Starlet: A Dark Retelling

by Cora Kenborn

  Well, not entirely faceless, a voice in my head says.

  And therein lies the problem.

  Reaching in my pocket, I pull out the worn photo. The ritual is far too familiar, and as I stare at it, I begin to wonder if I should just light the damn thing on fire and be done with it. But I won’t. As many times as I’ve studied it, I still haven’t found an answer.

  How the hell is this girl going to save me when she couldn’t even save herself?

  Letting out a rough sigh, I refold it and shove it in my pocket when a jolt of electricity pings down my spine. The minute I glance up, I see why.

  The bar is crowded, but it doesn’t matter. This woman’s presence would render a room full of people invisible, a fact proven by the way my eyes track her every movement as she walks from table to table, those tight black shorts hugging her lush little body.

  It’s only when she moves closer, and I get a better look at her face, that live wire snakes and twists around my neck. I can’t look away. Not from the messy, dark ponytail spilling down her back. Not from her straight-off-the-farm face. And not from, ugh, I roll my eyes, those ugly teal Chucks on her feet.

  About as far removed as you can get from the type that usually captures my attention. But here I am, gawking at a waitress trapped in a shitty uniform and an apron.

  God, I need sleep.

  Cursing again, I suck as much life out of my cigarette as I can and rub my forehead. I need to get laid. Preferably before this shit drives me into an early grave.

  Which is exactly where I’m headed. I accepted it a long time ago. There’s never been a chance of redemption for me. I know how the real world works, and it’s not pretty. To get ahead in life, you have to play dirty. Sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn’t, but I’m sure as hell not going to beg anyone for anything.

  Especially Luciano Ricci, a man who doesn’t care if I rot in prison or in the ground. He made that perfectly clear when he turned his back on me.

  So, once again, I’m on my own.

  “Fuck playing by the rules,” I grumble.

  It takes a minute to register the glass of whiskey sitting in front of me.

  “Now why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  Chapter Four

  Dominic

  Normally, I have a one-track mind. If my mind is on business there’s no room for pleasure. However, there’s something about this girl’s whiskey-soaked molasses voice that hits like a punch straight to my dick.

  “Mind if I sit?” she asks, slipping into the vacant chair beside me.

  “A question usually asked before a person sits down.”

  Her eyes flicker to my cheek and the corners of her mouth twist up. “How’s your face?”

  Great, comments from the studio audience. “Mind your own business, lady. I’m kind of having a bad day here.”

  She drums her nails on the table. “Aren’t we all?” As I narrow a hard stare at her, she extends her hand. “I’m Angel by the way.”

  I don’t want to know her name. I want her to shut up and leave me alone. She’s claimed way too much of my personal space, and it’s fucking with my ability to make rational decisions. Still, there’s something about her. A presence that radiates off her in waves.

  “Good for you.” I drag the drink toward me, thinking she’ll leave, but she doesn’t budge, keeping her hand shoved in front of my face like I owe her something. I tell myself she doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t know just how short my fuse is right now. Because if she did, she sure as hell wouldn’t be poking a stick at it.

  “Usually, this is where you tell me your name,” she prods. “Or, it’s cool. I can just make one up for you.” Cocking an eyebrow, she leans back in her chair. “I’m thinking you look like a Dick. So, pleased to meet you Dick.”

  “Dick, huh?” Despite my shitty mood, I smirk and take a drag off my cigarette. “Keep it up, cupcake. I like my women bratty.”

  Her answer is to glare at my hand. “You’re not supposed to smoke in here.”

  And she’s not supposed to waltz over here and shit all over my night.

  I ignore her, hoping she’ll get the hint to move the fuck along. Instead, two fingers pluck my cigarette from between my lips then drop it in my drink.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, lady?”

  Springing to her feet, she lifts my glass and taps her fingernail against the edge of it while motioning to the purple-haired bartender. “California smoking ordinance states you have to be twenty feet away from a building to light up, champ. Besides, those things can kill you.”

