CoverBoys & Curses

by Lala Corriere

  Brock Townsend relished life as a baseball legend. The New York Yankees reluctantly traded the pitcher to the Dodgers for a reported twenty-something-million dollar contract, not including the signing bonus, deferred payments and incentive clauses. Brock wasn’t indifferent to the money. He respected it. He welcomed his achievements but not so much the notoriety that accompanied it. That was probably why he dressed as he did. I could get the trench coat and the wide-brimmed hat, given the rain, but sunglasses? At midnight?

  “I’m sorry you had to wait for my flight,” I whispered, still engulfed in his hug. “I could have caught a— ”

  “I wouldn’t miss the opportunity to welcome you to your new home, sweetie. Besides, the sight of you is worth any wait.”

  I felt myself blush. Not a Visconti thing to do.

  Brock grabbed my luggage, all but my smallest bag, and led the way to the parking lot.

  “Son of a bitch!” he yelled.

  Three young thugs were hovering over his car. Two peered into the darkened windows while another stood guard. Brock dropped my bags at my feet, giving full chase to them. I stood in horror, thinking only about .357 Magnums.

  Chapter Five

  Ecstasy

  THE SIGHT OF THE MUSCULAR six-foot-plus pitcher charging after them sent all three boys racing off in the opposite direction only after one final attempt to detach the Jaguar’s vintage hood ornament. The screeching car alarm blared throughout the parking level although in Los Angeles no one seemed to take notice.

  As I struggled to schlep luggage toward the car, Brock sprinted back to help me.

  “So, is this the infamous Los Angeles Welcome Wagon?” I asked.

  Brock was fumbling through his jeans pockets for the key remote to silence the alarm. “Are you telling me they don’t have car thieves in Chicago?”

  I was the first to notice the three nylon gym bags the would-be car thieves must have left by the passenger side of the car. “What the hell is all this?” My voice quaked.

  “Well, I’ll be. Guess those boys really were the Welcome Wagon,” Brock said, tossing the gym bags into the trunk on top of my luggage. “Little shit bastards. I swear, if they had a dad around to teach them baseball they’d never hit the streets like vermin. They’d be out at a ballpark.”

  “Brock, should you take those bags? Don’t you think we should call the police?”

  Brock only laughed. “If there’s something in the bags that can identify them as thieves, maybe then. But they didn’t exactly steal anything, did they?”

  “In other words, I guess you don’t think it’s an airport bomb. And we’re the ones stealing.”

  “Let’s get you to your hotel,” Brock said.

  “You’re right,” I acquiesced. “No harm done. And yes, they do have car thieves in Chicago.”

  THE JAG ROLLED DOWN Sunset Boulevard and glided to a smooth stop in front of the hotel. Brock instructed the bellhop to deliver the luggage to my bungalow, escorting me into the lobby lounge after I picked up my room key.

  Spotting the waiter approaching our table, Brock asked, “What will it be, sweet Lauren? Chardonnay, or maybe some Dom?”

  “I’ll have a Tanqueray. Number Ten. Dry. Two olives.”

  Brock scowled at me in disbelief.

  “Oh, hell, Brock. Don’t look at me that way. Payton went and killed herself. I’ve just spent six hours on a damn airplane—something I swore I’d never do again, and traveled half way across the country no less in nothing but rain, hail, sleet and snow.”

  The hysteria in my voice turned to a whine. “Now I’m in a strange city and I’m presumptuous enough to think I’m going to take it by a storm with a new publishing venture while the entire magazine industry is on its ass.”

  Brock looked up at the waiter who was patiently waiting for my outburst to clear. “Better bring me one, too,” Brock said.

  We slugged down the first martinis and tried to order one more round while being told we’d barely made the last call with our first drinks. It was late. I should have been exhausted, but neither of us wanted to say goodnight. It seemed innocent enough when Brock requested a bottle of champagne be sent over to my bungalow. All night room service, after all.

