by Cari Quinn
Her eyes narrowed at the mention of Zoe. Hers weren’t the only ones. Christ, I hadn’t meant to bring her up.
“What about the bruises? The cuts? You had some the other night, but at least those were nearly gone and easily disguised with makeup. Now you look like a street brawler. Minus the kitten wear and the…bedazzled sunglasses?” She plucked them off my head and pursed her lips. “What are you on right now?”
“Ibuprofen?” I was stuck on her phrase “kitten wear” until I glanced down at the shirt I’d been given and began to laugh. Hard.
That minx must’ve shown me the back of the shirt, because the front had a fairly large cartoon cat giving the world the finger.
It was probably the best shirt I’d ever seen.
“This isn’t my shirt. Well, it wasn’t before, now it is, because Jesus, isn’t that a kick?”
“And the glasses?” Sabrina let them dangle from one finger, clearly unimpressed.
“A man needs sun protection.”
She sighed and handed them back to me before pivoting on her heel. “Let me show you to my office.”
We traveled down a series of hallways then rode a gilded lift to a whisper-quiet hall carpeted in dove gray. My shoe flapped as I walked down the hall, catching Sabrina’s eye. My duct tape fix-it job had ripped away during my fight with the skater rejects. She gave another small sigh and gestured for me to enter the one office with an open door.
I stepped inside and the world opened up before me.
The damn place seemed to be half glass. I didn’t know how anyone could work with a view like this. I certainly wouldn’t be able to. Though my idea of a day’s toil involved singing for my supper. Literally, since I was famished.
But even with the view, I noticed a small bar cart with bagels, cream cheese, and lox, and fell on it like a wolf.
When I came back to myself, I’d demolished two loaded bagels and sloshed through two cups of the most delicious orange juice I’d tasted in the whole of my life.
“Better now?”
I shrugged and wiped a hand over my mouth. The back of my neck was hot, and not just from my sunburn.
I’d always been like this. There had never been enough to eat at home so whenever I saw a buffet of any sort, I tended to turn into a crazed beast. Even now, if Sabrina hadn’t been observing me with her hawk eyes, I would’ve gone back for another bagel and tucked one in my pocket for later.
You never knew when you’d be hungry again.
“Take a seat.” She gestured to the pair of them in front of her polished circular desk, her tone surprisingly gentle.
As soon as I sat, she pounced.
“Now I know why you have that heroin-chic look going on. It’s not due to drug use. Is it?”
“Heroin what?” I shook my head. “No. My only true vice is alcohol. And Red Vines.”
She arched a brow as if I’d named some exotic designer opiate.
“Licorice. Quite good, too.” I rubbed a hand over my brow. I was sweating despite the air con. I’d probably never get used to it. “I do enjoy a spliff now and then.”
“Anything harder?”
“I’ve tried some things. Nothing stuck. I’m not an idiot.”
“No, but you are starving yourself. You could use another good twenty pounds, half of that muscle.”
“I have plenty of those.” Defiantly, I hauled up my shirt. “Earned a few whistles on the beach.”
She seemed unimpressed. “You’re a very handsome man. You know that. That doesn’t mean there isn’t room for improvement.” She reached for her phone. “I’m going to call in a designer who works with Ripper Records. We’re going to get you a new wardrobe.”
I frowned. “Meaning what? This shirt is borrowed, like I said.”
“Meaning my first idea for you was to class you up. Add a little edge, but lean heavily on the classics. Gucci, Prada, Calvin Klein.” She ticked them off on her fingers.
“My idea of classics is more like Keats and Yates.”
She ignored me. “But that isn’t what’s screaming at me this morning. I think a more urban tough look would suit you well. Especially with those colorful bruises. Why not use them?”
I really needed to look at myself in a mirror without the glasses on and in full light. My arms were pink and bore their share of bruises, but what in God’s name did my face look like?