  “Dare to dream,” I grumble.

  Angel’s subsequent laughter irritates me even more. “Well, aren’t we the angry, brooding con man.”

  “Is that an educated guess, or are you throwing shit out to see what sticks?”

  “Oh, I had your number the minute I laid eyes on you.” Giving a slight roll of her eyes, she tips a hip against the worn table. “If you think you’re the first one I’ve run across, you’re mistaken. However, I’ll humor you.” Nodding toward the now defiled whiskey, she adds, “Next one’s on the house.”

  “Your boss is okay with you handing out free liquor?”

  Her smile widens as she stares at my cheek again. “Let’s just say the free show was enough payment.” She turns to leave. “Let me know if I can get you anything else.”

  “Your number would be nice.” I have no intention of using it. I’m just a bastard.

  The smile fades into a scowl. “Wow. I’ve never heard that one before.”

  This girl has a bite, a fact that invigorates me way more than it should. I love a good challenge, but it’s not just the thrill of the chase egging me on. It’s the fiery olive-green eyes staring back at me. Deep and rich and familiar. Like the color of earth waking to life after the dead of winter.

  “Have we met before?”

  “You mean did you take me home, fuck me stupid, and never call me again?” A low chuckle rumbles in her throat. “Oh, Dickie, I have higher standards than that.”

  More important people have gone down in flames for much less than calling me Dickie, but I’m bending my own rules and letting it slide. I’m not usually one for sass, yet I find myself giving this girl a free pass.

  A charged silence falls between us. “I suppose you think you’ve got me all figured out.”

  She leans over, the ruined whiskey in her hand. “Maybe.”

  “What are you really after, cupcake? A big tip? Here’s one; don’t try so hard.”

  She lifts her chin. “I’m not after a damn thing you have.”

  “Is that right?” I don’t think about what I’m doing as I dig in my wallet and slam a handful of bills down. “Care to put your money where your mouth is?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This is a roadside bar in Chula Vista. What’s your average tip? A dollar? Two dollars?”

  Her jaw tightens. “I don’t need—”

  “We all need, sweetheart. Some of us more than others. But don’t get your apron twisted. I’m not offering anything but a friendly wager.”

  I wait. For what? I don’t know. Maybe for her to dump the rest of the eighty-proof ash water on my head. I wouldn’t blame her if she did.

  “I’m listening.”

  I hold out my hand. “Give me your order pad and a pen.” She does, and I waste no time writing down the first thing that pops into my head.

  Cosmo.

  Do I seem like a cosmo-drinking motherfucker? Hell no. That’s exactly the point.

  Ripping off the ticket, I fold it twice and hold it up between my index and middle fingers. “This is what I would’ve ordered if you hadn’t spent the last ten minutes insulting me. Since you seem to know so much, bring me what’s on this piece of paper, and all that”—I nod toward the wad of bills—“is yours.”

  Scowling, she snatches her pad and pen off the table. “And if I’m wrong?”

  I don’t hide my smile this time. “You have to give me yo
ur number.”

  She won’t. Even if she loses, there’s not a chance in hell this girl will give me anything but the first seven numbers that pop in her head. That doesn’t make it any less entertaining.

  She pretends to think, which I’d find amusing if I weren’t so focused on the pen tapping against her full lips. “You’re on,” she says in a sultry, thick tone. “And don’t worry. I know exactly what a man like you wants.”

  Nodding, I slip the folded ticket underneath my wallet. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

  I stare at her ass until it disappears behind the bar, then drop my face into my hands. A pretty face and a nice ass have been a pleasant distraction, but I still have to figure out what the hell I’m going to do. Producing Alexandra Romanov wasn’t just my contingency plan. It was my only plan. Now that it’s hit a brick wall, it’s time to formulate plan B.

  Rubbing my chin, I stare back at her as she catches my eye. She’s above-average looking. A little brash, but anyone can be taught class. After a few more discerning glances, plan B begins to form.

