Nordies is my go to place for cocktail dresses and I nab a few. I hit Shoe Factory for new runners. I’ll convince Movie Star to exercise with me and release endorphins from his gorgeous body. He already hits the gym, does yoga, Tai-Bo, whatever his role, his handlers, and his job call for. Exercise and endorphins are a terrific tool in my bag of tricks to break inside men’s psyches and make him reveal secrets. I scoop up athletic wear, tights, T-shirts, and running bras at a pop-up store on State Street.
It’s 9 p.m. and the store guards lower protective gates, gearing up to close. I’m starving by the time I walk into my favorite falafel joint under the el train tracks on the way home to my condo in Greektown. I bit the bullet last year and rented a place with an option to buy. A few months ago my accountant said it was time, so I bought.
I stand behind the counter at Queen’s House of Falafels. The sixty-something proprietor with the immaculate salt and pepper hair looks expectantly at me. “What’ll it be, Evie?”
I order what I always get. “Gyros, pita and hummus plate to go, Mr. Katsis. No time to make dinner tonight.”
“You look healthy and happy,” he says.
“New haircut,” I say. “How are things?”
“Me? I’m up, down. Left, right. My oldest, Constantine, is divorcing the wife.” He looks sad.
I can feel his melancholy, his fears. No grandkids for me. Only the restaurant.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Katsis,” I say, searching for things to say that will make him feel better. “I predict more daughters-in-law in your future. Constantine is a handsome man.”
“You interested?” He waggles his eyebrows.
“I fear he’s out of my league.” I frown, wring my hands, and sigh dramatically.
“Ha.” He cracks a smile. “How’s your mother?”
“She’s good, thanks. We’re going on vacation one of these days.”
“She’s coming to visit you here in Chicago?” His eyes light up like a kid catching candy at a parade. “When? For how long?”
“Do you have a crush on my mother, Mr. Katsis?” I smile and hand him a twenty.
“She’s so nice every time you bring her in here. Like mother, like daughter. I put some extra chips in the bag for you, Evie.” He hands me change. “No extra charge. I know how much you like them. Besides, you’re getting a little thin.”
“You’re a sweet man. Are you trying to make me fat?”
“No, Evelyn. I’m trying to bribe you into bringing your mom back to my restaurant next time she comes to town.”
“That can be arranged.”
I walk out the door of the hole in the wall joint swallowing a smile, the chimes on the door ringing as I leave.
Inside the elevator at my condo building I punch the button for the 12th floor. The gears engage, hum, and grind, as the lift rises to my loft condo on the top floor. I pull open the accordion door and transfer my purchases into the hallway.
I pick them back up, three in each hand, and walk down the hallway to my corner unit. I drop one handful and dig through my bag for my keys. I twist the key in the top deadbolt but it doesn’t open with the clunk that I expect because it’s not locked. It’s already open.
How is it already open? Weird. Oh, holy hell have I been robbed? My hand trembles as I slide the key in the bottom lock where it catches. I turn the key, the tumblers clunking over. I nudge the door open with my knee and peek inside. The TV is still on the wall, the computer still on the recycled barn wood dining table. There are no broken windows visible. I probably forgot to bolt the door on my way out. In my haste to get everything done before I leave tomorrow I forgot to lock the deadbolt.
I ease inside my condo, place the bags on the floor, and toss the dry cleaning over a chair next to the dining room table. Nothing appears an inch out of place but the hairs on the back of my arms are raised and something feels off.
I walk down the hall to the bedrooms. The movie posters are all hanging straight on the walls. The framed photographs of my mom, my sister and me that could pass for a smiling department store family are grouped neatly on their own space.
I poke my head in the guest bathroom. The towels are straight, the toilet lid down. The organic lavender soap in the plunger bottle is still next to the glass bowl. I open the door to the smaller bedroom. The futon is bright and cheery with the cover I bought from a seller on Etsy. The windows are intact. My second computer hasn’t budged an inch. And still, I can’t shake the weird feeling that something’s not right.
I wander down the hall and enter my room. There’s a gap in the center of the curtains and my bed is still made, but that’s where the similarity ends.
A six by six inch blue box with a white bow rests in the center of the bed. It wasn’t there when I left this morning. It could pass for a box from my favorite jewelry store.
My heart thumpity-thumps in my chest as I make my way to the bed. My breath ratchets up a notch. I untie the bow and lift the lid. There’s a wafer-thin page ripped from a book. It’s fragile and yellowing – could be antique. It’s a page from a Bible and one verse is highlighted in yellow:
“But if a woman has long hair, it is a glory to her: for her hair is given her for a covering.’ 1st Corinthians 11:15”
What–?
There’s a white card with typed letters. It’s been a while since I received one of these notes, but it looks awfully familiar.
Dear Evelyn:
It’s been two years. I had hoped by now you would have grown your hair back. But there is no covering, there is no modest Evelyn, there is only boastful Evelyn. Proud Evelyn. Evelyn who flaunts everything she has.
And this disturbs me.
