by Mel Curtis
“Is this about Serena Vachay?” Cora’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t take her firing you personally. You haven’t found your niche, is all.”
Gemma checked the time on her cell phone, unable to ignore the sour taste of failure.
Serena was a talented actress who’d signed to play the demanding role of a woman dying of cancer. To look the part, she had to lose a lot of weight. She’d hired a personal assistant, a trainer, and the Dooley Foundation. Two weeks later – yesterday – she’d fired Gemma.
Granted, she’d fired Gemma after an episode involving Hostess Ho-Ho snack cakes. And it might have been Gemma’s fault. But it stung nonetheless.
“Everybody has a talent,” Cora continued. “Amber sees the big picture of someone’s life. Blue knows women—”
“You know men.”
Cora shrugged off the dig. She was a reformed man-eater and comfortable with herself, a trait Gemma envied. “And you’re good with old people.”
Actually, Gemma was good with numbers. She’d majored in finance. Lot of good it did her now. Profit and loss statements were little help in bolstering stars suffering from self-esteem issues.
“I love the over-seventy set as much as the next gal,” Gemma admitted. “But most of my clients don’t want to improve their lives. They want a reason to have lunch or coffee with someone, and to be seen around town.” To her clientele, Gemma was more like a well-paid companion than a life coach. How she longed to make a real difference with someone, to prove that she was a legitimate life coach, as her siblings were. Instead, she feared she was a drag on the Dooley Foundation’s reputation. Quitting loomed on the horizon like a moral obligation.
Blue and his other groomsmen crossed the lobby from the bar.
“Seriously?” Cora said to the groom. “You couldn’t have invited us for a drink?”
Blue wrapped an arm around each of his half-sisters and squeezed. “Girls, I’m getting married.”
He smelled as if someone had spilled alcohol on his tux, but his hug made Gemma feel like one of the family. Safe. Loved. She could’ve stayed in their group hug all day. But, “I’m getting lipstick on you,” Gemma muttered into his lapel.
Tucking them each under an arm, Blue trundled in a crooked line toward the door and the red carpet to the portico, where a white limo awaited. Amazingly, there were no paparazzi in sight. A rarity for the Rules.
“Are you drunk?” Cora’s words vibrated with anger.
Grin widening, Blue admitted, “I’m tipsy.”
The limo driver opened the back door, revealing plush leather seats and a full bar.
“We’re going to need a teetotaling limo,” Gemma said. Not likely in L.A.
“We need coffee,” Cora said. “And time.”
Gemma nodded. “Luckily, we built in an extra hour for traffic.”
They propped Blue against one of the iconic pillars guarding the entry to the Beverly Hills Hotel.
Gemma surveyed the groomsmen, who were flushed, weaving, and reaching for cigars. “Oh, hell, no. If you walk on that ship smelling like cigars, someone’s going to get seasick.” She confiscated their smokes, demanded the limo driver lock up the liquor, and gave the men a stern talking to.
A few minutes later, Gemma shut the groomsmen in the back of the limousine, and turned to her siblings as the car pulled slowly away. “When did I become the family killjoy?”
“Weren’t you always?” Before Gemma could protest, Blue’s brows knitted. “Isn’t that my ride?”
“We’re taking the next one.” L.A.’s muggy air enveloped Gemma. She’d have to put her personal life on hold in order to sober Blue up, and get him to the wedding on time.
A black stretch limo pulled up next. The driver hurried around to open the door.
Cora took the lead this time, telling the driver, “We’re going to need a coffee run and we’re adding an unplanned stop at the L.A. Flash practice facility in Westwood.”
“Really?” The word burst from Gemma unexpectedly. She cleared her throat, and said in a more mature voice, “I mean, thanks.”
Cora rolled her eyes.
Their driver opened the door with practiced flourish.
Unaccustomed to five-inch heels and awkward angles, Gemma stepped in and nearly tumbled to the car’s thickly-carpeted floor. Movement on a seat near the front drew her eye. “Lyle Lincoln!” What was the L.A. Happenings gossip columnist doing in their limo? She tried to back out, but bumped into Blue, who was being stuffed in by Cora.