  And she’s not gonna like it.

  Chapter Five

  Angel

  There are two types of people in this world. Those who practice humility as a religion, and those who consider it to be one of the seven deadly sins. I’ll give you two guesses which category the guy at table four falls into.

  He may be a pompous ass, but I have to give him points for creativity. Attempting to bribe my number out of me was inventive and slightly entertaining. Besides, it’s not like he stands a chance of winning. Taking his bet is easy money and a fast-track to making rent. And that’s why I didn’t shut him down.

  I wonder if he’s still staring.

  Taking a risk, I glance across the bar to find him in deep concentration, scrolling through his phone. The way he stares at it with his thumb pressed deep against his temple as his fingers fan above his head scratches at something in the back of my mind. It's an itch I can’t reach no matter how hard I try.

  “See something you like?” a voice says behind me. Spinning around, I find Violet standing with her arms crossed and a cocked eyebrow.

  I roll my eyes and grab a nearby rag. “It’s called being friendly,” I say, becoming overly invested in wiping down the bar. “You should try it sometime. Maybe you might make better tips.”

  “Sure, that’s it.” Scooting beside me, she drops onto her elbows. “And it absolutely has nothing to do with the way that black T-shirt clings to his chest or those sexy tattoos covering his arms.”

  I glance down at my nails. “Nope.”

  “You’re a shitty liar.”

  I growl, but not because I’m mad at her. I’m mad because she’s right. It has everything to do with his tight T-shirt and tattoos, not to mention his hair. That chunky piece of dark hair that keeps dusting over his eyes, refusing to comply no matter how many times he brushes it back.

  Flop. Brush. Flop. Brush.

  As if on cue, he lets out a long string of curses and shoves his fingers deep into his dark hair, holding it in place by the roots, a scowl anchored across his face.

  Something about watching that smooth, unflappable exterior devolve at something so menial makes everything even more ridiculous. So, I laugh out loud.

  And that’s the moment he looks up.

  I grip the bar to steady myself as he flashes a slow, wolfish smile. And there it is again. That scratching in the back of my mind. But like always, the minute I reach for it, it stops. So I let it go. Maybe it matters, maybe it doesn’t. I refuse to waste time chasing maybes. I learned early in life that they’re a waste of time.

  Pushing off my elbows, I jerk a tray from under the bar. My blood pressure kicks up a notch, fueling my resolve. It’s exactly what I need to refocus. To cut through this thick tension. To remember there are no maybes in life. Do or don’t, but maybe is never an option.

  Icy blue eyes track my every move as I tuck the tray under my arm and make my way across the bar, a smug smile on my lips. I’m used to being underestimated, and something tells me underneath all that caked-on arrogance, this guy is too. But while he flashes his insecurities like a dog in heat, I’ve learned to play them to my advantage.

  I jump as Violet appears by my side. “So, about that guy—”

  “Vi,” I sigh, flinging the rag over my shoulder as I walk away. “Let it go.”

  Violet didn’t let it go.

  In fact, she’s been on my heels for the past ten minutes, following me around from table to table. “So, are you going to tell me the story?

  “What story?”

  Smirking, she drapes herself over the edge of the booth. “The story starring you and clit-bait over there.”

  I let out a deep sigh and stare down at the sticky wasteland of melted daiquiris and spilled cocktails. “There’s no story. He’s just another jerk.”

  Just another jerk could be the title of my autobiography.

  I hate this. Neither of us should have to resort to what we do. In a perfect world, maybe that would be true, but reality is never perfect. Plus, it’s my fault we’re in this mess. We lived in Hollywood for two years and still managed to keep the rent paid, our legs closed, and our hands clean. Now, because of me, that’s changed.

  She’s quiet for a moment. “You know, you could always call your old agent.”

