Lovers and Liars

by Brenda Joyce

  No way.

  Jack stared.

  There was no way it was her.

  “Thank you,” she said to the clerk, and Jack’s heart jumped. Even before she turned, just from the sound of her voice, he knew who it was.

  The broad from the North-Star party. The broad who had stood him up.

  She was reaching for her bag when she saw him, and she froze in midmotion.

  Jack couldn’t look away. Neither could she.

  For a long moment their gazes locked.

  She was even better than he’d remembered. He had forgotten the impact she’d had on him. It was like being jolted by an electric current. He had forgotten how strong and sexy her body was. The black skirt fit like a second skin, clinging to her long, strong legs.

  Then she straightened, smiling as if she didn’t have a care in the world. “Why, hello,” she said. Casually, oh-so-casually. As if she hadn’t stood him up. “We’ve met before, I think.”

  She thought? What, she couldn’t even recall that they’d met? Was he so forgettable? He, Jack Ford, superstar and sex symbol to millions of women? Millions. Which reminded him of the fact that she didn’t even know who he was.

  Jack couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe her. His jaw was as tight as a vise, but he managed to get the words out. “Oh, we’ve met before, all right,” he said. “I remember it very well.”

  38

  Lansing knew exactly where to find her at this time of night. He wasn’t really in the mood to be doing this. He had had to cancel his date with that hot little blond receptionist, and that irked him completely. She had a great ass, shown to perfect advantage in the tight knit dress he’d seen her in yesterday, and a pair of knockers that begged to be played with. Instead he was cruising downtown to have a chat with a hooker. Too bad he was repelled by the thought of being with one—at least that would take the edge off. Now he’d have to wait but, hopefully, only until tomorrow. Then he’d have lunch with the receptionist—what was her name? Melody … yeah, that was it. Pussy for lunch. Why not?

  Feeling increased aggravation—or was it frustration?—a very clear image of Melody as she must have looked, sitting at her desk, talking to him over the phone, invaded his mind. Now this was a truly incredible situation, he thought sarcastically, braking hard for a red light.

  He had the hots for her, and it was getting worse.

  And she was completely indifferent to him. It irked him. Frustrated him. He was not used to this. Women always fell into his lap (and into his bed) when he turned on his considerable charm.

  But not Melody.

  She was infatuated with her boss.

  Christ!

  He pictured, as he had dozens of times, her lush body naked, pink-and-white, wonderfully curved, her full bottom in his hands, her even fuller breasts against his chest as he plunged into her—damn, damn, damn.

  Of course he had an impossible hard-on now—just what he needed when he was going to have a possibly unpleasant conversation with a hooker.

  He shoved Melody out of his mind.

  Leah worked out of a stable run by a pimp named Ramon. He was typical: tall, black, overdressed, swaggering. He seemed to have three other girls in his stable, but Lansing wasn’t positive. The girls all worked a couple of blocks between Twentieth and Twenty-fifth on the West Side in Manhattan. They lived in a deluxe accommodation uptown—if you considered Harlem uptown and deluxe. Ramon had a sheet a half an arm long and carried a piece. He also carried a ten-inch silver hunting knife strapped to his left ankle, in a snakeskin boot.

  He spotted Leah walking out of an alley at five minutes to midnight. She had just blown a john, obviously. She had dark blond hair, a shade lighter than Jack Ford’s, permed, frizzy, and shoulder-length. An incredible body if you liked them tallish and slim, which he didn’t. Lansing slowed the rental car and cruised alongside her, leaning out his window. “Hey, doll!”

  She saw him and sauntered over. “Hi, doll,” she mimicked. “Fifty bucks I blow you in the car.” Her voice had become a purr. Her face was heavily made up, so he really couldn’t tell what she looked like. “Extras are my pleasure—but they cost more.”

  “I’ll take it,” Lansing said, opening the other door. He watched her move around the front of the car, shaking everything deliberately. Braless, of course. Round and firm in one of those spandex tops with a matching miniskirt.