  YOU KNOW, BROCK,” I’m sure I slurred slightly as I eased out of my dress and fell back onto the four-poster bed, “I don’t think friends are supposed to fuck one another. And I’m still grieving the loss of Payton, and I’m in the middle of a major move. I’m trying to make a new start and I’m just too—”

  “That’s the best thing about friends with benefits. Only with you it’s more like rapture. Besides, my friend needs a jumpstart into her new world.”

  “And by jumpstart you mean jumping my bones?”

  Despite my feeble verbal protests, Brock Townsend rightfully understood he was the one being seduced. I lay naked as he uncorked the champagne. I reached for the bottle to pour, skillfully filling the flutes with one hand while working open the metal buttons of his 501 jeans with the other. Multi-tasking.

  Three years had passed since the two of us had been together in bed. Or in the back seat of a limo. Or on the bleachers in the deserted baseball stadium. I felt the old familiar feeling. I knew I was wet with desire long before my mouth was wet with the vintage champagne.

  His soft denim jeans fell to the floor and Brock lifted off his cashmere sweater to reveal rippling rows of muscular abs. I wanted him inside of me and I’d learned a long time ago how to get exactly what I wanted, especially when it came to Brock Townsend.

  I became a tease in need. I bit his nipples and sucked at his neck. I pulled at him and guided his movements, slowing him down or pushing him faster and faster, depending on my pleasure. I flung myself on top of him and rode him. My words were nasty and my breasts swayed wildly above his body, rocking and taking what I needed. I collapsed upon his chest and moaned in satisfaction.

  “We never did it, you know,” I whispered.

  “Yes, Lauren. We did it. We’re doing it. And we’ve done it before.”

  “Off the record. I have to protect my reputation. Keep my name off your list of conquests.”

  He pulled away from me, faking a frown. We started bantering; we always seemed to get along best when teasing each other. My cell interrupted what might have been left of any lucid conversation after all the booze. An unidentified caller.

  “Lauren Visconti?”

  “Yes. Who’s calling?”

  “Sorry I missed you. It wasn’t a suicide. Remember Mike? You’re messing with trouble, Missy.”

  “Trouble? Missed me where?”

  It was too late. The caller hung up. I turned to Brock. He was sound asleep.

  Chapter Six

  The Dream

  MY WEDDING DRESS IS understated elegance. Low cut in the back and with braided silk pulled tight across my waist, the gown cascades to the floor in layers of scalloped edging. The chiffon sways and billows with every step I take.

  I can’t make out who is walking me down the aisle. My father is dead. It can’t be him. Who is it?

  The music is too loud. The first notes don’t end as yet others begin. Fierce sounds of chanting begin to clash with an incendiary noise. It was the sound of warriors igniting blood.

  The man that leads me by my arm stops in the middle of the aisle. He’s staring at my gown with pity drawn across his eyes. The exquisite fabric is fraying, metastasizing into paper. My wedding dress is made of paper!

  Gusts of wind roar down the center of the church. The paper scallops of my gown ripple and begin to tear, shredding into sheets. The tang of smoke fills my lungs. The funneled wind fuels the flames. My escort drops my arm and screams as he falls away from me, engulfed in a bonfire of human flesh, bones and hair. The screams of my loved ones lining the pews overpower any other sounds except for the spitting and crackling of bodies. And the ear-piercing clash of musical notes.

  I glance down at the remains of my dress. I am all but naked. Why am I not burning? Why am I no
t melting in pain with the others? Dear God, take me! While everyone else falls into clumps of pugilistic attitude I remain standing.

  I’m not even singed. I am left, alone.

  Chapter Seven

  The Morning After

  MORNING LIGHT FLOODED the quaint bungalow. Brock stirred from under the sheets, arching his back to glance up at the clock.

  I’d already showered and dressed in my standard office couture, ready to go.

  “You’re making me feel cheap, my dear,” Brock said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You aren’t even going to let me finish what I started last night? How about you at least buy me breakfast?”

  “Sorry. I have a working breakfast.”

  Brock sat up, looking pale and tired. I could see the fast pace of his pulse ticking on the side of his temples. “You know, Laurs, I’m still grieving, too. I feel like shit that I didn’t make it to Payton’s funeral. She was my friend, too. That girl had no reason to die.”

