…And well, well, well. Looks like the Playboy Avengers have struck again. This group of ex-girlfriends are making one unlucky playboy’s life miserable. With a website and an on-line store (“Avenging My Broken ♥” T-shirts and Playboy Avenger thongs), this exclusive club is in it for the long-term. I almost pity the man who dumped all these vengeful, Hollywood women.
Chapter 1
In high profile L.A., careers were made and broken on the fickle stench of publicity.
Blue Rule’s career balanced on the rim of public ruin, a stinking, fuck-ccident waiting to happen.
Clearly, some of his yet-to-be-named, celebrity ex-girlfriends had too much time on their hands. They’d formed a club – the Playboy Avengers. Their only goal? To ruin him.
“This is supposed to be the happiest day of my life.” Amber, his half-sister, the blushing bride, glided toward him at top speed, and hooked her hand in the lapel of his black tuxedo as she passed.
Caught, Blue rode the crest of her white train out of the Sunset Ballroom and onto the terra cotta-tiled patio of the Beverly Hills Hotel.
It was a relief to be out of the blue sky-themed room where professional athletes, Hollywood moguls, and buzz-seeking celebrities were packed tighter than condoms in a frat boy’s wallet. It was not a relief to be publicly towed along like Hemingway’s ill-fated marlin.
Mr. Jiggles, a hot pink teacup poodle with the attitude of a pitbull, agreed with him. Tucked in the crook of Blue’s arm, the dog growled, much as Blue had growled when he’d picked up his tiny charge and discovered the Avengers had struck again. Only this time they’d picked on his deceased father’s defenseless little dog. Not only had they dyed the poodle pink, they’d painted Mr. Jiggles’ nails to match!
With each Avenger prank Blue fought gut-plunging helplessness. With each Avenger prank his reputation teetered on the precipice of a publicly humiliating, income-ending abyss. But the dog was the last straw. This had to end.
“Brother-sister bonding,” Amber explained to the curious group of cigar smoking, harlot-holding basketball players they cruised past.
“What’s wrong? Did Evan refuse to sign the marriage license?” Like anything could go wrong for Amber. Life had fallen into place for his sister recently, from solidifying her position as C.E.O. in their father’s company to falling in love with the star power forward of the NBA Flash.
She stopped and turned to him, whispering dramatically, “Playboy Avengers.” And then she was back to tugging his lapel with seam-snapping, edge-of-disaster intensity, making him miss the flighty, insecure woman she’d been before their father died.
“You don’t know how deep the shit is you’re in,” she added.
Hell, yes, he did.
Each malicious bit of mischief against Blue was detailed on the Avenger’s blog, down to the color of their stretchy calling card, a thong with “Playboy Avengers” stitched over a narrow triangle of pink silk. The one detail missing? Blue’s name.
He wasn’t a fool. Only in the land of fairy tales and fairy godmothers would he remain the Avenger’s nameless target.
If he didn’t stop the media-hyping Avengers before they named him their playboy, he’d be left with nothing. His credibility in public relations would be vaporized; his current job as a relationship counselor and V.P. of Sales at the Dooley Foundation a forgotten footnote.
Amber came to a satin-swishing stop in the far corner of the patio. She peered around Blue’s shoulder, eliciting another growl from Mr. Jiggles. “Lyle Lincoln just told me he’s this close – ” Her thumb and forefinger almost touched. “ – to figuring out who the Playboy Avengers are. If he finds out you’re their plaything, your name will be all over Lyle’s column. And then all our clients – and all of our potential clients – will laugh us right out of business.”
Blue’s stomach plunged over the rim of ruin and into the stinky abyss with dizzying, end-of-the-world speed. His arm convulsed, squishing Mr. Jiggles, who yelped as if his trust had been betrayed.
Lyle Lincoln was THE gossip columnist Hollywood started their day with. Just because the Avengers hadn’t named Blue on their website didn’t mean that Lyle wouldn’t. If he identified Blue’s exes, he’d put two and two together, and come up with a four-letter Rule: Blue.
He tried to hide his shock by putting Mr. Jiggles on the tiled patio.