  She got in, slamming the door. “You can touch,” she said, taking his hand and holding it to her breast, “but that’s an extra.” Then she reached out and found him through his trousers.

  He had lost it, fortunately, but to his dismay it jumped right back up. “I guess you’re ready,” she said enthusiastically. “Got quite a package there, eh, bud? Those balls must weigh a ton!” She cupped each one, then ran a long fingernail up and down his penis. “My, my!” she breathed. She actually seemed excited.

  “Look, Leah,” he said briskly, grabbing her hand tightly and lifting it off but not releasing it. “I want to discuss some business with you—and I don’t want a blow job.”

  “You prick!” She struggled. “Let go! I don’t talk business, not with you or anybody!”

  “I’ll give you the fifty,” Lansing said, yanking on her. “Just be still and listen to what I have to say.”

  She watched him warily.

  He held out fifty dollars, watching as she counted it. “I’m a private investigator. I was hired by your brother to find you and bring you home. He’s real concerned about your welfare.”

  Her eyes widened. “Rick?”

  “No, Jack Ford. Although Rick is living with Ford. In L.A.”

  Leah stared. “What does he want with me?”

  “He wants to help you out, I guess. Better yet, why don’t you fly out to see him and ask him?”

  Leah stared, then laughed. “Help me out, huh? Does he know what I do? That I’m a hooker?”

  “I told him,” Lansing said evenly. “We can leave tomorrow night.”

  “Why should I leave? I’ve got everything I need right here. Besides …”—she grinned—“with the right guy, I like what I do.”

  “You don’t have to be afraid of Ramon.”

  “I’m not afraid of anyone. If I wanted to leave, I would. But I like this setup. I make five hundred a day, easy—no sweat. I got a great pad and jewelry and plenty of blow and all the clothes I need. You tell me why I should leave to go meet some faggot brother who thinks he has to save my soul? Fuck him!”

  “Look at it as a paid vacation,” Lansing suggested.

  She snorted. Then her eyes dropped to his crotch, and she was quick as a snake. She had him in her hand, his pants unzipped. “Good Lord, what a meaty one!”

  Lansing tried to breathe. All his mental resistance was crumbling fast. “I haven’t ever paid for it,” he said, “and I have no intention of starting.”

  “I’ll bet you don’t pay for it,” she murmured, and suddenly she was ripping open a rubber with her teeth and rolling it on.

  It was hard to breathe, but he tried one last time. “Leah, you could start over. Ford has money and power—he’ll help you.”

  She pulled up the spandex skirt, revealing shaved bareness. Oh, Christ! was all he thought. He slid onto the middle of the seat and lifted her onto him. They both gasped at the same time.

  “Suck my tits,” she said, shoving a suddenly bare nipple in his face.

  He obliged.

  39

  Rick was used to it.

  Everybody was talking and laughing in the corridors at eight A.M., waiting for the first bell to ring. Everybody had somebody, except him. He leaned against a locker, glaring at anyone who happened to look at him. Not too many kids did. There was a nice two- to three-foot radius surrounding him—as if he had an invisible wall protecting him from intruders. No one breached it. Sometimes a couple of girls swung past, looking, pointing, and giggling. Making his ears burn. He knew they were making fun of him.

  The bell rang. Five minutes until class
started. Rick went into the men’s room and lit a Kool. A jock was standing over a urinal, shaking his thing, while two preppies combed their hair in front of a dirty mirror and dirty sinks. Rick leaned against a corner, inhaling. The jock zipped up and left. A long-hair with gangly legs strolled in, pulled out a joint, and proceeded to puff. He was oblivious to all of them. Already stoned.

  Rick knew the two preppies. The blonde was Ben Froth, a senior, one of the most popular guys in school with the freshmen women. His buddy was Dale something. Froth was the son of Big Money—everyone knew his father was loaded—and it showed in his Calvin Klein and Ralph Lauren clothes. Dale was well off too. He was also popular. Not that Rick gave a shit. It was pretty funny the way the freshmen girls swooned and screamed and batted their eyes and gossiped about the two of them. They thought they were real hot.

