by Ian Bull
“Do you see yourself doing this much longer, Steven?”
“Nope. I think it may be time to stop.”
“I don’t blame you, you’ve made a lot of money working for me. But I have another job for you. Enough to push you over the top.”
“How much?” I ask.
“One hundred thousand.”
“For one photo?”
The pain in my tooth fades as my sense of hearing increases. It’s amazing how relative your pain becomes when you are presented with a different goal. That’s the story of my last five years in Hollywood—the right photo at the right price, and you can forget anything.
“Yup. If my tip is any good it should be easy. It’ll be your last photo of Julia Travers too,” Larry adds.
“Again?” I ask. “Doesn’t she want to be off the radar for a while?”
“Seems Julia has gone AWOL from the set of her new comedy No Time for Love. Studio’s furious,” Larry explains.
“Even with her temper I thought she was smarter than that.”
“She never even showed up. The rumor is that she ran back into the arms of her former lover, a Greek billionaire named Xander Constantinou.”
“I know that name. He made his fortune in arms dealing. He used to be a middleman in US weapon sales to the Egyptian military.”
“Wow, did you read that in a book? You surprise me, Steven,” Larry says.
My skin flushes. Larry considers me to be just a muscle with a camera, but then I also haven’t given him any information about myself for him to think differently, so I hold my thoughts in.
“What’s she doing with him, anyway?”
“Why? Are you her older brother all of sudden?” Larry teases.
“It’s just weird they would be together.”
“He was Julia’s sugar daddy a few years back when she was in New York, first trying to make it. He’s produced a few movies, all schlocky stuff overseas. He did one with her that never got finished.”
“So why is she going back to him now?” I ask.
“For love? For his money? Who cares? But the tip is from her this time. Maybe the whole thing is publicity for the movie she dumped in Chicago, and the studio arranged all this. All I know is that they’re sneaking away to his island in the Bahamas, and we’re the only ones who know,” Larry says.
My mental antennae tingle for an instant, but the signals I’m getting are too mixed up to analyze. Gossip is not reliable fact, so it’s impossible to figure out anyway.
Screw it, let them go to his island, I’ll do this one last job so I can leave Los Angeles too. I’ll drive north to Central California and find a place near the beach where I can get wet and forget.
“Where do I go?” I ask.
“His luxury yacht is docked at the Palm Beach Yacht Club. I booked you on the red-eye to Miami tonight.”
“I have to get my tooth fixed,” I say.
“Sorry, you go tonight. You can get all new veneers when you get back.”
“Thanks, Larry. If this works, this is our last job together.”
“I figured,” he says. “After a while, you just don’t need the madness.”
We both stand up and face each across his massive glass desk in his glass box. He smiles, and I notice that he has no wrinkles on his forehead or eyes. Even his face is like crystal. He could be thirty-five or fifty-five, and he’ll be here when he’s seventy-five. He’s just like his glass table; cool and smooth but sharp when he needs to be, and everything slides off because nothing penetrates.
He sticks out his hand and I shake it.
“Upload and e-mail me the photos tomorrow and I’ll wire the money to your account Monday morning,” he says. “No need to even come in.”
I ride home and pack a small bag. The tooth will have to wait. As long as I don’t drink anything too hot or too cold, chew food only on the right side of my mouth, rinse a lot, and take Advil every four hours, I’ll be fine. Thinking about that final paycheck will help me put up with the pain.
The flight to Miami is empty. A shot of Jack Daniels eases the ache in my face, and I even get through eighty pages of a Lee Child book. I wake up in Miami on Sunday morning.
I take a taxi to the Palm Beach Yacht Club. Constantinou’s yacht, The Petrokolus, is parked in a slip halfway down the first row of boats, directly across from a harbor restaurant called The Rusty Scupper. I eat lunch there, pay my bill, then go to the bathroom where I rinse my mouth and pop four more Advil. Then I climb the back stairs to the roof, lie down on the gravel at the edge of the building overlooking the harbor, take out my camera and wait.
