Denver looks back to assure me that it’s okay, and his hand motions for me to re-enter the house. I do as he wants, because I’m so taken by fear that I don’t know how to react or think. I knew something was wrong with this woman the moment I laid eyes on her.
***
Once we’re in the house, Jill backs us into the kitchen. Why do I keep doubting myself and what Denver tells me? I can’t see another reason for her to do this other than jealousy.
“Why did you lie to me, Tara? You told me straight to my face that you weren’t with him, but I was right, wasn’t I? And do you want to know how I have proof, now?”
“Jill, please, we can handle this like civil people just put down the gun,” Denver pleads. We’re sitting back to back on kitchen stools. From the corner of my eye I see someone enter the room—the guy from the orange room in the photo with Jill.
“I wouldn’t worry about civility,” he says. It’s the voice from the door earlier, Martin O’Leary. The slimy voice matches his face. He would be attractive if he tried to put himself together. Is this what Jill settled for when she couldn’t have Denver? “I would worry about the fact that thanks to the escapades this morning, and the fact that Miss Rogers drove your vehicle, it will be very simple to misplace your whereabouts.”
“This is what happens, Denver,” Jill says. “Your contract doesn’t say anything about this, does it?”
“Actually, it does,” he says. “Clause 15 section A states that you may not in any way threaten my life.”
“For someone so by the book you should know that, right, Jill?” I say, snapping my mouth shut as soon as I realize I opened it.
“Well, that doesn’t matter any more, now does it?” Jill snaps.
“Let the calm come over you, my love,” Martin whispers to Jill, now standing at her side. “Denver, Miss Rogers, I’m sorry that it has to be like this. But in order for us to finish out the final tasks, I’ll need some paperwork to be filled out. This paperwork will serve as an alibi, also converting the ownership of the company to Jill and myself.”
His smile is crooked, and his dark eyes look like a weasel’s. Tara, look what you got yourself into, I think. All for a billionaire. Is it worth it now that you have a gun to you?
“Just let Tara go, please,” Denver says. Bless this man. “You can do anything you want with me. You can have the company. You can have everything. Just please let her go, Martin.”
“Why should I, Denver? When the one person I loved was taken from me, I lost her as soon as she started working for you.”
Is he talking about Danielle?
“You know that I wanted nothing to happen to her!” Denver yells, getting out of the stool. We’re not tied together, which is what I expected them to do. But I guess the gun does all the work. “Cut this out, Martin. Jill. Is this what it comes to? What did I do to deserve this?”
“You were you, Denver,” Martin says. “You started the company and you hired employees. You let them get close to you. That’s enough. Oh, and Olecki? He’s rotting in prison for no reason. It was me.”
“Did you poison her?” Denver cries. The way his veins are pulsing in his neck one would guess that he had deep emotional attachments to that woman, rest her soul.
“Denver, when is your charade going to end?” Martin says. Jill still holds the gun firm between Denver and me. “Just admit that you did it, so I can tell Jill to pull the trigger. She’s well-trained, I’ll give you that.”
Behind the gun I see Jill smiling through her tears at the compliment. Why is she so beaten down? Does she have it for Denver that hard? Her eyes catch mine and it’s unmistakable. “He fucks good when he pulls your hair, doesn’t he?” she says.
“Don’t talk about him like that,” I say.
“First it was Malibu, now it’s the purple room,” she says, looking from me to Denver. “When are you going to up your style, Denny?” asks, laughing. I’m so nervous that her laughter will trigger the gun.
“Don’t listen to her, Tara, she’s just been spying on you,” Denver says. Her laughter doesn’t end, and I just want to scream for her to shut up.
“I loved Danielle, Martin,” Denver says, his eyes no longer on me. “You know that. You and I both did. You’ve been tormenting me for years. If you didn’t do it, and I didn’t do it, then we just have to let it rest, Martin, you know that!”
His hand is outstretched to him, as if reaching to pull an old friend up from a cliff. Martin’s gaze is rock solid. “I don’t understand,” he says.
