“I’ll do whatever you want. Suck you, fuck you. Anything.”
“I can get you in a program, get you drugs, methadone. Get you cleaned up. Give you a fresh start. Would you like that?”
Syd started crying. “But it hurts so bad.”
“Let me help you, please.”
Syd looked into the face of the paramedic. She’d stared into a lot of men’s faces during the last eighteen months; embarrassed, lonely, desperate, faces. Arrogant, angry, cruel faces. But the paramedic’s face was different. His face was honest, caring, genuine. Syd realized she could trust him.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Eric.”
“Okay, Eric. Do what you’ve got to do.”
It took three weeks for Eric to flush the poison out of Syd. He moved her to his apartment. She suffered mightily, tried to escape twice, but Eric was resolute, firm when he had to be, always nurturing, and most of all, loving.
And as Syd got stronger, as the chemical haze cleared her consciousness, she felt the first stirring of hope. She could envision a life beyond the next fix. She could envision a new life, a real life, all because of Eric.
And Eric had all sorts of plans for her. He wanted her to take the high school equivalency exam and enroll at Santa Monica College. He wanted her to find a career, become a nurse or a doctor or lawyer.
And in the three weeks they had been together, he had never come on to her, never touched her inappropriately; he’d been the perfect gentleman. Because if Syd was going to fall in love with him, Eric wanted the clean and sober Syd, not the drug-addicted girl who would glom on to the closest hero figure.
But Eric had made a mortal enemy. Ernesto. He didn’t like having his girls taken from him, especially not one of his favorites. So while Eric was nursing Syd back to health, Ernesto and his minions were combing the streets, asking questions, doing whatever they could to find Syd.
They came on a Monday night. Syd had made dinner, macaroni and cheese. Syd and Eric were just sitting down when the front door burst open.
Rodolfo and Santiago came through first. They were Ernesto’s muscle, tatted out and brutal. They were two of the men who robbed her that first night in Hollywood. Syd had been forced to fuck them numerous times when she was on the needle. They each had a .9mm pointed at Eric’s head.
Then Ernesto walked in. It was more like an entrance, the conquering hero capturing a city. He glanced at Syd then walked right up to Eric, leaned forward so they were just inches apart. Ernesto said, “I think you have something that belongs to me.”
Syd knew there was only one chance to save Eric’s life and she took it. “Thank God,” Syd said, rushing to Ernesto, throwing her arms around him. “Take me home, baby. I’ve had enough of this goody two shoes.”
Ernesto grabbed Syd by the hair, pulled back her head and kissed her. He jammed his tongue into her mouth and she responded, groaning with pleasure, pressing her body against his. “I’ve missed you, sweetie,” Syd whispered.
Ernesto turned back to Eric. “You like fucking her? You like fucking my girl?”
“I’ve never touched her,” Eric said, surprised by his own calm. He’d been shot at in Iraq, but always from a distance, faceless snipers; now he was staring directly into the face of evil. Sure he was scared, but he was also proud. He knew he was probably going to die and he didn’t want Syd’s last image of him to be that of a sniveling coward.
“It’s true, Ernesto,” Syd said. “Never once. I think he’s gay.”
Ernesto leaned in to Eric, “You a faggot?”
“No, sir.”
“Who cares what he is,” Syd said. “I’m just happy you’re here. Come on, baby,” Syd said, pulling Ernesto toward the door. “Take me home.”
Ernesto let Syd drag him across the room. The further Ernesto got from Eric, the better Syd felt. She’d spend the rest of her life with Ernesto if it would save Eric’s life.
Eric would have loved to stop them. The thought of Syd going back to the pimp sickened him. But Eric was smart enough to know if he took even one step forward, the thugs would shoot him. He’d figure out a way to rescue her later. So right now, discretion was the better part of valor.
When they reached the doorway Ernesto snapped a few Spanish words to his men. They holstered their guns and left the apartment. Syd could feel the tension leaving the room.
“Oh, just one more thing,” Ernesto said. He slipped a throwing knife out of his pocket and with a practiced flip of the wrist he sent it flying across the room and into Eric’s chest.