I’m not sure what to do about this. I’m weighing options. I’m just a mess inside and yet you sleep easily. Some days I can’t eat and worry gnaws at my bones.
And I wonder — what if Evelyn doesn’t have a covering and some kind of sicko realizes that and picks a fight with her? Evelyn used to be awfully nice, but she’s changed. She shows off. She’s entitled. Now she’s putting herself out there. Right there in the crosshairs for just the right predator to come around and take, take, take whatever they want from Evelyn. Whatever they crave.
What do you think they’ll take first, Evelyn? Your covering’s gone. I’m disappointed in you. So very disappointed. I’ve been silent a while, but I can be silent no more. I just had to say something. I hope you don’t mind.
I only want your best, Evelyn.
I am, as always,
Your Devoted Fan
My hand trembles as I set the note and the page aside. It continues to shake as I unfold the white tissue paper.
Clipped hair lies is in the box. Silky, shiny, brunette clipped hair. It could be mine.
I think it just might be mine...
Dear Reader: I hope you enjoyed PLAYER #1. If you did, please consider leaving a review on the site where you purchased the book.
Evie’s journey continues in MOVIE STAR #2. Gorgeous movie star Jake Keller’s on track to win an Oscar. But Jake’s shutting down, going off grid, doing nothing to help promote his chances. Evie travels to Hollywood to try and help discover what -- or who -- broke Jake. But dirty little secrets prefer to stay buried…
One click MOVIE STAR #2 now! Or turn the page to view an excerpt of MOVIE STAR .
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21st CENTURY COURTESAN is a sexy, dark, addictive series filled with love, lust, family loyalty, deceit, revenge, and all the sweet little things in life worth killing for... MOVIE STAR #2 is on shelves now! Sign up for my NEWSLETTER to learn about new books and bookish developments.
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th some bittersweet moments in the Playing Dirty series.
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I didn’t plan on running into the smoking hot, tuxedo-clad brick wall of a man at the wedding. I didn’t plan on him stopping my fall by grabbing onto my boob and Not. Letting. Go. I most definitely didn’t plan on this gorgeous man being my new CLIENT. One-Click THE CLIENT now!
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Excerpt of MOVIE STAR#2
BEFORE
Blood pumps through my arteries, my muscles gear up to throw punches and dodge bullets while my brain tries to figure out if there’s really a problem. My body knows when someone wants to hurt me. It’s had a lot of practice.
One Saturday afternoon in the 6th grade I hung out at my friend Emily’s house. The music was loud. Her sister was hosting a pizza party after a high school football game. A guy with bloodshot eyes stared at me from the far end of the kitchen, his hand caressing the watery drops beading on his soft drink can. Just looking at him made my stomach lurch about like the pizza I’d eaten was bad.
I didn’t want to get sick at Emily’s house, so I went upstairs and grabbed my coat from her bed. When I turned to leave the guy with the bloodshot eyes was standing in the doorway breathing heavily and staring at me funny. I slammed the door in his face. I jammed the lock and sat on the bed, my heart rattling about in my chest like a ghost haunting a closet.
He knocked and knocked. I squeezed my eyes shut and hugged my arms around my ribs because I knew no one would hear me over the music if I hollered for help.
When the music finally quieted, I popped open the door and peered into the hallway: he was gone. I bolted down the stairs and didn’t stop running until I got home. A few months later that guy’s face was plastered across our local paper because he had hurt a different girl at a different party.
“It’s him, Mom,” I said.
“See what I told you about respecting your instincts?” Mom made stir fry, the frozen vegetables simmered in the pan. “I bet that girl didn’t do the smart girl thing.”
“But what if she did?” I asked. “What if that girl fought back and hollered but no one heard her scream over the music?” My stomach knows when a situation is dangerous.
My bones know when someone dies. I was seven when Grandma Berlinger popped up in my dream shaking her owl-head baking spoon at me, fussing that she was taking a trip. “I’m out of here, munchkin,” she said. “I’m putting you in charge of taking care of your Mom.”
I woke with a start, the covers still tucked around me and yet there was a coldness in my bones, a heaviness that hadn’t been there when I’d nodded off. Sure enough, Mom got the phone call the next morning that Grandma Berlinger had passed away in the middle of the night.
Now it’s been seven long, heartbreaking days since we ran into the Wolfe brothers. A week since they bounced off our car, flew through the air like broken birds, and no one will tell me if they’re alive or dead.
No one will answer my questions. No one will take me seriously because I’m just that poor girl whose mother had a psychotic split. I’m that ‘sorry child’ who crawled out of the car toward the brothers bleeding on the cold, hard, white snow. I’m the– ‘Shh, don’t say that loud enough for Evelyn Berlinger to hear’ that her mother is going to jail for this you know’ girl.
I bet rumors are circulating about the Wolfe boys back at Beethoven Middle Grade school, but I’m not there to hear them. Mom’s been taken away, Ruby and I have been split up and sent to different foster homes. I’m staying in a different town with a perfectly nice woman in a house with other sad kids. But in spite of everything I know in my bones that Wyatt Wolfe is not dead.
