Unbreakable Bond

by Gemma Halliday

  Caleigh batted her thick, false lashes. Her pink tongue darted out, licking cherry lip gloss. And then for the kill, she gave a slow, super flirty smile that made men weak in the zipper.

  Another bartender, shorter, darker, but just as buff, threw a towel at Sweden. It cocked him in the ear and fell onto a tray of bar glasses.

  Sweden’s cheeks reddened. He averted his gaze and went to making a dry martini and cosmopolitan.

  A couple to my right stood and walked to the dance floor. Caleigh and I took their seats and raised our glasses.

  "To finding the truth and setting you free," she said.

  "Yes. And to more days working together at the agency, tracking down cheaters."

  At least, here's hoping. We clinked and drank.

  After a refreshing sip, I turned back to the crowd, calculating who would get us closer to Shooting Stars.

  The club scene wasn’t much different than high school. You had the guys who tried too hard with their lame pick-up lines, who expected to score, and grew offended or angry when a pretty girl turned them down. The players did score. A lot. The promiscuous girls giggled too loud and drank too much. And the nice ones, the ones who laughed at the lame jokes and left their drinks unattended at the bar, probably weren’t regulars. Or wouldn’t be for long.

  The popular guys and gals appeared to be friends with everyone, kissing cheeks, buying rounds. They attracted the most attention, and rightfully so with their designer cars, attire, and accessories. That IT crowd was who we needed to latch onto tonight. That's where the pills flowed freely, at least according to Maya's research.

  A tall, lanky guy rubbed his arm against mine as he reached for his beer on the bar. He grinned at me and quickly averted his eyes. Wearing black trousers, a light blue button-down shirt and tie, he looked ready for the boardroom rather than a night of reckless dancing and hooking up. He’d used too much gel on his drab brown hair, forming a pencil-sharp, top peak.

  "Hi. Nice… um, music. It has a great beat, don’t you think?"

  "Yes." I smiled at his nervousness.

  He stared at my cleavage. I was used to men ogling, but he didn’t seem the type for such directness.

  Caleigh leaned forward and pointed to my brows. "Hey, her eyes are up here."

  He turned the hue of beets then walked away.

  And sometimes there were the socially awkward.

  I shook my head at Caleigh. "You didn’t need to embarrass him."

  She waved a hand. "Posh, he needs to learn some manners. He can’t drool on every beautiful women’s tatas."

  I chuckled and turned back to categorizing the crowd. A young, well-dressed couple entered and instead of hitting the bar or dance floor, they walked up a semi-spiral staircase at the far end of the room. At the top, they disappeared behind a black-draped wall.

  I nodded in that direction. "What’s up there?"

  "VIP section."

  "What makes someone a VIP?"

  Caleigh hooked a finger and called Sweden over. They leaned toward one another. She practically straddled the bar and whispered in his ear.

  When they parted, she returned to her lady-like, one leg crossed over the other, position. "Basically, if you’re a no name, you have to be invited."

  I eyed the swaying and sweating mob. So I needed to get close to one of them. No problem. But which one?

  I downed the rest of my drink and jumped off the stool. The sudden movement made the room spin in a good way. I grabbed Caleigh’s hand.

  "Come on. Let’s dance."

  What better way to garner attention than to make a spectacle of yourself? All the famous, no talent celebs had done it.

  We slithered onto the floor, grinding our hips to the bass. The music and vodka weaved through me, creating a spell that transformed me from an impatient PI-slash-homicide-suspect into a music video dancer, bouncing more T&A than Beyonce.

  A man straight from the 1970s, with skintight pants, a shirt open to his navel and a thick silver chain, approached. He tried swaying between Caleigh and me, but we stepped closer. There was no way I’d allow a Saturday Night Live reject touch us.

  Caleigh slung her arm around my waist and nuzzled her ear against my cheek. Several heads turned. Luckily Mr. Suave-Not disappeared.

  A couple of other guys stepped closer though. The one by my side smelled like money and looked like an Armani ad. He was probably my age, if not a bit younger. He roved my body, and a cocky smile tugged one side of his mouth.

