by Brenda Joyce
Oh, my God.
“If there’s any way—and this is strictly between you and me—that Jack can break his contract and survive, advise him to do it and do it now.”
Melody nodded.
“Now,” Nickie said, “let’s get out of here.”
Nickie drove a red Mercedes convertible, the top down, which Melody didn’t mind, because her hair was so unruly anyway. She was too absorbed in her thoughts—a tiny idea forming—to pay attention to what Nickie was saying as they sped toward her apartment, which was almost in Westwood. But when his hand drifted along her thigh she jerked back to reality. He grinned at her. Squeezing her flesh.
She removed his hand. “No, Nickie.”
“Ah, come on,” he said. “A tit for a tat.”
He rubbed her thigh again, coming dangerously close to her crotch, and again she removed his hand. He insisted on walking her up to her apartment. Melody knew he expected her to sleep with him for the information he had given. He did deserve something—those were the rules. There was just no way she was going to let him stick it to her. No way.
“Come on, Melody, invite me in for a drink.”
“Nickie, it’s late.”
He persisted; she let him in. They sat on her couch sipping amaretto. Nickie grabbed her. Kissing her, or trying to, and fondling her breasts. She had decided she would give him a couple of feels, make him happy, then send him away. He grabbed her hand and placed it on a throbbing erection. He groaned and grabbed her crotch.
“No,” she said firmly, removing his hand.
He groaned again, pressing her hand against him. “You don’t put out, do you, Melody?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Just touch it, okay? I want to come—I’m so hard I’m going to die.”
Melody made a flash decision—better her touching him, than him her. She stroked his rather short length softly. He fumbled with his zipper. Melody could not believe she was doing this. He pulled it out of his green bikini. Short and red. And very eager. His head fell back, mouth open, his hand clasped hers, forcing her to grip him, showing her a rhythm.
Melody became quite fascinated, having never had the opportunity to witness how a penis swells and swells. A few minutes later he grunted and came. After he had cleaned himself up he left as if nothing had happened, cheerfully, kissing her good night on her cheek. Melody closed the door behind him and leaned against it.
It had most definitely been worth it.
Now what to do with what she knew?
77
Vince was not home.
Mary had to take a cab home.
She was furious.
Just where the fuck was he when she needed him? She had just spent the entire night in jail, for Christ’s sake. In jail She had been allowed one phone call. And Vince hadn’t been home.
They had finally told her she was free to go. She didn’t understand it, not any of it. All she knew was last night had been the worst night in her life, spent in some small, cold cell—alone, thank God. That was after the questions—the same questions, asked different ways, over and over, until Mary had wept. She told them the truth fifteen times before they took her to the cell.
It had been past midnight when she had capitulated, and now it was almost noon. Mary had never been so happy to see anyone when the police officer had opened her cell and told her she was being released. Dear, dear God. It was almost over.
They walked down the endless, spotless corridor, past sleeping inmates, past a barred door, around a corner, then past another barred door. They stepped into a room bright with yellow lights, filled with desks, detectives, and uniformed officers—and her mother.
Just what Mary needed.
Celia Holmes Bradbury Davis, born Edna Grock, saw her at that precise moment and stood without moving a single poised muscle. Poised in a white silk suit, nails red, lips red, eyes lined with charcoal-black liner but devoid of shadow, hair perfectly curled under in a classic and elegant page, skin tanned neatly to a nut-brown, five-carat diamonds winking from her ears, an eight-carat radiant winking from one finger—she was the picture of haute couture elegance. The diamonds were courtesy of her second husband, David Bradbury, the son of a self-made millionaire who had tripled his father’s own fortune—fortunately before the divorce. It had left Celia free to pursue her pleasure without financial cares.
“Mary.”
Mary was ready to cry, except that she had bawled for half the night already and was completely dried up—and hung over. Her head ached. Her heart was going like a jack-hammer. Her mouth tasted like shit and was dry as a desert. Her body hurt. Her eyes were puffy. Her hair was dirty. Or it felt dirty. She felt dirty. She hated herself, and she hated her mother. So she ignored her.