I thought the Palm Beach marina would be busier on early Sunday afternoon, but most sailors have already taken their boats out for the day. There are about three hundred slips in six different long wooden dock rows, and about half are empty. Only a few of the remaining yachts have people puttering on board. I don’t see one boat that’s under fifty feet long—maybe they won’t lease you a slip unless your boat’s that big. A light breeze cools my face and makes the rigging in the sailboats clang against their metal masts like rusty bells.
One hour later, a black town car pulls into the parking lot. Six men get out and escort Julia Travers and her billionaire boyfriend through the metal gate, down the wooden walkway and onto the first raft of boat slips. They’re holding hands. He’s tall, late forties, in decent shape, with dark black hair. He’s wearing a dark suit with a pink open shirt, a gold chain around his neck and red loafers with no socks. She’s wearing some kind of white and blue sailor outfit.
I start snapping photos, but I don’t have the killer shot yet. They disappear and appear between the white yachts, flanked by their guards, so it’s hard to get a great angle.
Then everything falls into place. The guards slow down and Julia and her Greek friend stay in front—click. They walk up the gangplank to the yacht—click. The billionaire stops midway up and looks around, and Julia does the same—click. He touches Julia’s ass and guides her the rest of the way up the gangplank and onto the boat—click. They stop and look out over the harbor and he kisses her on the cheek—click. The guards gather behind them, but I’m just looking at Julia and Constantinou—click. Then they disappear below decks.
I wait on the roof and watch the yacht start its engines and slowly motor out of the marina and into the harbor—and off to his island, I presume.
I look at my watch; I’ve only been in Miami three hours. It was an easy gig, so easy anyone could have done it, but I’m glad Larry gave it to me.
I go back to the airport and upload the photos to the Celebrity Exposed secure company file transfer website, then catch the next flight back to Los Angeles. I find my bike at LAX and I cruise up Pacific Coast Highway. I am back at my apartment by 10:00 p.m.
I sleep decently for the first time in weeks. The boy visits me only once.
Chapter 8
Julia Day 4: Sunday Night
My eyes open. I blink. Where am I? I’m on a bed, yet it feels like I’m moving. I struggle to sit up. My brain is still cloudy, and it takes a moment to register what I’m seeing. I’m in a spacious room bigger than my first apartment in New York, with varnished wood and brass everywhere. Ornate but tacky. The bed linen has little colored triangle flags and anchors on it. I look out the window. It’s dark, but I see water passing by.
I’m on his yacht.
The last clear image I have is of him sitting down next to me at L’Ermitage. There was a man with him, tall with black hair and a streak of white like a skunk. He moved behind the couch as I looked for the guard. I sipped my wine and looked at Xander and tried to think of something clever to say. I got scared and tried to get up, but couldn’t…
I get it now. The skunk drugged me like a clueless party girl.
Trishelle, we were wrong. You don’t meet with your stalker. When you get icky feelings that make you sweat and shake, that’s your body being smarter than your brain. You’re supposed to listen to your gut and run away, but
I didn’t.
A few cloudy memories creep back. I was in a town car, then on a jet. I was so drugged I couldn’t remember how to scratch an itch on my face. I remember looking at my hands and feet, not knowing how they worked. I remember staring at people and seeing their mouths move, but hearing just mumbling.
I remember a tall woman helping me go to the bathroom, then helping me wash my hands and drink water. She helped me undress so I could sleep, and then came in later and helped me dress in new clothes. I obeyed.
I examine my clothes. I’m now wearing a preppy boating outfit with gold trim and little gold anchors sewn on my blue pants and the epaulets of my white shirt. He dressed me up for his little boat trip, like a Barbie doll on the Good Ship Lollipop.
I also remember him pushing me up the gangplank and trotting me around the top deck of the boat and telling me to smile. I remember feeling so drugged that I was relieved that I could move my legs and arms when someone asked.