Damn his father and the terms of his will. One condition of which was pink, and sniffing a large, potted palm behind his sister. Mr. Jiggles had to go with Blue everywhere. The other condition was a twelve-month, million dollar sales quota at the Dooley Foundation. Abandon or screw up either one and Blue was out a three million dollar annual inheritance. His dad knew how to back his kids into a corner, as did Amber. Unfortunately, so did the Playboy Avengers.
Denial would buy him time to fix this mess without paparazzi-magnetized Amber. “And you think the Avengers are targeting me because…?”
Amber’s frosty green gaze settled on him. In her strapless bridal gown, with her red hair piled high and threaded with pearls, she looked like her beauty queen mother.
Correction. She looked like a queen about to order, “Off with his head!”
Instead she proclaimed, “I know it’s you.”
Double damn.
The huddle of basketball players across the patio laughed as if someone had told an amazingly dirty joke, but they were looking at Mr. Jiggles, who’d parked his pink caboose on Amber’s train.
With a snap of his fingers, Blue shooed Mr. J off and gave denial one last try. “You don’t seriously think – ”
“I do. I overheard Kaya Anika talking to a handful of your exes last spring.”
His ex-girlfriend’s name sucked the air out of Blue’s lungs. He couldn’t refill them with L.A.’s muggy July air.
Kaya.
She was a former Amazing Race contestant, a master planner and manipulator. That explained how the Avengers had been so damn successful.
“I didn’t think anything more about it,” Amber continued, “until they started getting press the past few weeks. And then I didn’t know how to break it to you.”
Glee’s version of Don’t Stop Believin’ pulsed onto the patio. The basketball women led their men inside as if they were modern day Cleopatras and the players pussy-whipped Mark Antonys. That would never be him.
Blue managed a breath. At least he could finally act. He’d have his lawyer contact Kaya’s lawyer on Monday for some civilized arm twisting. “I’ve got it under control.”
“No. You don’t.” And then the ice queen thawed. Just a degree or two. “I know we’ve had a rough few months since Dad died, but if we work together we can stabilize the company.”
“At what price?”
His father had been a twisted hybrid of Richard Simmons, Tony Robbins, and a defensive lineman coach in the NFL – a freakishly intense, embarrassingly enthusiastic, unpredictable life coach. Love him or hate him, Dooley Rule’s garish style, and his success with high profile clients, had made him the poster boy for Hollywood village idiots. Blue wanted to avoid that role.
“I can give you three million reasons why it’s worth it to you, Blue.” At the shake of Blue’s head, the ice queen returned. With fangs. “I’m not asking you to put on one of Dad’s Elvis costumes and walk the red carpet. I’m telling you, as your boss, to apologize to the Avengers.”
“Apologize?” Anger jabbed at his gut, again and again, until his fists clenched with the need to strike back. If Blue didn’t value his privacy and reputation, he’d sue for damages and demand their apology. “Apologize for what? Them posting my cell number to Craig’s List in the kinky phone sex category? Them breaking into my condo and cutting out the crotch in every pair of pants I own?”
Amber waved his horror stories away. “It doesn’t matter what you apologize for. You need to do something to make this go away.”
“If I say anything, they’ll post it on their website.” Blue tugged at the collar of his starched shirt. “Or worse,
leak it to Lyle’s gossip column. Is that what you want?”
“I don’t want to hear about it at all. Put your magical spin on the story or make it go away. I don’t care which.” Amber poked his chest. “But you will fix this before I come back from my honeymoon in two weeks.” Someone caught her eye. “I’ve got to mingle.”
Amber left on a swish of satin without threats or advice to keep this quiet. She didn’t need to. They both knew Blue would deal with this quickly, quietly, and with minimum publicity. When it came to his personal life, Blue avoided press like a point guard avoiding a cross-court pass.
As for apologizing…Apologies in L.A. weren’t quick or quiet unless you brought in your legal team. And he’d last seen his lawyer at that bar.
Blue whistled for his pink sidekick and followed Amber back to the reception, pretending to admire the fluffy clouds painted on soft blue walls. Mr. Jiggles darted between and through people’s legs ahead of him.