Blue climbed in on all fours, slumped on a seat near the bar, and scowled at the gossip king. “We didn’t invite you. I distinctly remember reassuring Maddy that we didn’t invite you.”
Lyle was dressed in a powder blue tuxedo with dark blue velvet trim. His Poindexter glasses were upsettingly similar to the pair Gemma usually wore, only thicker.
Still on the portico, Cora nabbed the driver. “Why is that man in our limo? This is supposed to be for family and the wedding party.”
“I’m a dear family friend…Of the bride.” Lyle smirked at Gemma. “I’m also looking for a television producer. And Maddy has been too busy to take a meeting.”
“So you crashed her wedding?” Hollywood celebrities never ceased to surprise Gemma. Lyle had posted in his column that he had an invitation. He wasn’t even a pretty little liar.
“I can eject him.” Blue clenched his fists, ruining the effect by reclining lopsidedly in his seat.
“And have everyone read about it in his column?” Gemma swallowed back the panicked pitch in her voice and added, “Amber wouldn’t approve.” And since Amber was the CEO of the Dooley Foundation, she held all their futures in her pregnant hands.
Lyle had been studying Gemma. “You’re Glitterfrost Gem. I’ve seen your picture on Twitter with Mimi Sorbet and Coach Randy Farrell.” He catalogued Gemma’s appearance.
Here it comes. At any moment, Lyle would call her out for being a social media sham. She may be a friend of actress Mimi Sorbet, but she wasn’t the epitome of high fashion. She didn’t shop all day on Rodeo Drive or frequent fine restaurants for lunch. She imagined he could see all that in her face, note it with every blink of her contact-dry eyes. She imagined all the hurtful, embarrassing things he could say about her, starting with, “You’re a Rule?” and ending with, “So disappointing.”
And yet, Lyle said nothing. There was no outing, no unmasking, no sarcastic remark, or superior laughter.
Which led Gemma to believe he was saving his find for his column. Lyle Lincoln made and broke people in reputation-driven L.A. With the way Gemma’s luck was going, he wasn’t going to make her reputation.
She dug her fingernails into the white silk ruching of her borrowed clutch purse, hoping to hide the fact that her hands were shaking.
Outside the limo, Cora’s phone rang. Cursing ensued, followed by more terse instructions to the driver. With the grace of a movie star used to long dresses, full skirts, and red carpets, Cora entered the limo and sat in the back next to Gemma. She smiled at Lyle, but it was her deadliest of smiles, the one that promised retribution. “Looks like Lyle is taking a ride with us, Gemma. But that’s as far as it goes. He isn’t attending the wedding.”
“Just wait.” Lyle’s lips framed his teeth in a most unsettling manner. “Things have a way of changing when I’m around.”
Blue snored.
Lyle chuckled.
Gemma didn’t dare breathe.
“We have to pick up Winnie and her mother, Mary,” Cora said to Gemma. “Their limo hasn’t shown up. She promised to make coffee for Blue. Double espresso.”
The limo pulled into traffic.
“Why are we going to the Flash practice facility?” Lyle’s voice had a superior edge designed to cut others down.
There was a time not so long ago when Gemma would have slashed right back. But that was
before she was revealed to be part of the Rule family, before she’d made friends with a fragile actress just out of rehab, and before her boyfriend decided to try out for the NBA. She was no longer an anonymous, cubicle wage-slave. Life in the public eye was about positively leveraging media. Rashly flung words and ill-considered actions impacted more than Gemma’s conscience. Everyone she cared about could be hurt by the one person in the car with worse fashion sense than Gemma. The one person who made his living on the mistakes and foibles of others. If she slashed back. It was oh-so-tempting to slash back.
Instead, she said über-politely, “We’re picking someone up.”
“Please.” A bug-eyed Poindexter eye-roll. “It’s easier for me to guess.” He waved a hand. “There’s the very public Twitter romance between Glitterfrost Gem and Coach Randy Farrell. And since Gem is short for Gemma, and there was an announcement several months ago about a newly-discovered Rule sibling by the name of Gemma Kent, I have to assume Glitterfrost Gem and Gemma Kent are one and the same, and that we’re picking up Coach Farrell; as Coach Parker, Cora’s fiancé is in Europe. How close am I?”