Syd screamed, “No!”
Eric dropped to his knees. His hands clutched the knife. He tried to pull it out, but it had pierced his heart. His strength ebbed as blood flooded his chest cavity. He was dying, and he knew it.
Syd rushed to Eric’s side, pulled the knife from his chest. “Call 911!”
“Yeah, like that’s going to happen,” Ernesto scoffed.
Syd put her arms around Eric. “I’m so sorry,” she said, crying.
Eric took one last look into Syd’s eyes. “Thanks for the best three weeks of my life.”
Syd leaned down and kissed Eric, their first kiss. And last. He died in her arms.
“Let’s go, Syd,” Ernesto said. “Time to boogie.”
Syd stood, the bloody knife in her right hand. She looked at the malevolent smirk on Ernesto’s face and charged him, the knife sweeping up towards his chest. He easily caught her hand, twisted the knife free.
But Syd wasn’t really trying to stab him; she was using the knife as a diversion. As Ernesto concentrated on getting the knife, Syd slipped her other hand into his jacket and pulled out the Beretta he always carried there. She stuck the .9mm under his chin and pulled the trigger.
The top of Ernesto’s head exploded and his blood and brains sprayed the ceiling.
Syd heard footsteps, then Rodolfo and Santiago appeared in the doorway. They looked at Ernesto’s corpse, the gun in Syd’s hand now pointed at them, and the crazed look in her eyes. Wordlessly they spun on their heels and ran.
Syd was surprisingly calm. She knew the gunfire would bring the cops, but she had a few things to do first. She picked up the knife and dropped the gun and knife in her purse. Then she dug out Ernesto’s wallet, it was filled, as always, with hundreds. She took most of them, leaving a couple for the cops to find. Then she put the wallet back, took a last look at Eric, and walked out the door.
Syd was two blocks away when she heard the sirens. She was clean, had a little money and the hope that Eric had instilled in her. Heartbroken, yes, but instinctively she knew that this was truly the first day in the rest of her life.
Back in the Ivy restaurant, Syd took Ryan’s other hand. “Worry not, Ryan. I’ve had a blessed life.” Then she sealed the lie with a kiss.
ELEVEN
Anne Rogers sat behind her massive mahogany desk in her plush corner office nestled fifty stories high in the L.A. skyline. On a clear day, she could see from the Hollywood sign to the Pacific Ocean. She cherished the view, loved her office and well, hated everything else about her life.
“Dad’s refusing to help,” Anne’s husband, Rick Rogers said. “He can be such a self- righteous bastard. He even threatened to go to the D.A.”
“The payment’s due in two weeks, Rick. What do you suggest we do?”
“Fuck ‘em. Send the keys back to the bank and we’ll move into a hotel until I can sort all this out.”
A balloon payment was due on their Santa Monica condo, one point one million dollars, just the latest catastrophe in a three-year financial disaster. It started when Rick got a stock tip from one of his clients, a biotech firm that was about to announce a new wonder drug. Rick talked Anne into investing everything they had in the stock, ride it up, then cash out with a big profit. But the FDA discovered the research data was rigged, banned the drug and fined the company. The stock tanked.
Anne and Rick lost everything. They had no money for the beach house mortgage, owe
d tens of thousands more to credit card companies and were on the brink of declaring bankruptcy when Rick’s father stepped in to bail them out.
They sold the beach house, downsized to the condo and were put on a strict budget. But Anne and Rick were so humiliated by being saved by Rick’s father, and suddenly having to report to him about every nickel and dime they spent, that Rick convinced Anne they should take a final shot at financial independence. They secretly mortgaged the condo, forging Rick’s father’s signature, took the money and gambled it on a tip Rick got on a new stock — and lost it all. They were broke, penniless; Anne’s worst nightmares come true.
“Sort this out?” Anne said, furious. “Rick, there is nothing to sort out. We’ll be forced to declare bankruptcy. And if the D.A. finds out we forged your father’s signature, we’ll be disbarred.”
“Dad’s agreed not to report the forgery but his silence did come with a price — he wants us to resign, quit the firm.”
“What?”