“Urban tough? Why do we need a designer for that?” Whatever that even meant. This woman spoke a whole new language.
“Roman is a master. We’ll work with what you have going for you right now, then we’ll try the classier route. See how he feels about it.” She hit a button on her phone. Waited. “Yes, put me through to Roman, please. Tell him it’s Rina.”
Rina? There was a name I could not associate with this pit bull of a woman. A ridiculously attractive pit bull, but still.
She wasn’t on her call long. I heard snippets of “bring your heavy artillery” and “full revamp from head to toe.” I frowned at that as I stood and made my way to the windows, taking a moment to look out and pretend I was Donovan Lewis surveying a world all too eager to do my bidding.
The suit didn’t fit me comfortably yet, but it would. I just had to remember the end goal. Couldn’t let myself get distracted by anything. Not long-buried crap from my past, not unneeded sentiment.
Definitely not an unforgettable blond with eyes like slivers of amber, shrewd and so very intelligent that I yearned to find out what made her tick.
The most dangerous thing of all.
A beautiful pair of tits, a gorgeous ass, a sexy face. She had all of those things too. But they weren’t what drew me to her, at least not at the core. She had a smart mouth and a strong sense of self, with that layer of vulnerability that peeked out at rare moments and made me want to shelter her. I’d never been anyone’s port in a storm. Had never wanted to be. She brought out things in me I didn’t understand, as she had from the very first moment I’d heard her voice in the hallway of this very building.
She was in tight with the people I needed to be ingratiated with. Yet when I was with her, I didn’t think about the plan. About the ticking clock that should’ve been booming in my head with every moment.
I was just thinking about her. About us. How it could be.
If I still believed in such fairy tales. Pity that I did not.
“Okay, he’s on his way. Keep in mind that Roman is a very busy man, so he won’t tolerate anything less than utmost professionalism. Ian?” As she swiveled her chair toward me, I took one last glance at the dark gleam of the Pacific Ocean in the distance.
Soon, sun would fill the sky and the water would glitter like jewels. Just like everything that would finally be mine.
I was on the cusp of something huge. I could feel it with every beat of my heart.
“Ian? Are you okay?”
Reluctantly, I drew my gaze away from the array of lights twinkling outside the window. So many people were up now, even this early. Prepared to meet the day and whatever it would hold.
I turned toward Sabrina and smiled. “I’m just fine. I’m ready for anything you throw at me.”
Nine
“Come to bed.”
“Not yet. I’m still working.”
“Working on what?” Her voice was wan. She’d taken some concoction of pills. They seemed to be necessary for her to sleep lately.
He wasn’t about to dull his faculties with that junk. Prescribed or not, he needed to be on his game if he was going to pull this off.
Someone needed to be.
“He’s in California now, isn’t he? That’s good. He’s where he needs to be.”
“Yeah.” Letting her believe that was easier than showing her the pieces he’d been putting together of what Ian’s activities had consisted of so far in Los Angeles.
Jerry clicked through the photos on his laptop. Wandering the streets of Carson, a dump if he’d ever seen one. Retracing his family roots, if Jerry had to guess. Not much left
to see there.
There never had been. Just losers and more losers, all crammed in like sardines.
Talking to a little girl. Smiling at her. Soft-eyed. Jerry shook his head. He’d believed Ian had the mettle to complete the course he’d set upon, but with each passing day, he wondered. And he couldn’t afford to take a chance on someone who wouldn’t follow through.
Nor was he the only one who was counting on Ian.
Ian, who’d spent valuable time cavorting on the beach. Eating a pretzel, taking pictures like a tourist. Grinning at some big-breasted blond as she passed him, checking him out.
Before that, performing onstage in some two-bit club. Crooning into the microphone. Bantering with some nobody photographer with nice tits and hair dipped in crazy purple.
Then, later backstage with another blond. He only had one shot from there. Her aiming toward the dressing room, purpose on her face. A ball-buster for sure.