Bullseye.
Cora and Gemma remained mum.
“So, we’re going to pick up the boyfriend.” He rubbed his hands together. “The money spent to stow away in your limo was worth every penny. I do so love a good romance.”
It was hard enough being a life coach as the unknown Rule. Once Lyle broke news of Glitterfrost Gem’s identity and breakup, no one would want to work with her.
Something hot and angry beat a path through Gemma’s veins.
She used to lead such a simple life. One that she helmed confidently. If living like a turtle, head tucked in her shell, was how she had to live as a Rule, she’d go back to being snarky Gemma Kent. If only her words didn’t impact others. Specifically, Maddy. The bride didn’t deserve to have Lyle ruin her special day – before, during, or after.
Blue snored over her silent indecision.
“I also love a great wedding story,” Lyle added, smiling at the passed-out groom. His patronizing smile could rile a tame koala.
It riled Gemma to the point where she snapped out of her shell.
“Let’s bargain,” Gemma bit out. “I’ll give you an exclusive with Glitterfrost Gem. And in exchange, you don’t mention Blue’s condition.”
“Nicely played,” Cora whispered.
“What an intriguing proposition.” Lyle sized Gemma and her offer up. “I suppose I should agree to your terms, especially since tipsy grooms aren’t as interesting as Glitterfrost Gem being the newest Rule.”
“It might be more titillating if you kept her identity a secret,” Cora suggested. “One only you knew.”
Gemma resisted the urge to pinch her sister. It was time to lay Glitterfrost Gem to rest with a very public unmasking.
But Lyle was nodding. “Why don’t we start with how Glitterfrost Gem and Randy met?”
Several minutes and several carefully edited Glitterfrost Gem details later, they pulled into the driveway of Winnie’s Hollywood home.
Winnie emerged wearing a pale pink toga dress. She carried a travel mug, presumably filled with coffee. The B-movie actress refused to submit to gravity or age. She kept a stylist on staff and a plastic surgeon on retainer. Big fake boobs and big blond hair balanced a big-hearted personality. She’d been one of Blue’s first clients, had been passed to Cora, and now was on Gemma’s client roster, along with her mother, Mary, who shuffled, snail-like, behind her. Gray-haired, wearing her signature round, darkly tinted glasses, Mary’s sparkly purple gown was a welcome change from her shiny purple track suits.
“Ah, yes. My bribe was worth every penny,” Lyle noted with barely contained glee. “Who else is on our pick-up list?”
“Santa,” Gemma quipped, suddenly glad of Mary’s slow shuffle toward the car.
“Ho-ho…Ho.” It may have sounded to Lyle as if Cora was riffing off Gemma’s Santa comment, but Gemma knew better.
She did pinch her sister then, a meager outlet for her frustrations. “I never should have told you about that.” The Serena Ho-Ho incident. “We don’t have time to stop in Westwood. The boat sails at five.”
“Don’t worry.” Cora rubbed her arm, unable to disguise the worry in her words. “They won’t leave without the groom.”
They both looked at Blue.
Would they?
Chapter Two
Randy Farrell was at a crossroads.
More than a year ago, he’d been one of the nation’s best college point guards heading into the Final Four. March held a lot of madness for him. He’d torn his ACL and snapped his Achilles in the final seconds of the championship game. Running had been agony, pivoting on his knee excruciating. Playing wreaked more damage. His shots in the last few seconds won the national championship, but the severity of his injuries crushed his hopes for that year’s NBA draft.
His college coach, Trent Parker, had taken pity on him, bringing him on staff as an assistant when he’d been hired to coach the NBA’s L.A. Flash. Now that Randy’s limp was gone, his mobility returned, and he had another championship ring on his finger (this time from coaching the Flash), Randy was trying to make it in the NBA as a player. But to do so meant he had to fulfill his coaching duties and then put in a full day’s workout on his own time. Soon, to avoid any conflict of interest, he’d have to hand in his resignation as a coach. He’d have to risk failing on a public stage. Risk disappointing Coach Parker, Gemma, and himself. He’d never felt so uncertain.
