by Mel Curtis
“I told you this morning it’s no big deal. I’ll take care of it.” Evan grabbed his practice bag and turned to the gym. Practice started in forty-five minutes and Evan wanted to make a couple hundred shots before the rest of the team arrived.
“Bad idea.” Cy did his human stop sign impersonation, blocking Evan’s way, blond highlights glinting in the late morning sun. Sometimes Cy forgot who was driving this money train.
Evan stared at Cy.
To his credit, Cy didn’t back down. “These Rules are media savages. Your image as a kick-ass street player is still fresh. You don’t want to take any risks right now.”
“This isn’t a risk. It’s not even a bump in the road.” Amber Rule was…Evan didn’t know what she was. He just knew he had to find out, just once. And if he could get the Flash owner off his back in the process, so much the better.
“You go getting led around on Amber Rule’s leash and it’s going to cost you,” Cy warned.
“Like it cost Kent Decklin?” The egotistical actor who’d recorded Amber’s orgasmic masterpiece was also represented by Cy and after he publicly dumped and humiliated Amber he’d got five million more for his next film.
“Dev’s got a whole different set of challenges. I’d prefer non-game media coverage of you kickin’ somebody’s ass and getting thrown in jail than getting cozy with Amber Rule.”
“Chill. It’s a one-time business dinner.” Dessert provided by Amber Rule. After which Evan would make sure Amber had no option but to drop her life coaching aspirations for him.
“I know, I know.” Cy washed his hands over his face. “It’s just Amber…she’s… I’m just letting you know as a friend that – ”
“I pay you to take care of my business, not be my friend.” Evan didn’t have friends. “I’m telling you, by tomorrow Amber Rule will be the least of my worries.”
An hour later, Amber gripped the steering wheel of her Mercedes and stared in horror at the herd of snappers holding cameras and standing across the street from the Wicked Tantric studio on Hollywood Boulevard. Someone honked behind her. The light had turned green.
As sedately as possible, Amber drove past the studio, continuing for several blocks without convincing herself to turn around. Senge Tenzing was being paid a lot of money every month to help Dooley Foundation clients with their sexual challenges. It was a good gig, considering Senge hadn’t been sent any work from the Foundation, as far as Amber and Blue had been able to tell, for six months. A damn good gig.
The Dooley Foundation was getting ripped off. Which meant Amber was getting ripped off. Which meant Amber was that much farther from her sales goal and getting her life back.
If she could just get into Wicked Tantric unnoticed, blend in like any other worker or…
Amber made a sharp right and then another. Her jeans and baseball cap were standard paparazzi attire. All Amber needed was a camera. She rummaged in her Melie Bianco sea foam hobo bag. Her heart thumped a high-speed tempo, a worthy backdrop for some rave music and crash dancing as she pulled out the Cool Pix digital camera Trina lent her last week to take pictures of a restaurant someone wanted her to invest in (not that she was in a position to invest in it now). Trina’s camera was considerably smaller than a professional one, but it would have to do.
Amber cranked up the air conditioner, pushed her sunglasses more firmly on her nose and tugged her baseball cap down low.
“I’m going to get my money back,” Amber voiced to the world as she parked down the block from the rear entrance to Wicked Tantric and removed her sweatshirt. Much as she wanted to hide beneath it, the day had warmed up.
“You can do this,” Amber murmured, approaching the pack loosely clustered across the driveway of the back lot. She gripped her camera in front of her chest like a shield.
A Marlboro thundercloud loomed above the dozen or so paparazzi and coated her skin as she neared. Amber fought a cough. So far, the photographers had barely acknowledged her existence, but the studio was fifty feet from the gate. Amber needed a diversion.
Amber surfed through the menu of her cell phone. Sound settings. Ring tones.
She demoed the Pink Panther theme song on her phone. Amber turned away as she pretended to answer. “Kent Decklin? Being dropped off now? In front? I’ll be right there.”
All but three photographers charged down the alley. Amber waited a few seconds, but no one else fell for it.