He’d used face recognition technology to make her as Sabrina Price, Ripper Records’ newest secret weapon. She was known as The Fixer in LA circles. The one to fix broken reputations and remake careers.
That was not what Ian was there for. Performing was one thing. It was his entry into Simon’s circle. But makeovers and touring? No. If he was fucking touring, how was he supposed to be getting closer to Simon? Next, he’d be making a goddamn record, and that would leave him even less time to get his job done.
Jerry sat back in his chair and tapped the mouse to switch through more photos. Back to the beach. Ian rolling on the ground with a big guy who was pounding the shit out of him until Ian got the upper hand. Off to the side, that same blond with the purple-dipped hair, being strong-armed by another skinny bastard.
Who was she? Why did she keep showing up around Ian?
Ian, who wasn’t answering his calls. He’d checked in when he first arrived in LA and not much since. It had been days since the concert in that shitty club that had significantly raised Ian’s profile. He was getting press now. Also not in the plans. Some was good, if it granted him legitimacy in Simon’s eyes. But he had gone about all of this the wrong way from the start. Goading Simon, jumping the gun.
And now he’d ground the plan to a halt. No progress made. Because if Ian was making inroads, he would’ve called. He wouldn’t have ditched Jerry’s attempts at contact like a little bitch who was running with his tail between his legs.
Time to get things back on track.
Jerry opened his email program and attached some of the photos. He’d been born in California and spent some significant time there before he’d traveled extensively, ending up in England. He had contacts literally all over the world. And his people knew more people who could make Ian’s life very difficult if he didn’t remember his priorities.
Not only Ian. Ian’s new little chippie too. Her name was Zoe Manning, and she was an Aquarius. By nightfall, he’d have her social security number, her cup size, and the names and addresses of her parents and her entire extended family.
She’d been added to his already full surveillance roster. The top of which, of course, was the mister and missus themselves, Simon and Margo Kagan. Happy newlyweds. A few years in and they were still burning up stages. More in love than ever, from all accounts.
It was terrible what could happen to even the best people. The ones with the most to live for.
But it wasn’t time for that yet. Jerry was a man who believed in love and family. What was more important, right? That was how this whole plan had been hatched. But connections were meant to be used. Exploited. And everyone would get what they wanted.
He was hopeful he could get the little shit back in line. At least for now. Unlike Ian, he followed plans and timetables.
Unless Ian and his relentless ambition left him no choice but to speed things up.
Quickly, he composed an email and added a list of contacts. Number one was Donovan Lewis, who would use anything and everything to make his artists succeed.
Would sell out anyone for more of the almighty dollar.
Jerry tapped his chin and added a few more, including Ava Templeton, one of the most influential music bloggers on the scene. For good measure, he added the reporter he knew at Music Life magazine. She would stop at nothing for a story, and this narrative was exactly the one he wanted to present for Ian.
Ian, the poor boy who was just trying to sing and make a life for himself.
Ian, the lonely man who desperately wanted a family.
Ian, the hero who so selflessly saved a bimbo on the beach, risking life and limb as he took on two men to keep her safe.
It would make good copy. Good copy sold papers. Press turned into word of mouth, and word of mouth would reach Simon and, better yet, his soft, sweet wife. She would weaken toward Ian before Simon did. Going through the woman was always the smart money.
Jerry glanced at the bed and smiled. Who knew that better than him?
That soft sweetness that made them so pliable also made them liabilities. Extra strings that needed to be cut before they dangled and got in the way.
He grabbed a pair of scissors out of the container beside the computer and picked up the stack of photos he’d printed earlier. He leafed through them and found Zoe. And Margo.
Snip. Snip.
Ten
I shook my head as the dots on my painting moved.
Shit. Was the sun up again? Was that the first time or second since I’d slept?
My freaking wrists were throbbing, which told me probably the second time.