Since then I’ve been sleeping, and this yacht has been rumbling along in the darkness, heading somewhere.
I fight to stay awake, but I can’t. I fall back on the bed and close my eyes and sleep conquers me again.
Chapter 9
Steven Day 5: Monday Morning
I wake up and go to the dentist and get my tooth properly capped. When I get home at noon, I check my account and find that an extra $100,000 is there. I have $600,000 total.
I sit down on the patio and stare at the ocean. I’m thirty-two and single, and I live on less than thirty thousand dollars a year. I can live this way for another twenty years, or I could drive away and start fresh somewhere…anywhere.
Why waste time? If I head north, I can be in San Luis Obispo in three hours.
I fit my clothes, my camera gear and my laptop into two backpacks. It’s everything of value that I own, and if I like it there I won’t even come back for the rest—hauling my stuff up north would cost more than it’s worth and it’s better to start fresh. My landlord can have it all when he comes by and discovers that I’m gone. I climb the stairs one last time. I tie one backpack to the bike and slip the other one on my shoulders, and then slide into the stream of traffic. I just need to top off my gas and I’ll be gone forever.
I stop at the gas station at the bottom of Corral Canyon on Pacific Coast Highway to fill up and go inside to get some gum and Red Bull. That’s when I see the latest edition of Celebrity Exposed, with the headline: “Julia Travers Runs Back to Billionaire’s Love Nest.”
One of the photos I took fills the entire cover. I pick it up, amazed that they transformed the photos into a lead article and got it on the stands that fast. I took the photo at 10:00 a.m. Sunday, and it’s 3:00 p.m. on Monday afternoon. They must have had the entire issue written, prepped and ready to print Sunday night.
Seeing the photo blown up and eight inches across, I realize something is wrong.
Julia is standing with her head too far forward, like she’s ready to fall. Her back is stiff, her lips are pursed, and there are lines on her forehead. She looks confused. Scared.
I look closer at the chorus line of six men behind them on the yacht, the ones I ignored when I was snapping the photos. Three have their hands in their jackets as if they are carrying pistols.
I leaf through the magazine and find my other shots.
As Julia and Constantinou walk up the gangplank and then onto the boat, the Greek boyfriend is posing. When he kisses Julia, her body is too tense. In three of the photos, the tall man follows close behind Xander and Julia. As the couple stands at the top railing of the yacht, the tall man stands behind Julia, but he looks straight at the camera…like he knows I’m up there on the roof.
Looking closer, I notice a streak of white in his slicked back hair.
It’s El Sádico. He looks different than how he looked in Colombia, but it’s him.
My stomach sinks.
“What are you going to do?” the blond surfer guy behind the counter asks. He wears a knit cap and a Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt, and he strokes his hipster goatee.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s like you’re frozen, dude. Do you want to buy it or not?” he asks.
“I’ll buy three,” I say, and put twenty bucks on the counter, then grab my gum and Red Bull and leave without waiting for change.
I start my bike up again and head back toward Los Angeles.
Chapter 10
Julia Day 5: Monday
I wake up. For the first time in days, I don’t feel drugged and my mind is clear. I’m still in the tacky stateroom on his yacht, we’re still moving, but now bright sunshine streams in through the windows. I am a long way from home. My stomach aches and I start to sweat stains in my cute little sailor suit.
I breathe slowly and close my eyes. Why didn’t I listen to my gut? I should’ve run from Xander when I saw him. It turns out I was right about everything, but it’s a little late now.
I can handle this. I have to handle this. It all comes down to his motivation. What does he want? He can have hundreds of women. Why me, and why now?
I’m crossing my fingers that it’s twisted love that’s driving him. This weird “vacation” he’s taking me on will last a week, maybe two, and then I will flee when we get back to shore, so I can find another gated mansion to hide in. I can’t lose it again. I have to stay cool, not get angry. There’s no limo or taxi to jump in here. I must humor him, laugh at his jokes, play along and pretend to enjoy myself. I have to be an actor.