  I elected not to tell him about the phone call. Or my dream. A disturbing thought crossed my mind. I was sure Brock had slept with my friend, Sterling Falls. Had he done Payton, too? “Look, Brock, I just have a lot of things on my mind.”

  Brock went to the bathroom. Any jealousy I did or did not feel ended when I looked through the window and across the hotel grounds. Two men stood near the side of another bungalow. One was on a cell phone. The other had a huge camera zoom lens aimed right at me. They fled when they realized I’d spotted them. I think.

  Or maybe I was crazy. Maybe I only imagined they fled. Or that they were there at all.

  Chapter Eight

  Roots

  AN IMPULSE SEIZED ME on my way to breakfast. I phoned the detective in Tucson. I told him about the call. I reminded him of Payton’s missing brother.

  “Don’t you understand?” I urged him. “The caller said it wasn’t a suicide. I believe him.”

  “Ms. Visconti, you don’t even know who him is. The case is closed. It was a suicide, and from what you’ve just told me about her missing brother she must have never gotten over it. The suicide serves to confirm it.

  “With all due respect, these things happen all the time. People with nothing better to do read something in the paper and get off on stirring things up. And you have quite a name out there that makes you a special target for weirdos.”

  “It’s not like I’m a celebrity.”

  “No. But you have a reputation. People know your name. If you need further assistance, I suggest you contact your local police department.”

  LOOKING OVER MY SHOULDER all the way, I stormed toward the restaurant for breakfast still wary about any intrusive intent behind the men and their camera. It certainly wasn’t the paparazzi unless they mistook me for some Hollywood starlet. I was already used to the buzzing of low flying helicopters trying to cop a million dollar photo of anybody who is somebody around the hotel grounds, but that wouldn’t be me. Maybe they were only photographing the stunning buildings and landscaping. I just happened to be square in the middle of their photo shoot.

  The phone call was another story. The caller knew my name. Was it a warning or a threat he delivered? Why?

  By the time I entered the café Sukie and Geoff were already gobbling down French toast and asking for coffee refills. Sukie’s beautiful Asian face, sprinkled with powdered sugar from the brioche, glistened in the dappled morning sunlight.

  “You guys certainly adapt well to foreign land,” I joked as I took a seat in the booth.

  “It’s all about learning their customs,” Geoff said.

  We each had a full day ahead. Sterling’s real estate friend had already sold me a beach house. I was waiting for Carly to work her design magic on it before moving in. I liked the agent, Gabriella Criscione. She may have been a little over the top, but she knew Los Angeles and Malibu real estate and she knew how to kiss ass. It worked for me. Gabri, as friends called her, had now lined up commercial properties for me to tour. Out of her list of seven, I had zeroed in on four. The pressure for me to find space and find it fast could have overwhelmed me if not for Gabri. Key staff planned on working from hotel rooms and street-side bistros until I could find us corporate offices. Cash is King, so said my father. If a property had a clear title I could close on it quickly.

  “Earth to Lauren,” Sukie said. “That’s not just stress drawing your face up into a knot.”

  Sure, I had angst about buying an office building. But Sukie made me stop and ask myself why my stomach felt like I’d swallowed a live Longjaw Mud Snapper.

  “Geoff, let me ask you something,” I said. “You know all the email texting lingo stuff, don’t you?

  “What do you mean?”

  “The shorthand. Like LOL and JK?”

  “It’s not exactly technical information, but yes, I guess I do.”

  I had memorized Payton’s email.

  Saguaro National Forest. CAC. 3 Skeletons.

  Import

  “What does CAC mean?”

  Geoff shot a glance at Sukie and they both shrugged. “I haven’t seen that one,” she said.

  “Let’s see. There’s CAS. Crack a smile. CAAC is cool as a cucumber,” Geoff said.

  I grimaced. No good.

  “It’s not texting, but what about the Paris Bourse? The CAC-40,” Sukie suggested.