“We don’t need Rogers, Middleton and Roberts,” Rick said. “We’ll start our own firm.
I’m sure we can take a ton of clients with us.”
Anne looked at her husband. The stress of the last few years had taken a toll. He’d been drinking too much, eating too much and his once lean body had twenty extra pounds. Worse, his once almost arrogant self-confidence was so badly shaken he practically reeked of anxiety and desperation.
She wasn’t in love with him anymore. She wasn’t sure she was ever in love with him. She hated to admit it, but she had really been in love with his money, his power. And as he had squandered both in the last few years, the lie of their marriage became crystal clear.
She’d had a few affairs over the years, one-night stands when she’d been away on business. The sex had been fine, but the illicit adventure appealed to her even more. Sitting in a bar, alone, knowing all the men were checking you out. Scoping each of them out, imagining what they might be like in bed. Then the magical moment, she would choose one, meet his eyes and smile. It was such a turn on to watch them stand up and walk over to her. The power a beautiful woman has in a bar is truly amazing. And, if they were smart enough or charming enough or funny enough, she’d sleep with them.
But for Anne, it wasn’t about the sex; it was the power. It was nice to know she still had it. And she also realized that sex appeal had an expiration date. She’d been in bars and seen older women sitting alone, attractive women in their fifties and sixties available written all over them; but the men’s hungry eyes invariably landed on the younger, sexier Anne.
One day, Anne knew, she would be in her fifties and sixties, and she’d be the ignored one. When you’ve lost the power, there is only one thing left; money.
Money had been the driving force of her life; she’d been determined to flee her trailer trash roots. Growing up, Anne hated her life. She watched the glamorous life of other teens on TV shows like Dawson’s Creek and Felicity on a crappy 20-inch Phillips from the dreary living room of her double-wide. She promised herself then she would do whatever it takes to make money. She studied hard and earned a scholarship to UCLA and had her heart set on law school.
When Anne met Ryan, she found a man who embodied all her teenage daydreams. He was tall with craggy good looks and those adorable dimples.
Then she found out Ryan’s dad was a rich Beverly Hills attorney, and she knew Ryan was definitely the man for her. Once they started dating junior year of college, Anne wanted to close the deal, get married right away. But Ryan wanted to wait. Anne suspected Ryan was skittish because of his dad’s profligate ways; he was just divorcing wife number four at that point. So Anne decided to speed up the process. She told him she was pregnant. A lie, but it worked; she read Ryan’s integrity perfectly and they got married.
When she lost the baby a few weeks later, Anne was worried that Ryan would be suspicious, but of course, he wasn’t. He loved her too much to suspect treachery.
They might have stayed married if his stupid father hadn’t lost all his money. But suddenly Anne found herself living like a pauper, having to count every frickin’ penny.
That’s why she was so vulnerable when she first met Rick the summer she interned at Rogers, Middleton and Roberts. He pursued her relentlessly, giving her flowers, jewelry, and clothes. Then one night he invited her to dinner and she accepted.
Rick picked her up in his two-hundred-thousand-dollar Lamborghini, took her to Granita, Wolfgang Puck’s swanky Malibu restaurant. After two twelve-dollar martinis, two thirty-dollar appetizers, two fifty-six-dollar steaks, one three-hundred-dollar bottle of Cabernet, one eighteen-dollar dessert and two ten-dollar lattes, he drove them to his Malibu beach house for after-dinner drinks. The house was almost three thousand square feet of luxury with a huge redwood deck facing the moonlit Pacific.
For someone as admittedly materialistic as Anne, all this wealth was like a junkie’s first jolt of heroin. This was so far from her mother’s crappy trailer, so far from Anne and Ryan’s cramped studio apartment. This was the life she wanted. The life she deserved. When Rick leaned in to kiss her, she eagerly met his lips.
Anne never went back to the apartment.
Money. It always came back to money. Money is why she married Ryan. Money is why she left Ryan for Rick. And now Rick had lost all his money.
There was no way she was going to stay with a penniless Rick if he left the firm. But she wasn’t ready to drop that bomb quite yet. So she said, “Starting our own practice sounds great, honey. And you’re right, plenty of clients will follow us.” Not a chance, she thought. Dear old dad would make sure every client knew the embarrassing truth behind their exit.