If only I had Bones on speed dial. I’d pay my entire monthly allowance to hear him pick up. ‘How may we help you?’ Bones would ask.
‘Just calling to find out if Wyatt Wolfe’s still alive?’ I’d pinch myself as a reminder to keep breathing, not hold my breath and pass out because I’m so dizzy from the anxiety wriggling under my skin.
‘He’s not only alive, Evie, but he’s doing great,’ Bones would say. ‘A few of us were broken in the accident but we’re all healing up now. Thanks for asking.’
‘Oh, good,’ I’d say, relief coursing through me like a sugary soda. ‘I’ve been wondering ’cause he and his brother Easton haven’t been back to school. And I need to tell them how incredibly sorry I am. I need them to forgive me.”
‘Give it time.’ Bones would say. “Forgiveness can take some time.’
I pray for forgiveness every night.
But now a month or so has passed since the accident and I don’t see the Wolfe boys, and there is no chance to say I’m sorry. There’s no forgiveness for Mom either because she’s being sentenced to six months in jail today and my heart twists like laundry fresh out of the drier threatening to choke me.
After the hearing, a woman escorts me down a maze of hallways into a room where I get to see Mom before they take her off to wherever she’ll serve her sentence. “Evie,” Mom says, her arms out wide.
“Oh, Mom.” I run into her arms, swallowing tears. I press my head against her chest and shudder. She hugs me tight.
She pulls back and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “It’s going to be okay,” she says. “I did something stupid. I did something bad. This is the best way for me to pay for my sins. I’m not going to be gone that long and you’re going to be okay. You always are.”
“I don’t know.” I worry my lower lip.
“You’re going to be just fine because you’re my oldest child. You’re my rock.” She grips my forearm. It cuts like a knife. “You’ll be the strong sister for Ruby.”
“Ruby’s not living with me, Mom.”
“I know. You’re still my oldest girl. Promise me you’ll be strong for Ruby.”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on. We’ll pray on it.” She crosses herself, then grabs my hand so hard. “Dear Jesus. Please help Evie stay strong while I’m in jail.”
“Dear Jesus. Please help me stay strong while Mom’s in jail.”
Mom squeezes her eyes shut. “Dear God, help Evie stay strong so I can heal and pay my debt.”
Mom’s feelings boomerang inside me. I have to hold it together for her. “Please help me stay strong so Mom can heal and pay her debt.”
“Help Evie stay strong so Ruby can grow up healthy,” she prays.
I feel so small. I bow my head and repeat, “Please help me stay strong so Ruby can grow up healthy.”
“And this I ask for in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit,” Mom says. “Amen.”
“And this I ask for in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
“You’re my good girl, Evelyn.” She opens her eyes, releases my hand, and kisses my cheek. “I love you. I’ll be back home with you and Ruby in no time.”
“Okay.” I wiggle my fingers to get the blood back into them as the woman leads her away.
Mom stops at the door and stares at me wistfully. “Count on it, Evie.”
“I’m counting on it, Mom.”
CHAPTER 2
FRACTURED FANTASIES
The first time I saw Jake Keller, Movie Star, I was thirteen-years-old. It was before the accident when we still lived with Mom’s boyfriend, Kyle Monroe.
Mom took Ruby and me to one of Jake’s movies on the spur of the moment. I shoved
popcorn in my mouth and watched him on the big screen, mesmerized.
Jake’s blonde hair. The determined look on his face when he stared down at that girl as the rain pelted them. But most of all, it was his eyes. Kind and gentle and sexy. It was all I could do not to yell at the screen, ‘Kiss that girl who is staring up at you in the rain. Please kiss her now before I explode!’
“He needs to kiss her,” Mom said.
Ruby leaned over me and tapped Mom on her knee. “Can I go to the bathroom?”
“You just went,” Mom said.
And when Jake finally put his hands on that girl’s face, when he finally pulled her to him and gazed into her eyes. When he finally kissed her -- Mom and I both sighed, looked at each other, and burst out giggling.
Ruby jiggled her foot on the floor. “Can I go now?”
“Yes,” Mom said.
Jake Keller is that kind of actor. His characters transcend time and space, make all the hair on the back of your neck stand up like soldiers on parade. Now he’s one of the biggest movie stars in the world. Maybe it’s nostalgia that makes me want to find out what damaged him. Maybe it’s a need to return to a more innocent time, before the accident, that makes me want to save him. I certainly wouldn’t be the first fool to be motivated by nostalgia.
I’m flying from Chicago to L.A. tomorrow to help Jake Keller heal. I’ll wear expensive, designer clothes. I’ll accompany him to celebrity parties. We’ll be photographed sharing intimate dinners at elegant restaurants and impossibly trendy cafes. Undoubtedly, I’ll show up in a handful of gossip sites as ‘Jake Keller Out and About with ‘Unnamed Twenty-something Brunette.’
PLAYER (21st Century Courtesan) Page 21