A man with a swarthy complexion and a thick mane of black hair honed his gaze on Amber’s mini camera and then her face. If he hadn’t already had a unibrow, his eyebrows would have scrunched into one. “Hey, you’re – ”
Without looking right or left at the remaining photographers flanking the gate, Amber charged inside, carrying the Cool Pix camera ahead of her like a weapon.
Amber pushed wildly through the glass door and flattened herself against the wall while she planned her next move.
Whoever had decorated the place had achieved their objective: S-E-X. Golden lighting, deep brown walls with intricate tile inlays in bright blues, greens, yellows and reds were backdrops for statues depicting lovers in unusual sensual poses. Incense burned at the check-in desk, manned by a well-endowed Chinese woman in a white tank dress who asked if she could help Amber.
Amber couldn’t resist peeking over the teak counter to see what kind of shoes Marilyn Monroe of the East was wearing.
Red four-inch pumps with stitched blue French flowers. Nice.
Male voices rose outside.
Amber fell back, shaking her camera at Marilyn. “I need Senge now! Where is he?”
Before she could answer, a gong sounded upstairs. Class was either in session or letting out. Amber scrambled up the stairs, pausing at the top to catch her breath.
A bald man dressed like a monk in a maroon skirt and white shirt sat cross legged on a low pedestal next to a brass gong that was intricately engraved. Several women posed similarly on mats. They were naked. They all turned to look at Amber, who put her fingers over her eyes to block their private parts from view.
Barneys. Manolo Blahniks. Money back. It was a stupid metaphor, but it was all Amber had. Liberal arts majors didn’t learn contract negotiations.
“Senge. I need you. Right here. Right now.”
A couple of the ladies smiled. But it wasn’t the har-har, she wants him smirk. It was more the creepy I’m part of a cult and you aren’t expression.
Senge rose smoothly. If Amber sat Indian style she wouldn’t be so graceful getting up.
“Continue cleansing your spirit,” he instructed in an exotic accent as he approached Amber barefoot with a serene smile and almost as much brown bare skin as a surfer. He looked like a warm chocolate chip cookie.
All of a sudden, Amber wanted to get a glass of milk, settle in on an empty mat and smile goofily back at him, almost forgetting that he was rumored to be a faux Tibetan monk.
Barneys. Manolo Blahniks. Money back.
Amber shook Trina’s Cool Pix at him. “Look, Senge – ”
“Follow me.” Senge swept past Amber smelling of sandalwood and musk and other things she didn’t want to identify. The room he led her to had no furniture, only cushions on the floor. “Close the door.”
Amber did so, but only to limit the amount of embarrassment she’d already suffered. “I’m Amber Rule.”
He didn’t seem surprised. “Do you have something to show me?”
Ick. Was he expecting a peep show? Amber thrust Trina’s camera in her hobo bag.
“No, you wouldn’t.” He’d lowered himself onto the cushions, crossed his legs and then patted a cushion next to him. “Please sit.”
Creepier and creepier. “I think not.”
“You think we would have sex?” The mellowness of his voice was unnerving.
“No.” Very creepy. He’d read her mind. Not that she’d have sex with him, but that he’d try.
“You are right. We do not have sex here.”
Yeah, right. There was a torn cond
om wrapper in the corner half hidden under a pillow. Amber crossed her arms. “You haven’t lived up to your contractual obligations.”
“Here we encourage a more spiritual connection,” Senge continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “It can enhance a sexual experience or it can deepen your connection with the universe.”
“Listen, I can tell you have a really good racket going on here, but you signed a contract with the Dooley Foundation to provide services and as far as I can tell, none have been rendered.”
He spread his hands, still holding onto that gentle smile. “The Dooley Foundation has neglected to send anyone over up until now, Amber Rule.”
“That’s about to change. I’ll be bringing over quite a few clients and you won’t be getting a dime more until we get caught up.”
“We can start providing services today. Would you like to expand your horizons alone? Or do you have a partner?”
Was he asking if he could coach her through a spiritual orgasm alone or with someone else? Evan Oliver’s powerful physique flashed in her mind.