  “It’s the punk,” Froth said, looking at Rick in the mirror. “Hey, punk, don’t you ever change your clothes?”

  Rick gave him a cool look. Froth was on his case every time their paths crossed, which was once a day at least.

  “Why should I?”

  Froth held his nose and made a face. Dale guffawed. “Maybe we should buy him some clothes,” he sneered.

  “His big brother can afford to outfit him,” Froth said, turning. “Ain’t that right?”

  Rick stared evenly and stubbed out his cigarette.

  “Maybe we should clean him off,” Froth said, grinning.

  Rick stepped close. He dropped the butt on Froth’s white tenny.

  “You little shit,” Froth yelled, but Rick laughed and was out the door.

  He ducked into his history class just as the second bell was ringing. Froth and Dale were the ones he’d been fighting the other day. Them and two other buddies. Four against one. Nice odds. How come he was the only one to get in trouble? This school sucked.

  The class was boring and interminable. Rick didn’t pay attention. He stared out the window until he became aware that the prettiest girl in the class—and maybe in the school—was looking at him and giggling, obviously talking about him to her friend, who was also pretty and also giggling. Rick flushed. They were making fun of him, most likely. The first girl’s name was Patty. She was a blonde and fully developed. He’d seen her in shorts and a tank top once and hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. She went out with Froth, of course. She was a freshman.

  Patty made him think about sex.

  He’d lost his virginity to a friend of his mother’s when he was thirteen. Discovering sex had added a whole new dimension to his life. He liked it—a lot. Since he’d come to California he hadn’t got laid once, which meant he had to jerk off in the bathroom—too frequently. In Houston he screwed whatever he could, mostly hookers, sometimes pretty Mexican girls who were willing and didn’t want money and who hung out on the same streets he did.

  Class was finally over and he got up, trying to be discreet as he watched Patty’s ass ahead of him. He had turned the corner on his way to a study hall when he was suddenly grabbed and slammed against the wall. He looked into Froth’s face first, then at Dale and another guy.

  “You little asshole,” Froth sneered. “You just won’t quit, will you?”

  Rick was aware that Patty and her friend had backtracked, eyes wide, to watch the entertainment. A few other kids had gathered. Twisting wildly, Rick struggled to get free. Dale and the third guy grabbed him, holding him immobile.

  “Don’t you ever fuck with me,” Froth hissed, punching him hard in the abdomen.

  Rick doubled over, gasping from pain, tears blinding him, only to be yanked upright and punched again in the same spot. He bit through his lip so as not to cry out, and then he was released and fell to his knees, clutching his stomach. He was aware of quiet, tense whispering, and through it all he heard Patty say, “What did he do?”

  “Come on,” Froth said harshly.

  Rick looked up to see Patty putting her arm around Froth’s waist as they walked away. Shit. He was panting painfully.

  “Are you all right?” He heard a voice that was extremely husky, almost hoarse.

  Rick managed to sink onto his hip, sitting awkwardly, and looked up into very brown eyes and a dusky face.

  “Are you all right?” the girl said again, touching his shoulder. “I’ll get the nurse,” she said, suddenly standing.

  “No!” Rick put up his hand. He didn’t recognize her and wondered what the hell she cared.

  She sank back to her knees. “Froth is such a jerk,” she said.

  Rick leaned back against the wall, releasing his belly. She had short black hair, just a bit longer than his, and she was a bit chubby, maybe, depending on one’s view—he wasn’t sure. She wore a baggy red sweatshirt and loose jeans and beat-up Keds. “Who are you?”

  “Lydia. What jerks! Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “What do you care?”

  “I happen to care about people and injustice,” she said with a touch of passion. “Someone should kick Froth in the balls!”

  Rick smiled then. Their eyes met, and he saw a startled look appear in hers; then she was smiling too. “You look just like him when you smile.”

  His smile faded. He knew exactly who she was talking about. He stood up, and feeling rude but not knowing what else to do, he walked away.

  40

  “What am I going to do?” Mary wailed.

  “Slow down,” Beth said, hugging her. “Vince is having an affair with Belinda Glassman, and he wants a divorce?”

