Beyond Paradise

by Barbara Nolan

  Jonny jerked away from Josh’s arm and shoved him with the flat of his hand. “I’m not your fuckin’ pimp, and if you call me ‘pal’ one more time . . .”

  Josh staggered a few steps, not used to violence without a stuntman at his side. His eyes widened in fear, his mouth gaped open, and Jonny doubted the skinny prick had ever been in a real fight.

  Jonny advanced and pointed at his own chest. “You wanna fuck with me?”

  Josh shrank back further and raised his hands. Not to fight, but to cover his face. Probably worried about his capped teeth.

  “That’s what I thought.” He sliced his hand through the air. “Fuckin’ punk.”

  “Whoa, c’mon now.” Eddie stepped between them and signaled Samantha. “Get Mr. Turner another bottle of Patron Platinum.”

  Samantha earned her tip by taking Josh’s arm and leading him to his table.

  “What the hell is the matter with you?” Eddie dragged Jonny out of the VIP, and down the hall to the offices.

  Jonny twisted around and shouted down the hall, over Eddie’s shoulder. “The guy’s an asshole.”

  “Shut the fuck up already.” Eddie tightened the grip on his arm, heaved the office door open, and shoved him inside.

  “Did you hear the shit he said to me?” Jonny raged and pulled out of Eddie’s grasp.

  Eddie pinned him with his hard, ice blue eyes. “Stay in here until I come back.” Eddie’s voice matched his eyes as he slammed out of the office.

  Jonny found himself drunk, pissed off, and standing alone in his office. When the door opened again, he expected Eddie, not one of the starlets from the party strutting in, full of attitude.

  “Have you been sent to your room for being a bad boy?”

  “Story of my life, babe,” Jonny grunted.

  “I heard you tell off Josh Turner.”

  “The guy’s an asshole.”

  “He sure is.” She stripped her top off and yanked her skimpy mini skirt down. “I’ve been watching you all night.”

  “Un-fucking-believable.” Right above her well-manicured Brazilian, the words “Easy Money” were tattooed in gothic letters.

  Putting her hands on her hips, she thrust forward and preened. “You like?”

  “What are you, some kinda Hollywood hooker?” Her laughter disappointed him. For some reason, he wanted to make her mad.

  “You’ll have to do better than that. I’m from L.A. I’ve been insulted by guys with lots more money and power than you.” She slithered closer and slid her hand over his zipper.

  “Not interested, babe.” He brushed her hand away.

  “There’s one part of you that’s very interested.”

  She bent from the waist, presenting him with the perfect curve of her ass as she fumbled around with her skirt. When she straightened, she held up a little baggie filled with fine white powder. “Let’s get this party started.”

  His raised brow must’ve made her curious.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never done it?”

  “I’ve done it.” The one time he had, it made his eyes twitchy, his skin itchy, and he hadn’t slept for two days. After that, he decided it wasn’t for him.

  “But I bet you’ve never done it this way.” She hopped on the edge of his desk, pinched the bag open, then sprinkled its contents over her perfect, pink nipples.

  Hitting some coke and getting balls deep in her would scramble his mind until nothing mattered. Until his desperate emotions and thoughts of Cheryl faded to a hopeless hunger, but when she arched her back and thrust her sugar-coated nipples in his face, he stepped back.

  “You should go.” He’d had enough meaningless sex in his life.

  “What the hell are you doin’ now?” Eddie entered the office, slamming the door behind him.

  Without missing a beat, the redhead hopped off the desk and proudly displayed every naked inch of her sleek, well-toned body.

  Eddie zeroed in on her tat. “Great advertisement, sweetheart, but the party’s over.”

  “Are you sure?” She stuck out her bottom lip in a perfect pout.

  “C’mon, let’s go.” Eddie pointed to the door as she shimmied into her top and skirt. “Out.”

  “Come visit me in L.A. sometime.” She winked and blew them both a kiss.

  After Eddie closed the door behind her, he stalked back into the room and swiped his fingers over the desk. “So?” He held up his fingertips covered in white powder. “This is what you’re doing now?”

  “I didn’t do shit, I was sending her off.”

  “Yeah, right.” Eddie snapped.

  “Why you acting like a dick?”

  “Maybe ‘cause I’m tired of saving your drunk ass. First, you start a fight in the VIP with Josh Turner, and now I find you in here shoving coke up your nose while trying to bang his girlfriend.” Eddie brushed the coke off his fingers. “Taking care of you is becoming a full-time job.”

  “She came on to me. And I didn’t do any blow.” He rubbed his temple. “And if I had fucked her it would’ve been the first man she’d had in weeks. Her boyfriend’s a punk.”

  “He sure is, but he’s one punk we can’t afford to piss off.”

  “Fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em all,” he slurred and lurched toward the door until Eddie stepped to him.

  “You want me?” Eddie pointed to his jaw. “Go ahead, it’d be a lot cheaper than hitting that Hollywood hotshot out there.”

  “Forget about it.” He squinted at Eddie then swayed his way to the bar in the corner of the room.

  “Yeah, good idea, like you need more to drink.”

  “Either I go out there and pop that guy, or I sit in here and drink.” He threw his hands up. “Take your pick.”

  “You better dial it down,” Eddie warned.

  “So I got a little crazy.” Jonny fumbled with a pack of cigarettes laying on the bar until he knocked one out. He flicked the lighter three times before he connected the flame with the tip of the cigarette.

  “You’re getting ‘a little crazy’ a lot lately. You’re smoking again, getting wasted. You’re all fucked up.”

  “Why are you getting in my business?” He gulped the little bit of tequila he’d managed to get into the glass, then slammed it straight from the bottle.