  "Are you two together, or were you just trying to get away from that creep?" he shouted into my ear.

  "Creep."

  He nodded, and his smile widened.

  The other man wasn’t as polished, but a light smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheeks made him endearing. He and Caleigh began bumping and grinding.

  Which left me with… "What’s your name?"

  "Garret. Sumners."

  I knew the name. Sumners, as in, son of Dolores Sumners, major Hollywood actress and someone who could get me upstairs?

  "Jamie Cartier."

  What? It was the first thing that came to mind.

  If I hadn’t been intentionally looking for his reaction, I might’ve missed the slight quirk of his brows, especially under the throbbing lights.

  "I haven’t seen you here before."

  "I just flew in from New York this afternoon. Contemplating moving here."

  "So you check out the nightlife right away?"

  "Absolutely. I don’t know if it can compare to the five boroughs though."

  He held out his arms. "Is this too shabby for you?" Laughter laced his voice.

  "I’ve heard L.A. has some super sweet amp. Like watching Shooting Stars," I fished.

  "Oh yeah? You’re into that?"

  I shrugged. "Is that a bad thing?"

  He shook his head, his eyes full of lust. "Not at all. I may know where you can get something that’ll have you purring like a kitten."

  I trailed a fingernail down his chest, over the ripples of his six-pack. "I also roar and pounce."

  Chatting in the middle of a club wasn’t easy. Still, his chuckle was smooth, almost electric, and chased away some of my anxiety.

  There was something different about him. He didn’t drool or have roving eyes. At least not that much. Sure, he was flirting, but it was on a different level. One that said he was confident the night would end the way he wanted it to.

  He leaned closer until his long bangs fell forward and caressed the side of my face. I could smell his coconut shampoo. "I’ll have to prove L.A. is more thrilling than New York."

  A challenge. I giggled and fluttered my lashes. "You’re on."

  We fell into rhythm and danced. My body buzzed with excitement. My gut screamed he was my ticket upstairs and getting closer to the truth.

  Then a couple of scantily clad young women pushed their way through the crowd, over to us.

  My stomach cramped. This was not going to be good. They were younger, sluttier, and looked like regulars. I hated competition.

  The blonder of the two poked Caleigh’s dance partner in the back. When he turned around, she raised her arm and slapped him, open palm across the cheek.

  He flinched from the attack.

  She smacked the freckled guy’s arm and stomped off. He followed, shoulders slumped.

  The other girl, orange-complexioned from way too much tanning, cupped Garret’s bicep. He nodded in her direction but didn’t stop dancing. Obviously not a romantic couple.

  One point in my favor. I shimmied a little closer to my prey.

  The orange girl glared at me. Clearly she thought I was invading her territory.

  She yelled, "Who’s she?"

  Garret winked at me then said, "A new friend. She’ll be hanging with us tonight."

  Score one point for my low-cut dress.

  Orange scoffed. "Over my dead body, Garret."

  "That can be arranged," I shouted, sending her a sug
ary sweet smile.

  Garret roared with laughter. If only either of them knew I was already on the police’s top ten list. He turned and said something to the pumpkin that made the corners of her mouth downturn, but the glare remained.

  "Who’s the mean girl?" Caleigh asked, not caring who heard. It was part of her charm.

  Garret faced us and said, "This is my sister, Chloe."

  I wasn't easily shocked, but that did it. The way she looked at him was possessive, but that was not the relationship I'd envisioned.

  "Who are you?" Chloe yelled at me.

  Garret started to introduce me when Caleigh jumped in and said, "She’s Jamie. Her father invented Toaster Scrambles."

  The connection to the Mean Girls movie never registered in Chole’s eyes, but Garret caught on and pressed his lips together, forming a thin line.

  "Come on," he said and led us off the dance floor.

  Caleigh and I followed the siblings upstairs. With each step, my skin tingled with anticipation. Up top, we entered a lounge. Long, sleek sofas outlined the room, a few high tables and stools took up the center space. There was no door, yet the area wasn’t as loud as below. Now we could have a real conversation, and I wouldn’t sound like Kermit the Frog in the morning.