“I’m torn,” Amber said, holding out a hand to keep Senge from saying more. “Between needing to vomit and the need to whap you using the heel of my slingback.”
“You should reconsider, Amber Rule. I can see your chakras. They are stifled,” he sing-songed. “Since you have not had sex since Kent Decklin dumped you.”
Chapter 12
Evan needed caffeine. He pulled into the Starbucks closest to the Flash’s practice facility. The Flash was off tonight, but Evan still had something to look forward to: meeting Amber Rule for a late dinner.
The line moved quickly and soon Evan was at the condiment counter adding cream and sugar until his coffee was smooth and blond.
“I thought that body of yours was a temple.”
With a sinking feeling in his gut, Evan turned to face Brock Hamilton’s bruised face. “A man’s allowed a vice or two. Coffee. A fast car. A beautiful woman.” Two out of three wasn’t bad, especially with a third auburn-haired possibility tonight.
“Tell that to my wife.” Brock gestured to the open laptop on the table. “I just got an email from my lawyer. He’s chosen to represent her in the divorce.” Brock’s polo shirt was wrinkled and he looked a little green.
Evan shook his head. A man had to be in charge of his relationships. He took a step toward the door.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Brock said. “What a pussy.”
There was no use denying it.
“It’s just…she’s like the game was to me back in college.” Brock wiped dust off either side of his keyboard before continuing in a strained voice. “I love her.”
Taking a sip of his coffee, Evan edged closer to the door. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Brock’s Lexus with the spare still on.
“I may have made mistakes,” Brock continued. “But I want back in the game. I want to redeem myself. I want to be part of the team.” Eyes glassy, Brock stared out the window at something only he could see.
Brock didn’t realize that sometimes you had to quit the team for self-preservation. And clearly he’d forgotten that jocks don’t do emotion with each other. If Brock showed up at the practice facility like this to tape some of his weekly radio interviews the team would eat him alive.
“Dude, grow a pair.” Evan spoke gruffly past a throat coated with milk and sugar. “You’re sitting in Starbucks crying in your latte.”
Brock blinked and seemed to see Evan for who he was – the man who’d crushed any hope of Brock playing in the NBA. “Yeah, I forgot who I was talking to,” Brock said, turning his back and dismissing Evan.
“You’re late,” snapped Lyle Lincoln, the gossip god of L.A., as soon as Amber walked through his office door.
Amber hurriedly checked her cell phone. “One minute.” She’d stopped to buy a water pistol, which she had yet to fill up.
She was still trembling from her encounter with Senge. It didn’t matter that she’d left shrieking, “It’s too small!” for the benefit of the naked yoga class. It was a hollow triumph. The paparazzi had swarmed around her as she left, shouting questions about Kent’s and Evan’s sexual prowess. They now had a cache of pictures of Amber acting like a hyper Chihuahua.
“Do you have some identification?” Lyle asked.
“Will my driver’s license do?” Amber reached for her wallet.
“Never mind.” Lyle came around the desk, taking in her baseball cap, hoodie and jeans. “Your generation has no respect for other people and clearly don’t know how to dress appropriately.”
Did everyone have it out for Amber’s wardrobe? She’d thrown the hoodie back on because she got cold in air conditioned office buildings. It wasn’t as if Lyle had looked in a mirror lately. A faded cotton sweater hung loosely on his rail thin frame. He’d combed what few strands he had left of his gray hair over his pasty forehead. The photo on his column had to be ten years old. Back when he had hair and a little muscle.
“Well? Aren’t you going to shake my hand?” he demanded.
Amber stumbled forward. “I’m Amber. Amber Rule.”
“I know that. We have an appointment.” Lyle’s grip was clammy. “I’m not so sure about you being my life coach.”
“That makes two of us,” Amber murmured. This was the man who’d made and broken many a Tinsel Town career.
“What was that? Speak up.” On his way back to his chair, Lyle straightened a framed column on the wall of Anna Nicole Smith’s influence on a generation of drunken celebrity bimbos.