Still, Jill laughs.
“Don’t you see?” she says. “You’re all so stupid.” She points the gun over to Martin now, cornering the three of us together. “You really think I loved you, Martin? Please, you’re a leech on Denver’s life, sucking him dry. He’s the real genius.”
She smiles at him, seeking his approval. He doesn’t respond, keeping his posture and head motionless. “Don’t tell me that you did it, Jill,” he says.
“Yes, Denver,” she smiles. “I poisoned Danielle and set up Olecki using Martin. It wasn’t hard, all I had to do was sleep with the right people. You’d be amazed what sex will get you in this city. Except for you, Denver. You’re impossible to crack. But now you’ve got your perfect dream girl, Chef Tara Rogers, so you can live the rest of your life in blissful harmony.”
Her lunacy is out the window—the three of us stand here, Denver taking the lead, even shielding Martin. I don’t want to be anywhere near the creep but at the moment I don’t have a choice.
“However, I do have proof,” she continues. “And with a new chef I can easily plant Danielle’s death on Tara. That’s no problem. In fact, the three of you can be poisoned. I’ve prepared a small dose for myself so it doesn’t look too inconspicuous when I survive and the three of you die.”
“If you’re going to poison us then what is the gun for?” I ask. “Why didn’t you just poison us and be quiet about it?”
She drops the gun and walks forward to me, pushing Denver aside with her gun hand. Inches away from me now, I can feel Jill’s breath on me, exhaling hard. Although she has a calm front, I know that deep down she’s steaming—ready to blow.
“You see, Tara, when you can’t use sex to get what you want, you have to think of something else,” she says. “See, you were able to get Denver. So you wouldn’t understand what it’s like on this side. You wouldn’t understand what signing your life away is life. Ask Martin, Mae Lin, Gloria. Any of them. He’s sick. I’ll be doing you a favor.”
“If he’s so sick then why go through the trouble? You love him?”
“I did love him, but he wouldn’t have me. I wanted him to be my husband and to share in his life. But, since I can’t have that, I’ll just have his life.”
Jill’s eyes are like glass as they stare into me—I see nothing on the other side of them, just emptiness. In a millisecond there is a CLANK and Jill drops to the ground.
Martin hit her in the head with the pan I cooked breakfast in.
She’s passed out on the ground, but not bleeding. Denver grabs the gun from her limp hand and I feel my lungs regain regularity.
*****
Denver called his connection, Lieutenant Hasboro, who phoned Simi Valley emergency, and they were at the house in minutes. Martin walked without any hassle, and when they put the cuffs on Jill she was still passed out. The officers put both of them into the back of their squad car and pulled away, leaving Denver alone in the yard.
Martin agreed to tell the whole story against Jill in court, because he really did love her and the fact that she was using him broke his heart. In the heat of that showdown, Denver said that they both loved Danielle. I’m guessing that when Jill confessed, it set Martin off.
Now, we’re back inside, all the doors are locked and all of the curtains are shut. Once the house is secure, he comes over to me and puts his hands on my arms.
“This has been one crazy day,” he says.
“I don’t really want to be here
any longer than I have to be,” I say. “And to be honest, I feel like I might need some space. So much has happened, Denver. Everything with Jill…I can’t tell what’s real from what isn’t.”
His knowing eyes hold me, and then he brings me into a hug, his lips pecking my ear. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry, Tara. I understand. Just know that everything I told you was true. Don’t let the lies get to you. Trust me, Tara.”
When he pulls away, I want to give in. I want to go upstairs and make love until the crack of dawn, sleeping the next day off. I want to act like this never happened. But it did, and I can’t ignore it. Just like when I made love to him both times, I can’t control my emotions, and I start to cry.
Now that we aren’t making love, the sight breaks his heart. “Please, baby,” he said. “You have to see that now everything is different. Today hasn’t been life altering for just you. It’s now a new beginning for me, too.”