  The Paris market index? That didn’t make sense, either. Not that I knew. Payton resented anything French, probably only because she thought the French resented anything American.

  “Does 3 Skeletons mean anything?”

  “Not in the land of the living texting. Not that I know. Why?”

  “Someone sent me an email I don’t understand.”

  “Ever think of calling them up and just asking them?” Sukie grinned.

  I turned to her. Her voice came off as sarcastic, but I quickly realized she didn’t know the them was dead. “What would a seven, maybe nine inch lens do for a digital camera?”

  “Hard to say, but it’s a big boy’s tool. You might as well open up a planetarium.”

  Geoff laughed, “Oh, dear God, don’t use that on me when I have a zit coming on.”

  “What’s with all these questions?” Sukie asked.

  I shuffled papers around in front of me, opting to change the conversation rather than think about the camera lens pointed my way. “Sukie, how many interviews do you have lined up?”

  She raised her almond eyes, framed with thin brows beginning to gray. Her eyes served as a constant reminder of what Sukie was. A private woman. Gifted behind the camera, I knew little else about the mysterious photographer. The only thing I really understood was that she was even-keeled and dependable. Since most artists of her caliber were temperamental, eccentric, and erratic in their performance, at best, I counted myself lucky.

  Sukie said, “I’ve lined up a baker’s dozen, all with ample studio time to shoot them once you tell me where. They’re seasoned print models, and I have about fifty more if I need them. This town’s flooded with hunk-of-the-month wannabes.”

  “Hey, Laurs,” Geoff interjected. “Just how much longer are we supposed to keep our new project a secret? You know I don’t do good secret.”

  “Not much longer, Queen. I’m organizing a press party gala for our grand opening, assuming we have a place to cut the ribbon. With a little luck, when we do come out of our closet the whole country will know our secret overnight.”

  Geoff smiled.

  I was still thinking about the email I had received from Payton. The police told me that typing the email and sending it to me was the last thing Payton did on this earth. Before blowing her brains out.

  What did that last word mean? Import? Import what? And why didn’t she sign it like she usually did? And why was it so cryptic?

  I should have mentioned it to the detective again. Payton always signed her emails to me. Always. It was a programmed signature.

  Chapter Nine

  Riches, Roses
, & Robberies

  GABRIELLA CRISCIONE KNEW she was one extraordinary real estate agent. She did it all. Residential, commercial, land and sand. As long as they were million dollar deals, she was your woman.

  Well connected and a pro at client interviews over orgasmic pasta lunches, it didn’t take her long to figure out Lauren Visconti wore deep pockets. She only had to show the girl four homes on the beach, knowing exactly what she was doing when she saved the best and by far the most expensive one, for last.

  Four must have been her lucky number, because that’s exactly how many showings it took to sell Lauren Visconti her new corporate offices. Gabri probably didn’t fool the girl when she threw in some real dog properties to solidify the buying decision. Showing Lauren Visconti a couple not too-perfect alternatives only proved that she needed to spend a couple million more than she had planned on in order to get what she needed. Gabri considered herself Master Enabler in all of it.

  Gabri worked hard. And smart. Maybe she was a little pushy, but she liked it that way. And she always remembered her manners. She had to think of some way to express gratitude to Sterling Falls for referring the Visconti girl to her.

  I DON’T THINK IT was buyer’s remorse eating at me, even though my purchase offer on the twelve-story building was signed and off to the seller without much blinking on my part. CoverBoy had a home. That should have left me thrilled.

  Maybe the seclusion of the hotel bungalow was too quiet after the taxing day. I looked around at its living room and bedroom. I shouldn’t have been surprised that all traces of Brock were gone. Did I expect to find him in the reading chair or out on the patio? Was he supposed to stay in bed all day?

  No red roses. No yellow roses. No yellow sticky note, for that matter. I took in a deep breath, well aware that I was trying to pick up the scent of his musky aftershave. Fresh bed linens and the lemony fresh smell that follows the maids, as thick as contrails of a jet, had removed any lingering waft of the salty sultry man-smell from the night before.