I just hope I don’t have to sleep with him. I’d rather jump overboard first.
The door swings open and a tall woman in her fifties sticks her head in.
“Hello. Who are you?” I ask.
“I’m Beatrice, Miss Julia. Don’t you remember?” she asks in an English accent.
“You’re my dental hygienist, right? I’ve been flossing, I swear.”
“There’s that sense of humor Mr. Constantinou was talking about,” she laughs. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
Beatrice walks into the stateroom and slides open a wooden panel revealing a closet. Inside are two dozen dresses in all colors—sundresses, skirts and even a gown.
“Mr. Constantinou asked me to get you a new wardrobe,” she says, then walks over to a varnished chest built into the cabin wall and pulls open the two top drawers.
“And here are shirts and workout clothes, and some new underthings. I got a little fancy, I hope you like them.”
“I’ve never had a personal shopper before.”
“We’re nearing Eleuthera, if you’d like to come on deck?”
“I’m allowed to leave my room?” I ask.
“Of course, dear. The yacht is completely safe,” she says with a laugh.
She closes the door, and I walk to the closet. I feel ridiculous in this Shirley Temple sailor suit. The clothes are all designer and brand new. I pick a yellow sundress and find wedge sandals at the bottom of the closet and a floppy sun hat on the shelf above.
I go over to the chest of drawers. T-shirts, halter tops, Capri pants, and silk blouses are all folded and tucked away neatly. The top drawer is full of underwear and lingerie. Push up bras, stockings, silk panties and G-strings, in raunchy styles and goofy colors that only a man would like. I can’t believe his nerve, or his taste.
“You jackass,” I whisper. “I swear you’ll wear these before I ever do.”
I get dressed, comb my hair and step out of my stateroom. I walk upstairs, through the galley onto the back middle deck, and into the hot Bahamian sun. Showtime.
The water is turquoise, the island is green, and the sky is jet blue with billowing white clouds. I have to blink, the world is so instantly brilliant, and I smell jasmine mixed with salt water carried by the wind. The beauty slows my pounding heart.
The yacht is over a hundred feet long. I’m on the bottom floor on the back deck, and there are two more levels above me, with the top deck crowned with satellite and radar dishes. It looks like
a sleek ocean liner, but shrunk down smaller and stretched out for speed. There’s very little plastic—the interior walls and the furniture are all polished wood and metal.
The crew works around me. There are six men, and two I recognize as bodyguards from my previous stay on Eleuthera. In their dark clothes and dark glasses, they look less like sailors and more like Mafia members who have been watching Sopranos reruns.
Xander descends from the deck above dressed all in white linen, with a broad white straw hat covering his jet black dyed hair. He looks the part of a yachting billionaire.
“Julia. You finally emerge,” he says and kisses my cheek. “Have you been catching up on your sleep?”
“No, I was unconscious. You have to drug a girl to get a date now?”
He laughs, but I can tell he’s irritated that I challenge his version of events.
“I hope crossing against the Gulf Stream wasn’t too rough,” Xander says. “We’re on the Bahama Bank now, where it’s shallow, warm and safe.”
I resist the urge to argue with him. Instead, I look out on a sight I haven’t seen in five years—the town of Governor’s Harbour. We are three hundred yards off shore, which is far enough away to see the whole stretch of the town, but close enough to see the buildings in dozens of pastel colors. They line the oceanfront and rise in rows up a small hill to the top of the island. Xander’s estate, French Leaves, is on the other side of that hill, on a beach overlooking the Atlantic.
“How is French Leaves?” I ask.
“It sustained a lot of damage in the hurricane, but it’s been repaired,” Xander says.
I also see the two-story coral cinderblock courthouse, painted bright pink, in the middle of town. The island jail is in the basement of that building, which is where twenty people and I weathered Hurricane Ike. That was the day I ran away from Xander, hoping to never see him again. That part I don’t mention.
“Did you miss Eleuthera?” he asks.