“It’s just the two of us.” Amber tried to smile, refusing to let him see she was scared of him. “Why not give it a try?”
“For starters, you’ve been in several of my columns.”
“So have most of the greater Los Angeles basin, including my father.”
“Last I wrote of you, you’d just been dumped by that gorgeous movie star. What was his name?”
“Kent Decklin,” Amber said hanging onto her smile.
“Ah, yes. He won an Oscar.”
“It was only a nomination. For a supporting role.” And Kent hadn’t been nominated since. In fact, his career was flailing. Ha! Now there was something to smile about. The shallow, cheating dog…
“Forgive me.” Lyle nodded. “And then there was a video.”
“A ten second clip.” The longest of her life. Kent would forever be on her death list for filming her breasts with his cell phone while he gave her an orgasm and then releasing the clip to the internet the day he broke up with her.
“I much prefer the weight loss infomercial of your father’s. Sneaking potato chips to a fat camp? Now that was brutally honest. No faking there.”
Amber fumbled for a comeback. “You think I faked my…?” She could not bring herself to say orgasm in front of He-Who-Writes-About-the-Mistakes-of-Others.
Lyle shrugged. “It was more over the top than Meg Ryan’s take in When Harry Met Sally. But for enthusiasm alone it should have been nominated for some kind of award that year.”
Amber had a choice – either storm out of the room or laugh. If she walked out now Lyle would find a reason to write about her in his Happenings column. And she’d managed to stay out of it for three years.
Amber tried to laugh, but choked mid ha-ha.
Lyle smirked. “I wouldn’t worry about your on-screen presence. Paris Hilton certainly doesn’t. But then again, you’re no Paris Hilton.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.” Lyle turned his computer monitor so that she could see it. “TMZ just reported you went into Wicked Tantric and demanded to meet with Senge Tenzing. The picture makes it look like you’re in a hurry...for something.” Lyle squinted at the screen from behind a pair of antique bifocals he’d put on. “They say you haven’t dated anyone since Kent Decklin – ”
“Dumped me. Yes, I’m familiar with that story. I guess people have already forgotten this morning’s paper.” Who would have thought her
From Here to Eternity photo would come in handy? “Why don’t we get down to you?”
Angling his head first up and then down, as if unsure which lens of his bifocals to ogle Amber from, Lyle peered across the desk at her. “You didn’t get much from your father except that inconsequential nose…and his tendency to overindulge.” He poured himself a glass of Evian without offering Amber any. “What? No sharp retort? You see, that’s why we just won’t get along.”
“I’m not mean enough?” He should have seen her at Wicked Tantric.
“No. You have poor judgment and I…well, I never go astray.”
“Really?” It was hard not to stare at his comb over, especially when he ran his hand across it. Protective instincts surged. Lyle had been more than happy to poke fun at her father repeatedly over the years. And there were four folders with Lyle’s name on it. “According to my father’s notes, you’ve been in many of his programs. You never mentioned that in your column.”
Lyle’s lips became a thin strip of color. “This won’t work.”
“You’re paid up through the end of the month,” Amber reminded him, suddenly realizing how the situation had unraveled. They had so few clients. “You have nothing to lose.”
Lyle laughed. “All right, honey. Dooley always ended our sessions with an assignment. Give it your best shot.”
Fail and she’d be in the column. Of that she was certain. On impulse, Amber rummaged in her purse until she found the business card of her hair stylist. “Your assignment this week is to get a haircut. Put yourself in my stylist’s hands. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get a new outlook on life.”
Lyle huffed, but took the card.
“Well, it looks like our time is up for this session. I’ll see you next week, same time,” Amber said cheerfully.
“Oh, Miss Rule,” Lyle stopped her when she reached the door. “I so enjoyed myself today. Do watch yourself this week. I’d forgotten how charming you could be.”
Amber tripped on her way out.
Chapter 13
“How’s business?” Amber asked Yerik, the maitre de at Panache and Amber’s business partner in the venture, as he showed her to Blue’s table.