  There were a handful of young, attractive bodies drinking, talking, making out. Heads turned as we strode across the soft, black carpet, but only momentarily. Showing interest was so not-chic.

  Garret nodded a greeting to each of the patrons, then motioned to a waitress, requesting a bottle of champagne. He sat on the sofa along the back wall then patted the seat beside him.

  I sank into the plush suede.

  Garret leaned into me. "My connection should be here soon."

  My heartbeat thundered. This could be a step closer to the truth or down a dead-end street. Again.

  Caleigh sat at one of the tables with a man twice her age. The older ones always found her alluring. Something about her Southern gentility.

  Chloe sat on the other side of Garret, practically stitched to his hip. She’d make a great Siamese twin.

  Several people came and went. I spotted joints, ecstasy, and Oxy, but nothing I didn’t know of or recognize.

  Chloe and Garret began bickering in hushed tones. I looked away but tried to zero in on their words. Unfortunately some guy to my left shouted to his date, making my eavesdropping null and void.

  I turned as the latest arrivals entered. A muscular, dark-haired guy that looked about seventeen, and a leggy woman with an adorable jet black bob and straight bangs.

  She glanced to the siblings, and I noticed her infamous icy grey eyes and the heart-shaped beauty mark at the left side of her mouth.

  I knew her. Not personally, more like of her. The young woman was Dakota Hall, an up and coming model for DeLine. I may have been out of the runway game, but I still kept tabs on the newbies.

  "I can’t believe she’s here," Chloe whispered after waving to Dakota.

  Garret nodded. His expression grew sullen.

  "Why?" I asked.

  "You'd think she'd at least pretend to care about a death in the family. At least for the press's sake," Chloe scoffed.

  "A death?" I asked, feeling my spidey-senses tingle.

  Garret nodded. "Her uncle was just murdered. It's been big news here."

  The earth opened, and I teetered on the edge, staring down into its lava-filled center.

  "Who was her uncle?" My voice cracked. I already knew the answer, but I felt my stomach flip as he said the words anyway.

  "Judge Thomas Waterston."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  _____

  I watched Dakota sashay around the room, air-kiss everyone, and settle on the sofas to my right, my heart thudding double time in my chest. She gave me a tight-lipped greeting, as if she wasn’t sure if I was friend or foe.

  I returned the expression, but in a more charming, albeit fake fashion. Then I looked away and pretended interest in the conversation to my left. Something to do with sushi restaurants and the level of mercury in fish.

  Riveting.

  Garret and Chloe stood. Their arguing had continued while Dakota had made her rounds. To me, he said, "I’ll be right back," then they disappeared downstairs.

  Which I took as my opening. Dakota being here wasn’t coincidence, whether I believed in it or not. Too many people were connected to this club, and it was time to find out just how.

  The guy with Dakota whispered in her ear. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. He leaned closer, and she pulled back ever so slightly. She looked away, and I did the same, not wanting to get caught staring.

  As a DeLine model, was it possible she’d recognize me? In the Hall of Fame, AKA the long corridor that led to Maurcess DeLine’s office, a poster of me hung. I wore a pair of booty shorts and half-top, and I was covered in mud. Reminiscent of Daisy Dukes but with less sass and more couture.

  All best photos of top models resided in the hall. Dakota had to pass it whenever she visited DeLine. I used to study the poses of the models that had succeeded before me.

  Dakota scowled, and her guy frowned. It was like watching a couple of children. He stood up and stomped across the room. She scooted over into his spot, clearly telling him not to return, and I honed in on the opportunity.

  I popped up, then sat down beside her. With an exasperated air, I sighed and bobbed my head toward the deep sea lovers. "Ugh, they’re talking about tuna, and I’m so allergic."

  She glanced from me to them and back again. A frown puckered the space between her thinly waxed brows. She was trying to place me, I could tell. I prayed the auburn wig did its job. "They say it’s so good for you," she finally agreed, "but it smells awful."