The officer led her to a desk sergeant who released her personal possessions back to her. As she was dutifully inspecting her purse to make sure nothing was missing, a man introduced himself as Rob Cohen, her lawyer.
Mary turned and swallowed and looked at him.
“Everything’s taken care of, Mary. The DA’s dropping charges. You’re free.” He smiled.
Her mother did not.
Her mother marched by her side in silence out of the police station. Once free of those confines, Celia Holmes Bradbury Davis stopped abruptly, and as if she were attached to her mother, Mary stopped too.
“What is wrong with you?” Celia asked.
“Mom.”
“How could you? Mary, what is wrong with you? God, this is all your father’s fault! Where is he when his daughter needs him? He never, ever put two cents into your upbringing, and look what happened. What are my friends going to think?”
“I really don’t care,” Mary said, near tears.
“That is obvious!”
“Mom—”
“Look at you! You look awful. You look like some poor little tramp, Mary. Where is Vince?”
“I don’t know,” Mary said.
“I don’t know if I can deal with this, I truly don’t.”
“Can you give me a ride?”
“After my driver drops me at the gym. Mary—here.” Her mother handed her a slip of paper.
Mary looked at a name and phone number. “What’s this?”
“Paul Socarro is one of the best psychologists in L.A. Call him. Today.”
She looked at her mother. “You know what?” she said, quivering. “I hate you.”
“Mary, don’t act twelve. Call Paul.”
Mary tore up the paper, furious, her headache growing worse.
“That’s it!” Celia said. “I’m calling your father. This is his responsibility. He’s off in goddamn Ceylon or Shanghai or God knows where—”
“Borneo.”
“What?”
“He’s in Borneo.”
“Well, wherever. I expect him to take care of this mess.”
Mary watched her mother stride effortlessly, gracefully toward the waiting Jaguar with the driver standing beside the front fender. It was illegally parked in a tow-away zone right in front of the police station. Her mother slid in.
Having no choice, Mary followed.
Now she was home. No sign of Vince. When the phone rang she pounced on it, thinking it was him. It was her mother.
“Now what?” Mary asked, ready to cry.
“Mary, how about my sending you to the Golden Door—or any other spa—for a few weeks, a month?”
Mary laughed. Leave, now? When her prick of a husband was in love with someone else? “Am I allowed to leave the country, Ma?”
“This isn’t the movies, for God’s sake, and you’re free to do as you please. And don’t call me Ma. Well?”
“Forget it,” she said sullenly.
“Mary, I am not stupid. I know about the other woman. If you look the way you do, how can you expect your marriage to last? You must have gained ten pounds since last year, and we both know you weren’t exactly trim then.”
“At least I’m not anorexic.”
�
��Don’t be silly. My body’s perfect—everyone says so. There’s a wonderful spa in Arizona, Canyon Ranch. I hear they work wonders with everyone. Besides, you should get away until all the gossip dies down.”
Mary hated her mother. Her perfect, thin, rich mother. Her mother who thought that everything that went wrong in the world was connected to your weight, your body. Her weight had nothing to do with Vince’s straying.
Or did it?
Was she as fat as her mother said?
Unbearable to look at?
Had she gained weight recently?
God knows, she hadn’t gotten on the scale in weeks—she didn’t dare.
As soon as she hung up she did a line. Fuck her mother, and fuck Vince too.
Where was he?
78
Charles Hamilton was a big star. Known to his friends as Chuck, he was six feet two, close to sixty, and still exuded a virile magnetism. He walked into the Beverly Hills Hotel along with Jack, the two of them stopping traffic as they did so. The hotel staff was nonchalantly casual about their presence, but tourists literally panted; and as the two men maneuvered toward the Polo Lounge, a wake of human bodies formed behind them.
