three years.
Sonny side-stepped to the other end of the foyer. “Come on, Yvonne. You know the way to the kitchen.” Sonny had a strolling gate that wasn’t quite a waddle, but wasn’t quite not. And he was non-waddling into Amber’s kitchen.
“Have you put on the coffee yet, dear?” Yvonne passed by, eau de banana nut muffin drifting in her wake. “Don’t worry. I’ll have it going in no time. We hadn’t realized someone was here until this morning. Normally we come in through the back, but we didn’t want to scare you.”
Amber glanced out in the front yard to make sure this wasn’t some Hollywood reality show. It would be just like her father to set her up like this, even from the grave. But the street was empty.
“You’re low on sugar,” Yvonne said when Amber shuffled into the kitchen, wondering how to get rid of them.
“She ain’t got no milk, either.” Sonny pulled his head out of the refrigerator.
Pink check. Pink jogging suit. The Zablonskis clashed against the goldenrod appliances and Easter egg orange countertops.
“I’ll just run back and get some.” Yvonne offered and disappeared out the French doors leading to the pool.
“Mr. Kremer told us to take some time off after the funeral. We visited with the grandkids in Texas,” Sonny explained, easing his bulk into a tulip chair at the round glass table. “Where do you hail from?”
“Pasadena.”
Sonny scrunched his beak-like nose and peered at her. “Are you famous? You sure don’t look it, but maybe that’s because you don’t have make-up on.”
Amber clutched the front of her robe. “Excuse me.”
“’Course. You don’t look like you’re awake yet neither.” Sonny reached for a muffin. “My Yvonne always feels better with her make-up on. You go paint yourself. I’ll wait right here until the coffee’s ready.”
“So this is purgatory,” Amber muttered as she retreated down the hall.
Somehow Sonny heard her. “No, ma’am. This here’s Beverly Hills.”
It wasn’t until Amber had thrown on a T-shirt and True Religion jeans, brushed her teeth, gathered her hair in a deceptively messy pony tail and coated her lashes with mascara that she felt brave enough to face the Zablonskis again. Maybe if she stalled some more they’d leave.
Amber applied lip gloss.
“Why, Sonny, she’s stunning,” Yvonne noted upon Amber’s appearance in the kitchen. “Much prettier than in that weight loss infomercial.”
Amber stumbled. “I was a teenager.” Twenty-five pounds heavier. Okay, maybe thirty pounds. “You remember that?”
“60 Minutes replayed parts of it last Sunday when they did a tribute to your father,” Yvonne explained.
“Ah, yes.” The show that wouldn’t die. Amber sat down in a white plastic tulip chair across from Sonny, who, by the count of empty muffin wrappers, had made three disappear. Yvonne set a steaming coffee mug in front of Amber. She wrapped both hands around it to keep from reaching for a muffin.
“We’re so sorry about Dooley,” Yvonne said. “His lawyer told us to continue looking after the house while you’re here, so don’t you worry about a thing. We cook breakfast every morning and clean house every day. You just let us know if you need us for anything else.”
“We’re just a holler away,” Sonny concurred. “My truck’s back yonder at the service entrance.”
“Did my dad have many guests?” Amber asked, thinking of the rhinestone shoe she’d found beneath the bed. Amber leaned over to peek at Yvonne’s feet, but her petite snow white Nikes were nowhere near a size ten.
“No,” Yvonne said. “This was his sanctuary. He always said he did his best thinking here.” Yvonne sighed into her coffee mug. “The Foundation is just marvelous. You must be so proud of him.”
Amber tightened her grip on the mug. She seemed to have found more members of the Dooley Rule fan club. First Jack Gordon. Now these two.
“Do ya work?” Sonny asked, as he sifted through the newspaper until he found the sports section.
“I’ve taken my dad’s place at the Dooley Foundation,” Amber said, breathing in banana nut bread fumes. She would not eat one. She had enough problems without adding weight gain to the list.