  Snorting, I slide the heavy tray off the table and onto my shoulder. “He only managed to get me one audition in two years and it was for a porno.” Before she can say anything else, I add, “And his cousin was the director.”

  She follows me to the next table. “Okay, forget him. At least let me buy you a bus ticket.”

  “To where?”

  “Ala-fucking-bama.” Rolling her eyes, she stacks a dirty glass on the already overloaded tray. “Where the hell do you think? LA, baby! You got that part in that Optimax film all on your own. You can do it again, Ang.”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “I said no.” There’s that sharp tone again, but this time it’s accompanied by the sound of breaking glass. Glancing down, I see the remains of what used to be a beer mug on the floor and blink away the wetness stinging my eyes. “Look,” I say, grabbing a rag and bending down with a dry laugh. “It just wasn’t meant to be.”

  Violet drops down beside me, picking up pieces of jagged glass with her bare hands. “Yeah and you got cheated out of it by a narcissistic shitbag. If I ever get my hands on—”

  “Vi, let it go.” I need to end the conversation and fast. Wrapping as much of the glass as I can in the rag, I dump it on the tray and hoist it back onto my shoulder.

  Luckily, Violet gets the hint and returns to the bar as I manage to lug the tray to the kitchen. But even as I wander back out, I can’t get her offer out of my head.

  It’s ridiculous. I could never put myself through that again. Hollywood is built on the almighty dollar. I found that out the hard way. Talent can get your foot in the door, but it only takes greed and an offshore bank account to slam it in your face.

  Pushing the thought from my mind, I keep busy by serving drunks who will eventually pay their bills and continue traveling to parts unknown. Someplace else. Any place else.

  Lucky bastards.

  “So, what’s that all about?” The question catches me by surprise, and I turn to see Violet again, draped over the bar like she doesn’t have three waiting customers giving her death stares.

  “What’s what all about?”

  Smirking, she pushes up on her palms. “That,” she says, making duck lips at table number four. “I know eye-fucking when I see it, and that, my friend, is a ‘bent over the table, do-me-from-behind’ kind of eye-fuck.”

  My breath catches. I feel those infuriatingly cocky blue eyes on me before I see them. Violet is right. His stare is vicious. Feral. An arctic blast that seems to look through me and peel back layers of raw skin.

  “Considering the way he bulldozed in here swinging his dick around you’d think h
e owned half of California.” She cocks a hip, a smile dancing under her nails as she drums them across her lip. “He may be one to keep around, Ang.”

  “Oh, shit, I almost forgot!” Spinning around, I dig in my apron and pull out a folded piece of paper, shoving it in her hand. “I need you to make this for me.”

  Violet, lifts an eyebrow, slowly unfolding it before wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Who the hell ordered that?”

  Stealing a cherry from the garnish tray, I pop it in my mouth and wink. “Someone about to get a hard dose of reality.”

  Chapter Six

  Dominic

  I didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in my mouth like most kids in LA. I did what I had to survive. Unfortunately, Los Angeles’s finest didn’t quite see it that way, and I found myself a nice little six-by-eight-foot home away from home.

  You might think I regret breaking the law, but I don’t. The time I spent behind bars taught me things I would’ve never learned anywhere else. Like just because a man wears a badge doesn’t mean he’s the good guy, and sometimes the truth won’t set you free, but degrees of distortion will line your pocket.

  Mostly, I learned if you listen more than talk, problems solve themselves. The key is to blend in with your surroundings enough that people forget you exist. Eventually, they get so caught up in being the center of their own universe they don’t notice you’ve become a part of it.

  And that’s how I find out Angel the waitress is also Angel the actress.

  A fucking actress.

  Maybe somebody up there does like me because this just keeps getting better.

  “Here.”

  My elbows slip off the table as a glass clunks in front of me. Looking up, I see Angel standing at the edge of my table wearing a triumphant smile. I glance down at the tall shot glass full of thick white liquid topped with whipped cream. “What the hell is that?”

  “A Sloppy Seconds shot.”