Jack and Hamilton knew each other, of course. They had been at a few, a very few, of the same parties in the past three years since Jack had become a star. They didn’t know each other well and didn’t care to; but upon finding themselves entering the hotel together, they had exchanged the requisite pleasantries. Hamilton had not brought up the cancellation of Berenger’s release, which showed Jack that his acquaintance had more class than most of Hollywood’s population, and Jack was grateful. He looked around for Majoriis but didn’t see him anywhere.
Then he saw Leah and stopped short.
She lounged against a pillar in a skintight black leather minidress and four-inch spikes. The dress was strapless and exposed vast cleavage. Jack wanted to kill. No, she didn’t quite look as garish and obvious as she had yesterday when Lansing had brought her into his office, but there was no mistaking her body language. Damned if she wasn’t soliciting in the Beverly Hills Hotel!
What was she, crazy?
Leah saw him and smiled lazily. “I’ll kill her,” Jack muttered beneath his breath, hoping she looked like an over-eager and overabundant starlet, but not really thinking so.
“Who’s that?” Hamilton said, following his glance. Leah was appraising Hamilton with recognition and female approbation.
“Excuse me,” Jack said. “Nice seeing you again.” He didn’t wait for a response. He strode over to Leah, refraining from grabbing her and shaking some sense into her. “Just what the hell are you doing?” He forced himself to keep his voice down.
“Brother, dear, you do look mah-velous,” Leah trilled, kissing his cheek.
“I can’t believe you,” he managed.
Her eyes widened. “I’m playing tourist, Jack! Aren’t I allowed to do that?”
“I know damn well what you’re doing,” Jack growled, wanting to strangle her. He knew he had made a dreadful mistake. “Didn’t I give you enough money?”
“I intend to invest that,” Leah said easily. She took his arm. “Do introduce me to Charles Hamilton. What a fox!”
He tried to shake her off. “You have got to be kid—”
“No, please introduce us, Jack,” Hamilton said, having come up from behind.
Jack looked at him and was horrified at the come-on smile. Hamilton’s eyes caressed Leah with lazy but tangible let’s-fuck interest.
“I’m Jack’s sister,” Leah said, extending her hand. “And I most certainly know who you are!”
“What a treasure,” Hamilton breathed, still holding her hand, “The resemblance is incredible. I think you’re actually better-looking than your brother.”
Leah tossed her frizzed mane and laughed.
“Leah is visiting from New York,” Jack said quickly, wishing that they weren’t looking at each other the way they were.
“How long are you in town for?” Hamilton asked.
“Indefinitely. Right, Jack?”
Jack managed a smile.
“Are you an actress, Leah?”
“She’s interested in getting into the business,” Jack said quickly. “We haven’t gotten her a screen test yet. She only got into town yesterday.”
Leah smiled, amused.
“She’s gorgeous. It’s obvious she’ll fly past a test. Where have you studied?”
“She hasn’t,” Jack said quickly. “She’s been living in New York.”
“What a waste,” Hamilton said.
“Yes. Jack agrees.” Leah smiled. “He hired a private eye to find me once he knew I existed and now he wants to launch me in a new career. So noble and caring, isn’t he?”
“How about dinner? I should be finished in a couple of hours. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Jack opened his mouth too late. Leah was already saying, “I’d love it! I’m staying with Jack.”
“Great,” Hamilton murmured, mesmerized.
Great, Jack echoed silently, just fucking great.
Then he heard the page. His name. And he realized he had known this would happen all along. He didn’t have to go to the phone—although he did go—to find out from a secretary that something had come up, a “crucial meeting,” and Majoriis wasn’t going to show. He had known it deep down all along. He had become what every actor dreads—a Hollywood leper.
From hot to dead.
79
Afterward, he knew he would have been more alert if it hadn’t been for Lydia.
She appeared beside him as he was trotting down the steps after school. “Hey, what would Cheetah be if Tarzan and Jane were Jewish?”
Just the way she said it made him smile. “I don’t know. What?”