“That’s very important work. Lots of people rely upon Dooley Foundation coaches to guide them,” Yvonne said solemnly.
Unable to support her statement, Amber sipped her coffee.
Yvonne cut a muffin in half and buttered the bottom section. The butter melted, dripping onto the wrapper.
How had she kept them warm? Amber couldn’t look away.
Yvonne took a lady-like bite and then dabbed at her coral lips with a paper napkin. “Aren’t you going to have one, dear?”
“She made them from scratch this morning,” Sonny said, shaking out the newspaper until he held it in both hands in front of his face.
“I can’t.”
“Of course, you can. Life was meant to be driven with all its potholes and detours, honey. Don’t stay on the super highway and miss everything.” Yvonne sliced and buttered a muffin, then slid it in front of Amber, just like moms did on TV. There was a surreal quality to the moment, as if Amber were part of a loving, complete family unit, not a product of an aging Boca Babe and a Richard Simmons look-a-like.
“I suppose one bite won’t hurt.” The muffin melted in Amber’s mouth. She reached for the lifestyle section and flipped to Lyle Lincoln’s L.A. Happenings column. He published both a printed and a slightly expanded online version, plus he Twittered constantly. It was as important to read Lyle Lincoln before venturing out as a girl’s horoscope. A day without the Rule family in his column was a promising one indeed. There hadn’t been a whisper of rumor around the Rules all week and her luck continued today.
Relieved, Amber returned the paper to Sonny’s pile and noticed her plate was empty. Had she eaten the entire muffin? She had. She’d never be a size six, much less a size two like Cora.
Sonny shook the newspaper again as he turned a page. The headline on the sports section caught her eye.
Flash Drops One.
Below the headline was a picture of –
Oh. My. God.
Amber snatched the paper away from Sonny and stared at it some more. She’d never seen the movie From Here to Eternity, but she was familiar with the iconic beach embrace. The full-color photo of Evan Oliver cradled between her thighs as he planted a kiss on her lips was an update of that scene. Intimate. Hot. It made her blood rush just looking at it.
Clutching the paper to her chest, Amber staggered to her feet.
“What’s wrong, dear?” Yvonne asked, looking up from the Happenings column.
“I’m going back to bed,” Amber announced.
Sonny extended an arm after her. “Hey, I didn’t get to finish checking the scores.”
“Don’t they need you at work?” Yvonne asked, her eyes bent with worry.
“I can’t go to work. I’m going to be the laughingstock of everyone who lives in L.A.” Or at least everyone who read today’s newspaper and knew she’d been named CEO of the Dooley Foundation. That’s right. She was the Chief Embarra
ssment Officer.
Amber retreated to the white shag carpet in the hall.
Yvonne trailed behind her. “But what about all those people who need you at the Foundation? Won’t they miss you?”
“No.” The only person who might miss her was Blue. And Franklin Kremer. Her dad’s lawyer, who doubled as her jailer.
Amber groaned.
Carrying the newspaper, Evan returned home from a four-mile run drenched in sweat. He’d added a mile to his normal morning routine trying to get some perspective. But he’d been unable to shake the feeling of failure since helping Brock change his tire last night.
Evan flexed his left hand. It was still slightly swollen from its match up with Brock. His hip was tender from scrambling on the ground for a loose ball. His elbows and knees were red and tender from court burns, compounded by his thrilling ride on Amber Rule.
Usually stepping inside his house and locking out the rest of the world calmed Evan. Situated on a hill above Beverly Hills, the house had been built with floor to ceiling windows on one side allowing nearly unobstructed views of the valley and ocean beyond when smog wasn’t heavy.
His house was a modern masterpiece. Well, that’s how the realtor who’d shown it to Evan had described it a year ago when he bought the place with his AND1 endorsement deal money. Industrial gray walls. Eighteen foot ceilings. White pine wood floors. A professional-grade kitchen with stainless steel counters and appliances. Evan hadn’t brought in more than the basic furniture and in most rooms the walls were bare. He could dribble in any room in the house.