“Okay, good. Great,” Rick said, relieved at her loyalty, and then he headed back to his office.
Anne should have been panicked by Rick’s catastrophic news. But Fate seemed to be coming to her rescue. Why else would she have been driving not four blocks from the LAPD Hollywood Division when she heard a Hollywood Homicide detective named Ryan Magee had hit the lottery? Why else would he have been in the bullpen when she dropped by? Why else would she have seen the desire in Ryan’s eyes when they talked?
Ryan wasn’t married. He told her he didn’t even have a girlfriend. So all she had to do was win Ryan’s heart back. And how hard could that be; she always could wrap him around her little finger.
TWELVE
The Windows Lounge at the Bel Air Regent Hotel lists eighteen vodka martinis on its menu. Vodka mixed with Triple Sec, vodka mixed with cranberry juice, orange liqueur, watermelon pucker, blue Curacao, absinthe, crème de fucking menthe, for Christ’s sake, thought Adam Devlin as he perused the menu, all these inventive ways to ruin a martini. A martini should be served very dry, in a chilled martini glass with a twist. Simple elegance. And that’s what Adam ordered when the pretty waitress stopped by, a Chopin martini, very dry with a twist. Then he sat back in his booth and smiled.
Adam was in a great mood. His meeting with the BMW reps had been successful; he put two golfers and a tennis player under contract for three years, total value six million dollars and he took home ten percent. Not bad for an hour of his time. What a business.
And now for a little fun. He glanced at his Rolex Cosmograph Daytona; five twenty-five. The very sexy Susie should be here any minute. He’d been fantasizing about the blonde most of the day. If things went as planned, he could get a room here at the hotel, or take her to the company’s apartment in Century City. Either way, this was going to be fun.
“I love martinis,” a voice said over his shoulder. “Mind if I join you?”
Adam turned to find Susie standing there. She’d changed out of the shorts and halter-top and replaced them with a more appropriate, but equally sexy, red skirt and blouse. Her hair was down, a devil danced in her green eyes and a smile played on her lips. He stood, ever the gentlemen. “Please,” he said, “sit.” She did. “What would you like to drink?”
“Whatever you’re having,” she said, sliding
close to him. “In fact,” she said picking up his drink. “I can’t wait.” Alice sipped from Adam’s drink leaving a lipstick imprint on the rim of the glass. She shivered as the vodka hit bottom. “God, that’s good.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Adam said, laughing. Then he carefully fit his lips around her lipstick imprint and sipped. “It’s almost like a kiss,” he said.
“Now, now,” she said. “I thought we were here to talk business.”
“We are,” Adam said, getting the waitress’s attention and signaling for two more drinks. “You want a job in advertising, our biggest problem will be deciding which of the fifteen or twenty companies I routinely work with will be the best fit for you.”
“It can’t be that easy.”
“It is, trust me. But first, tell me about yourself. Where are you from?”
Alice had a biography all ready. One she cooked up just for Adam, one that should resonate with him. “Well, I grew up in Dayton, Ohio. My dad was a pharmacist and Mom was a teacher.”
“Brothers? Sisters?”
“Nope, only child.”
“Hey, me too,” Adam said.
“I always wished I had a sister. Someone I could trust with all my secrets.”
Adam reacted, surprised. “That’s unbelievable. I always wanted a brother for the same reason. I felt so alone growing up.”
Alice knew this. Eleven years earlier, when she was a senior in high school, she spent a two-hour school bus trip sitting next to a seventeen-year-old Adam Devlin. They were on a field trip to the Getty Center in Los Angeles, and Adam got stuck sitting next to the dumpy Alice Waterman. He’d sort of seen her around, had heard some rumors about her being easy, but never paid her much attention. Not pretty enough, not popular enough, not anything enough for his clique. But it was a long trip and they got to talking.
She fell in love with him on that trip. Played over their conversation a thousand times in her head, spent weeks hoping he’d call or acknowledge her at school. Of course, he never did. He completely ignored her.
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