  “Yes, yes, yes!” Mary couldn’t cry anymore. Her eyes were red and swollen. She had been eating and doing coke and drinking nonstop since yesterday, it seemed. She knew she had better cool it, or she’d gain fifty pounds.

  And Vince had come home way after midnight last night, slinking in.

  She had ignored him, and he had slunk into the bedroom. Where had he been all that time? She knew. With her.

  “Is that what he said? Mary?”

  She focused with great difficulty. Then she moaned and put her head in her hands. “No, no. I mean, he didn’t say anything about a divorce. But he loves her, he told me. He’s going to leave me, I know it.” She started crying again; the tears were inexhaustible.

  “Why do you care? You have me.” Beth was affronted.

  “I love Vince,” Mary snapped, outraged. “I don’t want you—I want Vince!”

  Beth stood rigid. “You just can’t accept the fact that you’re gay, Mary. You haven’t come to terms with it. I understand. Once you learn to accept it, you’ll realize you don’t love Vince, just what he stands for.”

  “That’s not true! I think I might kill fucking Belinda Glassman!”

  Beth wrapped an arm around her and walked her to the couch. “I can give you everything Vince can’t.”

  “Not children,” Mary said, hysterical.

  “You don’t even want children,” Beth said tolerantly.

  “Of course I do! Every woman wants children.”

  “Well, that’s certainly news to me.”

  “I really hate her,” Mary snarled. “The bitch!”

  “You’re just feeling rejected. It’s for the better, Mary.”

  “Oh, you’d say that. You want me all to yourself.”

  “I won’t deny it,” Beth said. “I don’t want to share you with anyone, not Vince, not another man, and not another woman.”

  “At least you love me,” Mary moaned.

  “Why don’t you move in with me?” Beth said, her tone giving away her eagerness.

  Mary frowned and moaned again. “I can’t believe this. God! How long have they been fooling around, Beth? Oh, damn her!”

  “It’s just as much Vince’s fault.”

  “Bastard!” Mary spat out.

  “Are you going to move in with me?” Beth searched her face.

  “Not unless I have to,” Mary said. “This can’t last. She’s just playing with him. It can’t last!”

  Beth frowned and walked to the window. “Bel
inda Glassman. It’s hard to believe. Why would she fool around with a carpenter?”

  “Vince is gorgeous,” Mary said tersely.

  Beth looked at her. “Honey, isn’t Belinda Glassman the daughter of that millionaire, Abe Glassman? If she is, believe me, there’s no way you can compete with her. If she wants Vince, her daddy will buy him for her.” Beth smiled wryly. “Not that she seems to need to buy him.”

  Mary was suddenly riveted. She ignored what Beth said as she was struck with the beginnings of an idea. Last night on the news there had been an item on Glassman Enterprises, and the newscaster had mentioned that Abe Glassman was in L.A. There had even been a shot of him exiting a long silver stretch on Wilshire Boulevard.

  Abe Glassman was in town.

  Mary wondered just how hard it would be to get through to Belinda’s father.

  41

  She wanted to kick herself. Hard.

  Why hadn’t she apologized immediately for standing him up? Why had she played it so cool? Damn! He was angry; it had been obvious. Angry—and still dripping sex appeal.

  Belinda jammed her hands into the pockets of her jeans. She was standing in the shadows of a truck and pulley deep in the canyon. It wasn’t even seven in the morning, but the crew was already running cables for exterior lighting and setting up props. It was freezing out this early, and her jacket wasn’t providing any warmth. She stamped her feet and shivered.

  Don’t even think about that man as a man, she told herself. Think about saving your ass when he finds out you’re the writer—and that you know who he is.

  Double damn.

  She cast a glance at his trailer.

  The first takes were scheduled for nine A.M. She had been instructed to appear on the set at seven. She wondered if Ford was even in his trailer. He was probably back at the hotel, all nice and cozy with the busty redhead. Not that she cared. Not that it was her business. The moment she saw him and had the chance, she was going to start kissing his ass.