I nod, but I can’t speak because my voice will crack, which is only going to make me cry more. I just have to go. I don’t even have my car here. Looking at the door, I refuse to turn my head toward him, hoping he’ll take the hint.
“I’ll call you a cab, Tara,” he says. “It will take you to wherever you want. When you’re ready to talk, call me.”
I nod my head and go toward the door. With the handle in my fingertips, I twist it and pull the door slightly. I want to say ‘goodbye’ or ‘see you soon’ but I can’t bring myself to, so I just bring it open all the way and step out.
***
I sit on the stoop for what I guess is twenty minutes before the luxury driver pulls up. I look in the tinted windows before walking up, because I am not going to take a vehicle sponsored by Denver D. Phillips. On the dashboard sits a Gogo sign, so I know that he at least thought about me enough to get a public service.
On the way to Burbank I just stare out the window. I don’t want to replay a single thing until I can lock myself in my apartment and rethink things. The driver doesn’t speak a word to me, and I think it’s because when he looks back at me he can see that my eyes are baggy, weighed down. Maybe Denver told him that I wasn’t much of a talker. He’s probably a good tipper.
The driver drops me off and I walk up the long stone path to my gate where I punch in my code. The interior of my complex is one big, gated court facing in on itself. It’s not much, but right now it’s all that I have. Taking the steps up to my apartment, I smell the familiar stench of Mrs. Almadi’s spiced curry, and the college student next door’s reefer. When I unlock my door, I take in the aroma of my place, which I haven’t been in in days—lilac and coriander. I like the soapy, clean smell that they give me every time I come back.
Even though it’s old school, I still have a landline, and it’s full of messages. I don’t even want to bother going through them. I scan through the caller ID and see that most of them are from Dominic, some from my parents and friends. The others are bill and loan collectors. Nobody I really need to call back right now.
I double-check that my apartment is locked tight. After having a gun in your face, there’s nothing like returning to an empty apartment in a not-too-great section of Southern California. The first thing I do is plug my phone in, and then I take a hot shower. When I come back, I see that Denver has tried to reach me. He doesn’t have my landline, but I’m actually excited to see that he’s blown up my cell with texts and calls. They’re all positive, filtered with different ways to tell me he loves me without wearing the word down to nothing.
Right now, I have the upper hand because he knows that my phone has been off, so I text him that I’m going to bed, I’m shutting my phone off, and I’ll get at him when I’m ready.
Deep down I want to send him every heart or kissy emoji I can find, but I have to act hard for a night and make him think I don’t even care. Really, though, I care a hell of a lot.
In the comfort of my own bed I finally close my eyes, feeling protected. It’s funny that even the “safety” of a billionaire feels less guarded than my own, in-need-of-washing sheets. This smell just reminds me of me. Before all of this, I spent so much time with Dominic that my own apartment basically became a place where I store and dump stuff off.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll get around to cleaning. I plan on sleeping for as long as possible. If I didn’t see the police take Martin and Jill away with my own eyes, I probably wouldn’t be able to fall asleep right now. I wouldn’t be able to imagine Denver’s smile, the way he stood in front of a gun for me, or how his eyes rolled back when we came together.
Drifting to sleep, I hold my phone as close as it will go while staying plugged in. I go through all of Denver’s texts—they’re like letters in time, telling me how amazing I am. How he wants to give me the world. How I changed his world.
This is the stuff dreams are made of, Tara, I tell myself. Suddenly my phone lights up and he sends me a picture of himself, lying in the purple sheets where we made love earlier. The text bubble simply reads “wish u were here”. It’s his face, lip pouty, eyebrows scrunched in—and those deep, brilliant blue eyes.
My man.
I take one of myself, but I don’t use the flash like he did. I let it remain dark and slightly blurred. With a little time I’ll let myself come into focus, and hopefully soon there will be room in the frame for Denver, too.