“A fur coat.”
Rick couldn’t help it—he laughed.
“Want to go to a movie?” Lydia asked in the next breath.
Rick was so stunned he stopped short. Was she interested in him? The thought was astounding. She wasn’t his type—even if she was sort of cute in a very different way. And she was funny. “Yeah, sure,” he answered before even thinking about it. He was flattered. No girl had ever asked him out before.
That’s when it had happened.
“Rick! Look out!” Lydia screamed.
From behind a tree, four guys leapt out at him, and Rick got a glimpse of Froth and Dale. Two huge football defensive ends grabbed him before he could run. Froth laughed. “Well, well, if it isn’t the little twerp from the bad side of town. Hey, brat. Did you really think you could get away with it?”
“What?” Rick said innocently.
“Let him go!” Lydia shouted, kicking one of the football players. He growled.
“This is so you’ll know not to mess with us,” Froth said. He looked furious, and Rick tensed for the blow. It hurt, right in the stomach, but at least he had been prepared. “Little cocksucker,” Froth said, and the next blow cracked a rib.
Lydia jumped on Froth’s back like an enraged cat, sinking her teeth into his shoulder. Froth screamed. “Get her off!”
Rick twisted, managing to loosen the hold of one of the football players in his surprise and interest at Lydia on Froth’s back, now clawing at his face. Dale was trying hesitantly to remove her, and Froth was cursing and shouting like a crazy man. Rick freed himself enough to twist aside and jam his knee into one unsuspecting groin. With a howl, the boy dropped, clutching himself. Rick sunk his own teeth into the forearm of the other boy, who responded with slow, oxlike reflexes, grunting, releasing him, trying to pull away. Rick kicked his shin and pulled free.
Dale had managed to drag Lydia off. He had his arms around her rib cage in a viselike grip. She twisted futilely, furious. Dale was panting but laughing. “Look what I got!” he shouted. With one hand he squeezed one of her tits. Lydia shrieked in rage.
He slid his hand down and grabbed her crotch.
Froth started laughing. “This your girlfriend,
punk?” He grinned, looking at Lydia with interest. He glanced at Rick, who was momentarily frozen. Then he reached out and grabbed Lydia away from Dale, jerking her against him.
Red.
It was the color Rick saw.
After that he didn’t remember what he did. He flew at Froth, and in a moment Froth was lying moaning on the ground, clutching his nose, blood pouring around his hand. Dale ran. The football player he had kicked in the groin was still on the ground, whimpering and clutching himself. The ox stood watching, rubbing his shin and his bitten forearm. “Shit,” he said succinctly, and he walked away.
“You okay?” Rick asked worriedly, pulling Lydia away by the hand.
She wasn’t even crying, and it amazed him. She looked at him with shining eyes. “Thank you,” she said, smiling.
Her look, not her words, made him puff out with pride. He felt a hundred feet tall.
80
It was nine A.M. Where was she?
Of course Jack knew where she was—she was at Hamilton’s Beverly Hills mansion. He was sick with worry. Leah was so obvious—couldn’t Hamilton peg her for what she was? If he’d had any wits yesterday when Hamilton had asked her to dinner, he would have thought of something, anything, to make sure that date didn’t come about. He wouldn’t be there to block the punches for her, to say the right things. They hadn’t even gotten her story straight. Leah was bound to blow it. He was sure. One-hundred-percent positive.
The whole thing made him sick. She was the spitting image of Janet, as far as he could see. He knew he’d made an awful mistake bringing her here. Maybe he should just give her more money and send her packing. It was the brightest thought he’d had that day.
But she was his sister. Didn’t he owe her something?
He knew his worries and fears were selfish. He’d had bad PR in the past and had survived. Most of it had been so phony it was laughable, all that trade-rag stuff, and part of the truth he had openly confessed—parts of his past, his addictions. He had survived it all. If anything, the pain he’d lived through made him a more endearing hero to the masses.