“You must be Blackie, brother of the bride.” A bent, scrawny old lady shuffled into his path. Wire-rimmed, mirrored sunglasses perched on her sharp nose. She leaned on a purple umbrella like it was a walking stick. Her tomato red, sequined gown hung off her bony shoulders shapelessly. She was so outrageously out of place in the swanky crowd that Blue suspected an Avenger ambush.
“It’s Blue Rule, ma’am.” His gaze darted around the room, but no one seemed interested in him.
“You don’t remember me, do you? I’m Mary Campbell. You were assigned as mine and my daughter’s life coach, although I can’t seem to get an appointment with you.” Mary gripped Blue’s forearm as if he was the catch of the day. “Winnie! Where are you? I found him.”
Blue’s body tensed. He’d met Winnie Tiegler right after he and Amber started working at the Foundation. Winnie had talked about his father as if he’d been her sex toy, and looked at Blue as if he was next on her wish list. For a few weeks, Blue had escorted her around town, until he’d come up with the excuse that he was still grieving over his father’s death and had been granted a reprieve.
When Winnie didn’t immediately appear in answer to her mother’s summons, Blue relaxed, patting Mary’s hand as he prepared to gently pry her off.
But Mary tilted her head and trained her gaze on him over the rim of her sunglasses. Her eyes weren’t the soft, faded orbs of a woman her age. Instead, they were a brilliant turquoise blue, clear and assessing. “The last time I saw you, Blackie, I changed your diaper while waiting for your mother to do my hair. It was on the set of The Grand Deceivers. You had the smallest set of toodles I’d ever seen. You seem to have filled out, but one never knows.” Her hand extended toward his fly.
He stepped back. “Some things are better left a mystery, Mary.” She had a better chance of seeing God tonight than his package. “I was just headed to the bar. Would you like a drink?”
“Finally. A man with common sense. Which way?” She did a slow shuffle to turn the way he directed. “Do they have bar stools? I can’t see a damn thing in this crowd without my heels on. The only reason to come to a wedding like this is to watch people make fools of themselves.” Mary babbled on.
Women had a tendency to do that around Blue, so he let her.
“I’ve been trying to get an appointment with you for ages. I’m at Winnie’s on Tuesdays for her group. She keeps saying you’ll be there, but you’ve stood us up every time.”
“Scheduling conflicts. I’m sure you understand.” Blue tried to get to the bar quickly, but the throng was deep enough to alert the fire marshal, Mary was unsteady enough to be knocked down and trampled, and his lawyer was nowhere in sight. Why rush?
Finally they reached the bar and one blessedly empty bar stool.
“Here you are.” Blue waved the bartender over.
Mary stood contemplating the stool as if it had the meaning to life embroidered on its cushion.
Mr. Jiggles had finally figured out his ride wasn’t following him and returned to Blue, sniffing the red buckle on Mary’s black flats. The pink pom-pom fuzz on top of his head trembled with no-longer-bored excitement. Tremors took over his little body as if he were an addict anticipating a long-awaited hit.
The poodle had ruined too many designer shoes to count, upsetting more than his share of women. Maybe there was a reason the Avengers had targeted the teacup pooch.
Blue tried to nudge His Pinkness away from temptation without appearing to play footsie with Mary.
“For corn’s sake, quit playing with that designer dog and give me a boost,” Mary commanded. “Did you think I was going to climb up there by myself? The last time I climbed anything was 1992 and that was only because he was rumored to have a set of genies the likes of which I’d never seen.”
Sensing Mr. Jiggles was about to pounce, Blue grabbed Mary by her armpits and lifted her scrawny body onto the seat.
Mr. Jiggles danced on his back legs and pawed the air, but he was too small and Mary’s feet up too high for him to reach.
“Sidecar with a double shot.” Mary eyed the crowd as Blue ordered the same. “Now that’s more like it. I can see all the fools. And look, here’s Winnie.”
Blue turned and nearly bumped into Winnie’s boobs. Everything about Winnie thrust outward, from her blond hair – teased up as high as the San Gabrielle Mountains – to her lips – stiff with Botox and layers of scarlet lipstick. Her eyes were the only body part that moved naturally.
Instinctively, Blue retreated, until Mary’s bony knees poked him in the back. “Winnie, nice to see you again.”