THE END
Bonus Story 34 of 40
Her Mafia Landlord
Darlene awoke in her 95 Honda Civic for the fourth morning in a row with one of the homeless people of Los Angeles tapping at her window. Today it was a woman who looked old enough to be Darlene’s mother. Although Darlene hadn’t seen this woman before, her dusty face, gray-blue eyes, and curly blonde hair blended with the face of Darlene’s mother seamlessly as she tore awake from a dream about home.
“Spare some money for breakfast?” the woman asked.
The fact that Darlene had just been dreaming about her deceased mother made her see the woman’s request in a different light. The homeless in Detroit weren’t as ruthless as the ones she’d been waking up to in L.A., but back home they seemed to be more dangerous.
Darlene reached into her Seychelles shoe where she kept her cash hidden while she slept. Taking a few wrinkled singles from the wad, Darlene considered how she’d been rationing all of her money until she found a place to live. I can live without a couple bucks, she thought. Darlene unrolled the passenger side window and reached out for the woman to take the money.
“It’s not much, but I hope it helps,” Darlene said.
The woman curled her lips upon seeing that there were only two measly singles. “I’d rather take these bills and shove them up your ass with my teeth,” the woman said hoarsely before spitting with laughter. As the woman walked away without the money, Darlene felt the like the receiving end of some sadistic joke.
Darlene wondered what the point of that was.
There was no reason for the woman to be so malicious, and Darlene decided, against her better judgment, that she would never be a person who gives hand outs in Los Angeles ever again. If she were going to make it in this metropolis she would have to grow tough skin and worry about nobody but herself.
Darlene had done well for herself as an interior designer back home. After getting her degree from the University of Michigan, Darlene couldn’t afford to stay in Ann Arbor. She moved back to Detroit to live in her father’s apartment with him, above the Italian restaurant he owned. Although Darlene had made some connections in Detroit through her father, the Italian Mafiosos who hired her limited her creativity as an interior designer.
Since everyone knew and respected her father, they’d always pay her extra as a courtesy to the running her father used to do for the mob. Darlene didn’t love designing the same type of décor for Italian restaurants, bars, delis, and pizza places. A couple of her aunts opened up flower shops as fronts for money trafficking. These were the only projects that even mildly inspired Darlene. However, she didn’t like knowi
ng that the hard work she put into orchestrating the perfect combination of furniture, colors, art, and spatial relation was spent on such mundane things. For Darlene, there was an art to interior design. It pained her to see her talent wasted.
The only conclusion Darlene could come to was that she would be forever stuck in the same cycle unless she left the Midwest. She would have rather waited tables at her father’s restaurant than put any more useless energy into something she loved when it only made her life feel empty at the end of the day.
Before her grandfather passed, Darlene would visit him every Sunday. He’d make them runny pancakes and strong coffee while they’d watch old black and white monster movies.
“These movies,” her grandfather used to say, “these will make you the big money. These movies are the perfect front.”
“The perfect front for what, grandpa?” Darlene would ask.
“For the Hollywood Heist,” he’d laugh, spilling his coffee onto the card table where they ate breakfast. “I’ve been planning this job for years, Darlene. Just you wait.”
For years she thought it was an inside joke between them. Darlene learned, however, that her grandfather had been utterly serious. Before his death he left Darlene a detailed plan regarding the Hollywood Heist as a part of his will.
It wasn’t a joke after all, she thought. She didn’t tell the rest of her family about the heist plans, but they were part of the inspiration for her moving to Los Angeles. Darlene even brought the handwritten plans in case some crazy opportunity ever presented itself, or she became desperate to con someone into doing the dirty work for her.
All the work she got through her father’s friends helped Darlene save enough to rent an apartment in Los Angeles. At least she hoped that five thousand dollars would be enough to cover the deposit, first month’s rent, and any other bills, utilities, or expenses she would need to get herself set up in the city. She’d been hoping to find a friend or meet someone networking at a Meetup group, but so far those had all proven fruitless.
In Time to Love Page 117