Evan much preferred his home to the trailer he’d grown up in and the cramped dorm room he’d shared with two other teammates in college, teammates who hated him at the end of his final season at UCLA. For good reason.
Not that he’d ever apologize. What would be the point?
Evan poured himself a glass of orange juice and flipped to the sports section. One look at the featured photo and his troubles were temporarily forgotten. He and Amber Rule were smokin’ on the hardwood.
While Evan made himself a six-egg omelet, a bowl of oatmeal and a protein shake, he kept coming back to stare at the photo, his mind honed onto Amber Rule.
He’d Googled her on his laptop last night when he got home and was surprised at the number of links he’d found, not to mention what those links revealed. Amber had been heavy in middle school and lost weight. She struggled with academics in high school, but by college she had her act together. And she owed the change to the Dooley Foundation. At least, that’s what Dooley Rule wanted people to think. Amber quotes were conspicuously absent from the numerous clips the Foundation had posted on their web site and YouTube. And in the few pictures he’d found of Amber with superstar Kent Decklin, Amber had looked as if she was gritting her teeth in pain. She was definitely not your average L.A. media slut.
And then there was the slam dunk: the all too brief sex video recorded by that scumbag Kent Decklin, resulting in her first and only press release, requesting people respect her privacy. Evan hadn’t respected her privacy. He’d played the ten second close up of Amber’s ample breasts and listened carefully to the audio. Several times. Until he could almost sing the Amber’s Coming Sonata.
Yippee-ki-yay. He liked a woman who wasn’t predictable. Who would have thought that Amber Rule had so many intriguing layers?
The problem was he shouldn’t see Amber Rule at all, not when Jack Gordon wanted him to. All through high school Evan had been pushed by his dad to compete, to beat down his competition, to be the best at all costs. And when that happened, when Evan was a nationally ranked college player and then drafted by the NBA, it still wasn’t good enough for his father. No one was going to tell Evan what to do anymore, even if there was an NBA contract hanging in the balance.
His right quadricep muscle cramped. Evan stretched and massaged the knot beneath the old scar.
After a few tentative paces on it, Evan thumped the counter with his fist. He wanted this NBA deal to stick. He was in peak condition. He sunk his shots in practice. What was wrong with his game? Dicking around with some life coach babe would only make his game worse.
Evan pushed his plate away.
What was he worried about? The Dooley Foundation was selling dreams. Dreams didn’t happen without hard work and even then no one could guarantee them. Amber Rule wasn’t going to solve any of Evan’s problems or erase the impact of the choices he’d made in the past with a sunny smile. All Evan needed to do was keep his pants on, prove to Jack that the Rules were crap and that Amber Rule wasn’t a suitable life coach.
Hold up. Evan smiled. Taking Amber to bed was right in line with proving she shouldn’t be coaching him. Everybody knew you didn’t sleep with your clients, even in L.A. The mighty Jack Gordon had to agree. If the energy between them still popped the next time he and Amber met and they got busy, all was good. And Evan would have one less coach in his life. Then he could concentrate on winning games.
Finished with breakfast and in a much better mood, Evan stripped as he walked down the hall, leaving a trail of clothing that his housekeeper, Rosa, would pick up while he was at practice today.
What would Amber think of the house?
Would she make suggestions to warm the place up? Would she laugh if she saw his weight room with pictures of Batman and Dracula? Would the windows bother her when they made love?
Her urgent words echoed in his head: You can score!
By the time Evan reached his bedroom he was naked and hard and imagining Amber Rule’s red hair spread across his gray satin sheets.
Would she come back after he discredited her with Jack? Probably not.
Evan had to make the limited time he was forced to be with Amber count.
But he was good at managing the clock.