Winnie had been a B-list movie star in the sixties and seventies, eventually landing a B-list movie producer husband, whose fortune paid for a house off Wilshire, a shopping spree to Paris twice a year, and annual procedures to fight the battle with age and gravity.
Winnie’s dark-lined brown eyes stroked Blue’s tuxedo in a goose-bumping violation of his personal space. Blue sensed an end to his reprieve. His right eye began to twitch as regular as a red light at a railroad crossing.
“Blackie, thank you for taking care of Mama. I was talking to my agent when she disappeared.”
Correcting his name with either woman was a lost cause. He used the distraction of their drinks arriving to pick up the little shoe-loving troublemaker before Mr. J went after Winnie’s high heels.
“I can take care of myself, Winnie.” Mary peered over her sunglasses again. “Is that Mimi Sorbet? Someone should tell her to put a brassiere on.”
His gaze drifted toward the dance floor where the young starlet was dancing and didn’t appear to have much top support, although the actor she was grinding against, Kent Decklin, didn’t seem to mind. And neither did any other man watching, including Blue.
Winnie ordered a glass of champagne, and then her attention returned to him. She stared at Blue as if he knew the cure for menopause, a long-held secret known only to men, and she was willing to sacrifice herself to pry it out of him. Hers was a familiar look, one he’d succumbed to in the past. But only to women who had the X-factor. Not to women older than his mother.
Mary took a slug of her sidecar and sighed happily. “That’ll paint your wagon.”
“Or take the paint off,” Blue said hoarsely, after a sip of his. The cognac burned its way down the back of his throat, evaporating his patience. The balcony doors beckoned. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me...”
“Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Winnie’s Botox-smile held him captive.
“Tomorrow?” That wasn’t fear in his voice.
“Yes. I was just talking to Amber and she said you were free for lunch. I’ll meet you at The Ivy at one.” She garnished her smile with a hungry perusal of his privates that stole Blue’s appetite.
Nodding, Blue edged toward the door. “Gotta love my sister.”
It was either that…or sibling-cide.
“Waitress!” A toothpick woman in a pack of toothpick-slim, fringe celebrities flagged Maddy Polk down. The fashion at their table in the back of the Beverly Hills H
otel bar was as high as their opinion of themselves. But that was the way of many of young Hollywood’s almost-celebs.
Maddy had to swallow the urge to deflate a few egos. She needed tips to survive in Hollywood until she landed another production job or sold a TV show idea.
“To the Avengers!” The six women raised their glasses as Maddy approached, making her think they’d been cast in the next Robert Downey Jr. action flick.
A familiar looking blonde Maddy couldn’t place took one blurry look at Maddy’s comfortable black flats and giggled. “And to really great shoes!”
Maddy’s cheeks flushed with heat. Really great shoes weren’t made for standing an eight-hour shift. Maddy could probably sell the blonde’s spiked sandals on eBay and make this month’s rent. Despite paying her dues working as an assistant editor, assistant cameraman, assistant grip, assistant producer and just plain assistant, Maddy was no closer to her goal of becoming a producer than she’d been when she’d graduated film school four years earlier.
Hollywood was a brutal, dog-screwing-dog competition. Her proof? Last year Maddy’s creative partner had screwed her, shit on her ego, and then ran off with one of her ideas.
Yes, Maddy was naïve. And now she was paying for it. She’d promised her parents if she didn’t make it this year she’d return to Sherman Oaks and help with the family dry cleaning business so they could semi-retire. The idea made her feet leaden and her shoulders slouch. What Maddy needed was a kick-ass idea for a TV show, reality show or documentary. What she had was bupkiss.
Ignoring the women’s snarky laughter, Maddy tucked her tray under her arm and unfurled her brightest you’re-my-favorite-table smile. “Another round, ladies? Or would you like the check?”
“Another round of cosmos. On me.” The shortest toothpick, Kaya Anika, stabbed Maddy with a killer gaze, made more intense by heavy eye-liner and short, spiky crimson hair that would make the devil nervous.
Flight adrenaline pumped into Maddy’s bloodstream, making it hard to nod at the woman who’d bought every round so far.
On the Edge Page 77