The days were blurring again. Weeks, actually. From the night Ian had spent in my place, to…tonight? I swiveled my head to the large window. Yes, night. Jesus.
I dropped my palette, tossing a piece of wax paper over the colors. I was too weary to do a proper cleanup. The painting was done. Third one I’d done in as many days. I was used to manic sessions. It was just part of my process.
But I usually took a break in between.
Sleep, eat, recharge.
My foot bumped into the gallon-sized pitcher I kept by me. At least if I kept hydrated I could move through the exhaustion. It rolled away, obviously empty.
I stumbled back from the canvas, the eerie sky creeping into the frame, eating up the sunlight and the laughter in the foreground. The smeared spray paint art took on a clownish glow.
The bikini top lay discarded, a switchblade half opened beside it.
Mine.
The one I’d burned after Ian had left.
It was now a pile of ash on my beach.
The last time I’d gone to see the skyline and the surf I’d walked along every day since I’d moved here. The last sunrise I’d photographed. The bikini burned in effigy to a different girl. Funny how meeting someone could do that. Change me so profoundly.
Ian was barely in the painting. Just at the edges.
Though he’d saved me. Though there was still blood on the edges of that skate park where he’d taken care of my attacker.
I even asked around if anyone had known him. The man with the rattlesnake eyes who didn’t know what the word no meant. I hadn’t invited his attention, but I was a woman of a certain look. Being an artist, I knew the shape of me, my face, my wild hair was put together well. Not that I cared about those things.
Pretty was boring.
But he preyed on the pretty. More than one female skater had a story to tell. And I listened. Just a few whispers were met with sharp, toothy grins from others who gleefully told me they’d heard of his accident. Most were eager to tell me what an asshole he was. How he’d been a shitty bully on and off the ramps. And now the asshole was in a cast up to his knee, his skating future in question.
I gave not one single fuck.
Karma was a fickle bitch, but sometimes she got it right.
And while my mom would be horrified at my bloodthirsty thoughts sometimes, I didn’t lose sleep about it. I didn’t even really lose sleep about Whitey.
His name.
As original
as his disgusting nature.
No, it was the sea-glass color of his eyes that kept popping up in my work. Ian Kagan—sorry, meteoric rising Ian Kagan.
My YouTube feed was strewn with his videos. I’d watched a few from the show I’d photographed. I’d been determined to prove he couldn’t have been as hypnotic as I’d remembered.
He was.
In fact, the actuality of him was far worse.
Because YouTube was an asshole, it kept showing me more clips, more videos, more music news shows peppered with his name. And I was a junkie.
I watched them in the middle of the night when I couldn’t paint anymore. When exhaustion should have pulled me under. But then I dreamed of him. Those fucking eyes always followed me into dreams.
Sometimes I woke with phantom fingers trailing over my skin. Gentle fingers chased by flames. Instinctively, I knew he’d burn me. But then it would morph into the day with Whitey.
Of course there was still talk about that day at the skate park. The news outlets had a field day with it. The asshole had gotten a lot of mileage out of our afternoon together. Tack on some outrage for better safety at the skate park, at the boardwalk, at the beach—and the press had been outstanding. Some slanted against Ian. That he was a punk who’d been looking for trouble. Others spun him as a hero fit for romance novels and swooning girls who were constantly talking about the newest bad boy of rock.
I knew he was bits and pieces of all of that.
Hero.
Asshole.
Broken.
Fascinating.
And he was my obsession.
I trailed my paint-smudged fingertip over his bruised knuckles on the canvas. His fingers fisted and torn. As if my camera had captured him just out of frame. A hint of black pants and his shoelace belt lifting in the breeze.
No matter what I did, he snuck into my paintings.
Elegant, dangerous fingers.
Sea-glass green creeping into even a commission piece. J Town was a haven for artists, but it was also a hub for work. And while I didn’t need money to stay there, I did need it to eat and buy more supplies.