  "No kidding!" I petted her fuzzy, leopard purse. "This is gorgeous. Where’d you get it?"

  Her eyes lit up. She was a fashion girl, clearly. "It was a gift from a special guy."

  "The one who just left?"

  She scrunched up her face. "God, no. He’s a tool."

  "Kind of a cute tool, though." I giggled like a schoolgirl and almost rolled my eyes at the obnoxious sound.

  "Yeah, but he tries to boss me around, and I don’t need a father."

  "Oh my God, I know exactly what you mean. Why do some guys get pushy?"

  She turned her body toward me, her rose perfume engulfing me.

  I gagged and played it off as a cough, sipping my champagne and breathing through my mouth.

  "I know, right?" she said. "They think they own you. What’s with that?"

  "It’s not like they pay our bills."

  "Exactly. I don’t need a sugar daddy. I make my own money. And anything I can’t afford, I have a very generous uncle."

  A breath trapped in my lungs.

  The shift of her eyes suggested she remembered he was currently residing six-feet under and no longer writing checks.

  Before the mood darkened, I yelled, "Plus, aren’t you like famous? I’ve seen you on magazine covers."

  The haunted mask vanished, and she beamed again. "Yes. I’m a model. Dakota Hall." She held out her petite hand.

  I placed my fingers against hers and gave one of those girly handshakes. The kind that suggests I have no power; I’m not a threat.

  "I’m Jamie Cartier. New in town. Garret Sumners invited me up here."

  She cooed. "Oh my God, Garret is yummy, right?"

  "Yes, he is."

  The waitress arrived with a round of drinks for the room, paid for by Fish Boy. We all nodded our thanks, cheered to his generosity, and then Dakota and I settled back into the cushions.

  "It’s not like he and I would last anyway," Dakota said, jumping back into conversation so quickly I took a moment to realize who she was talking about.

  "The tool?"

  She nodded. "He’s twenty-two and still doesn’t know what he wants to do with his life. Can you imagine?"

  In other parts of the world, guys that age either graduated college and moved back home while
looking for a job or had never left to begin with. But not in Hollywood. You were considered a loser if you weren’t on a clear path to stardom by the ripe age of sixteen.

  "That’s absurd." I may have laid the sarcasm on a little thick, but she hadn’t noticed.

  "What about you? Do you have a special guy?"

  I frowned and shook my head. "No. All the guys I know are either childishly protective or lying assholes." Not that I was thinking of any two guys in particular.

  Her head bobbed up and down in agreement.

  We spent the next half hour chit-chatting about men. She gave me tips on how to model, as if, and pretended she wasn’t aware of her guy flirting with every girl in the room, including Caleigh.

  I tried to steer the conversation to her personal life, but she didn’t give out many details, and she was tight lipped about her uncle. It wasn’t like I could blatantly ask.

  The tool grabbed some girl’s butt, watching Dakota the entire time. The girl squealed, and Dakota scoffed. "Hey, you wanna get out of here?" she asked me.

  My heartbeat accelerated. "Sure."

  But instead of the two of us leaving alone, she invited half the room. A party at Dakota Hall’s place.

  Garret hadn’t returned, and unless someone at the party carried Shooting Stars that part of the night was a bust. But I figured Dakota was too good a lead to drop. While I had a hard time picturing the party girl as a mastermind behind a complicated murder and frame-up, she was clearly the link between Donna Martinez and the judge. Had she and Donna been friends? Had she introduced Donna to the killer? Had the killer been a friend of the both of them? One of the IT crowd currently surrounding us? I prayed I was about to find out.

  As we stood to leave, I caught Caleigh’s eye. She hadn’t been invited, and for me to suggest she come may have aroused suspicion.

  I gave her an I’ll-be-fine stare and hurried out to Dakota’s waiting limo.

  * * *

  Dakota spent the entire ride on the phone in some hushed conversation. Instead of sitting beside her, I sat squished between a loud guy in skinny jeans and his date, a tiny girl who giggled nonstop. I wasn’t able to hear any of Dakota’s conversation.