On paper, this opportunity was ideal for Randy. The Flash needed a shooter. He’d been one. The Flash needed someone who could slash between bodies to reach the basket. Slashing defined Randy’s playing style. The Flash needed someone with a level head and a strategic outlook on the game to run the court. Randy was a team leader.
As for his current game…
Randy’s shot clanked. He hadn’t played a full forty minutes on the court in a year. And in a recent scrimmage with UCLA players, he’d sucked. He hadn’t slashed. He hadn’t dunked. He hadn’t called the shots. It was as if his injuries had permanently disabled his game mojo.
Or his hamstrung mojo could have been due to his father, who couldn’t believe Randy was giving up a good salary and benefits as a coach to chase after a dream. Thomas Farrell was a sixth generation Indiana hay farmer. He believed Randy, his only son, had let the water in L.A. go to his head.
“Wasn’t that trip to the Final Four enough?” he’d said. “In the shape you’re in, those professional athletes will cripple you for life. Farmers need two good legs and a strong back.”
Didn’t matter that Randy had no interest in farming. Didn’t matter that Randy was never going back to Indiana. His father heard what he wanted to hear and said what he wanted to say. Randy couldn’t get his father’s voice out of his head.
He returned to the arcing three point line on the Flash’s practice court and drove hard to the basket, leaping into the air halfway through the key and dunking the ball. He landed on all fours. Not a complete fail. Not a safe result, either. On a crowded court, he’d be road kill.
He scrambled to his feet and chased down the ball, dribbling at full speed to the opposite basket and repeating the move with the same results – basket scored, him on all fours on the hardwood. If he couldn’t stay upright, he couldn’t make the cut. Or worse, someone would take him out and end his playing career for good.
“I told you so,” his father said in his head.
The door to the gym swung open, spilling sunlight from the lobby onto the court. A woman’s figure, slight, short, in heels.
Gemma hadn’t taken his decision to stay and practice, rather than escorting her to Blue’s wedding, well. He’d half-expected her to show up, maybe even half hoped. Nowadays, she was the reason he trained so hard. He lived in fear of disappointing her.
“H
ey.” A gruffly chipper voice. Not Gemma’s.
Frustration pumped much needed adrenaline into his veins. Randy picked up the basketball and pointed toward the door. “Out!”
Isabelle Chavez, TV star and jailbait, disregarding his order. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.” Her high heels pounded on wood, anchoring a web that promised to tangle.
A month ago after a game, he’d made the mistake of asking for the star’s autograph for his little sister. Isabelle had been dogging him ever since. It made no difference to her that he had a girlfriend, or that he wasn’t interested in Isabelle. She’d set her immature sights on him and wouldn’t take no for an answer. She played such an innocent, friendly girl on television. He’d never imagined she was a cunning, siren-in-the-making.
“Isabelle, we’ve gone over this before. I have a girlfriend.” Whom he loved, even if he hadn’t told her yet. “You need to respect that.”
She laughed. It was deep and throaty, incongruent with her age.
Basketball tucked under one arm, Randy grabbed her wrist as he walked toward the door, towing her along. “You’re leaving.”
“I like it when you play rough,” she said in a low voice, trying to sound seductive.
Her words had the opposite effect. She sounded like a seventy-year old, lifelong smoker. Smelled like one, too.
The door opened. Another slight figure appeared, silhouetted in the sunlight.
Randy’s heart nearly stopped. “Gemma.” He glanced down at Isabelle and the sly smile that curled across her face. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
Gemma turned and bumped into Cora, who took one look at Randy’s predicament and said, “Don’t fall for that little slut’s game, Gemma.”
He didn’t often thank the Lord for Cora. He did so now. “Can you please work some of your Rules magic on this?” He propelled Isabelle forward. “She’s been stalking me.”
Isabelle refuted his words with a snort.
Ignoring the troublemaker, Cora held Gemma immobile by her shoulders. “Randy, if you haul it to the showers so we can take you to the wedding, I’ll make sure Isabelle never bothers you again.”