Chapter 10
“I hate this dog,” Blue said later that morning as he hobbled his way into Amber’s office at the Dooley Foundation with a gray growth attached to his ankle.
“There are worse things in life.” Amber tugged her baseball cap lower over her eyes. She’d spent too much time since breakfast trying to rewrite the debacle at the Forum, trying to forget Evan Oliver’s faraway look and lone ranger stance when things went wrong on the court. She did not have any sympathy for him.
“Do anything fun last night?” Blue asked too casually, settling into a chair across from her.
“I didn’t hook up with Evan Oliver if that’s what you’re asking,” Amber snapped. Her performance at the game had been just one more of her monumental mistakes captured by the media. In her next life, Amber wanted to come back as a nobody from nowhere. At least then when she did something stupid, no one would care.
“You made the Play of the Day on ESPN this morning.” Blue raided Amber’s candy jar, scooping up a handful of peanut M&Ms that was double what Amber allowed herself in a day. “And the local news last night. And the front of the sports section this morning.” He dropped the newspaper on her desk.
“You don’t have to sound so happy about it.” Amber stared at the photo and wondered how long it would take to live down.
“It’s great PR.” Blue echoed Dooley’s sentiments. His grin proved he had no sympathy for what Amber was going through. As Mr. Jiggles continued to make a fuss, Blue gently shook his leg. “Bad dog.”
If anything, the dog’s fight for a scrap of denim intensified.
“Thanks for providing the press my name.” While Amber huddled out next to Blue’s Aston Martin trying to look inconspicuous, he’d been inside telling anyone with a press pass about her and the Dooley Foundation. They’d printed it beneath the picture on the sports page. “How’d that cavity search go?”
“Tsk-tsk. You blackmailed me into doing this. Did you think I wouldn’t do my job? We need the buzz. And it worked. Gemma says the phone hasn’t stopped ringing.”
Gemma was the AWOL receptionist, who’d finally showed up this morning with a stack of textbooks and binders, as if she planned to study all day.
Tall and looking barely twenty, Gemma wore a catholic school girl outfit, complete with a short black plaid skirt and combat boots. She tossed a bad attitude like hand grenades: Why do you need the laptop password? Why do you need to see the client and service provider contracts? Why do you keep looking at my feet?
Who put up with a receptionist like that? Only an aging man who was getting more than he was paying for, that’s who. Gemma had good sized feet, making Amber wonder if Gemma was missing a rhinestone studded sandal, size ten. Amber didn’t quite know how to deal with the volatile younger woman or ask if she’d been an employee drawing fringe benefits from the boss.
Outside in reception the phone rang again. Amber slouched in the oversized chair. “Every caller wants to sleep with me, Blue, not receive life coaching. I can never show my face in L.A. again.”
“That’s what you said after dad made that weight loss infomercial.” The one that had solidified the Dooley Foundation on the self-help who’s-who list. “And after the 60 Minutes piece came out.” The one that had ruined Amber’s chances of ever being accepted in high school. “Have you checked Facebook today?”
“No, but my friends wouldn’t post anything publically on my wall.”
“I’m more interested in friend requests. Our info inbox on the web site had fifty emails this morning.”
“I’ll log in, but…” Amber paused as her Facebook account came up on her iPhone. “I have more than a hundred friend requests.”
“Accept them all.”
“No. I don’t know any of these people.”
“That doesn’t matter. It’s great PR. Do you Tweet?”
“I don’t have anything to Tweet about.”
“You do now.” Blue reached across the desk, grabbed her phone and accepted every friend request. “I’ll create a Twitter page and put in Tweets for you.”
Before Amber could protest, Gemma huffed loudly at the reception desk, her short dark curls trembling. “Get real. Miss Rule doesn’t offer life coaching for that. And if she did, you couldn’t afford it.” She dropped the receiver into the cradle as if it burned her skin and then glared at Blue and Amber from behind fashionably small lenses. “I need to renegotiate my contract for more money.”