  “Your business is my business. You screw up, and it comes back on me. You’re getting sloppy, and I’m not working with you while you’re like this.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snapped.

  Eddie faced him, and they stared each other down. The heavy boom of the music from the club rumbled through the plush carpet. Tense silence.

  “We finally have everything we wanted, but you’re hell-bent on fuckin’ it up.”

  “Right.” He waved his hand around the office. “I got a bigger office, more clothes than I can wear, more women than I can fuck, but it don’t mean shit.”

  “Ohh, boo hoo, send yourself some flowers. You sound like a goddamn baby.” Eddie frowned.

  “Aren’t you the supportive son of a bitch.”

  “There’s no gray for you. Everything’s either fantasy or fucked up. I swear, I think sometimes you miss the drama. Blowing through everything in your way.”

  “Wow, now you’re a fuckin’ shrink.” He snatched up the bottle of tequila, listed to the side, righted himself, and staggered around the bar.

  “Do yourself a favor and call Cheryl,” Eddie pleaded.

  “This has nothing to do with her.”

  “Bullshit! This has everything to do with her.”

  “That’s why you sent her down to the warehouse the other night?”

  “I didn’t send her. She came to see me, and she overheard me talking to Alejandro. Then wouldn’t get off my ass till
I told her.” Eddie said. “She’s as stubborn as you are.”

  “She could’ve gotten her fuckin’ head blown off,” Jonny yelled.

  “I give up.” Eddie threw his hands up. “You two deserve each other.”

  Jonny weaved his way from behind the bar.

  Eddie sighed and pointed to the couch. “Lie down and sleep it off. And please think about what I said, ‘cause I can’t take you anymore.”

  Jonny sucked in two more deep drags, then crushed the cigarette into the ashtray. He wanted to ignore Eddie’s advice, but Cheryl invaded his thoughts and his dreams. At first, he’d suspected the edginess and the ache in his chest were some kind of flu, but when no other symptoms appeared, the hard truth hit him. Losing her made him sick.

  He slammed his fist on the bar, then picked up the cut glass tumbler. He weighed it in his hand, then hurled it across the room. It made him feel pretty good, so he sent the bottle in the same direction.

  Chapter 40

  Cheryl played her conversation with Eddie over and over. Had he exaggerated Jonny’s reckless behavior? She would always care and worry about him, but she couldn’t let those emotions get in the way of taking care of her baby. She refused to have someone in their lives who wasn’t committed one hundred percent, and she was determined to work hard and make a better life for both of them.

  “Hey, Cheryl, snap out of it.” Jack, the bartender dragged the dirty rag over the beer she spilled. “It’s a good thing Sal has a hard-on for you, ‘cause you sure have been out of it.”

  Rolling her eyes at his terminology, she walked to the end of the service bar and pressed her hands against the small of her back. She hoped to relieve some of the pressure from the sky-high heels strangling her feet, as Sal sat reading the Post.

  “Beyond Paradise opens to rave reviews in the wake of Frank Barnett’s disappearance,” Sal read aloud to the bartender. “No leads have been uncovered on the alleged mob murder.”

  Her heart ricocheted against her ribcage, her legs wobbled, and she gripped the bar with both hands to avoid falling off her shoes. Finally, Sal folded the paper and set it on the bar. The top half of the headline above the fold read:

  MOB RUMORS DON’T STOP GRAND OPENING

  She leaned across the bar and flipped up the paper.

  “Mind if I take this?”

  Not waiting for an answer, she tucked the paper under her arm and retreated to the ladies’ room. With shaky hands, she locked herself into the stall, sat on the edge of the toilet, reread the headline, then flipped to the article inside.

  Innuendo and speculation confirmed what she already knew. Frank was dead, and his body was nowhere to be found. Splashy pictures of Frank, the club, and one particular photo jumped out and slapped her in the face. Much larger than the others, it screamed of sex and sleaze. It showed Jonny slouched against the bar in the VIP Room with a voluptuous blonde draped over him. His head cocked to the side, with his trademark cocky grin focused on her overflowing assets. His left hand splayed just below her mini-skirted hip, with his other hand casually thrown over the bar.

  As the only color photo on the page, it stood out along with the caption: “Business as usual for Jonny Vallone.”

  She read the article a second time. What a fool. Not five minutes ago she’d worried about his well-being. Did she honestly think he’d locked himself up in his penthouse mourning the end of their relationship? Of course not, and this photograph proved it. No regrets, no remorse. Like the article said—'business as usual.’ She stared down at his image again, those haunting dark eyes, his smooth, perfect skin, the smug, arrogant leer that masked his insecurity.

  She left the stall, and angled the paper into the trash chute, then drew her hand back and ripped out the page with Jonny’s picture. She folded it in fours, shoved it in her pocket, and disposed of the rest of the paper.

  The illusion of Jonny rescuing her with the standard “happily ever after” didn’t happen in real life, and especially not in her life.

  ~ ~ ~

  The slamming of Jonny’s office door jolted him to a sitting position on the couch. A move he immediately regretted. His tongue stuck to the top of his mouth, and his eyes felt like they were drowning in sand.

  “What’re you doin’ here so early?” Jonny mumbled.

  “It's four o’clock in the afternoon,” Eddie said.

  “Shit, I feel like I got a jackhammer in my head.” He dragged his hand over his day-old stubble and massaged his stiff neck.

  “Doing some redecorating?” Eddie crunched over the broken glass.

  “I can’t believe I got so fucked up last night.” He stifled a yawn and held his head. The floating sensation made his stomach clench. He struggled to a standing position and stretched to get the kinks out of his back.

  Eddie threw the Post on his desk. “This might raise your spirits.”

  He leaned over the desk and read the headline. “Unbelievable. Frank’s still missing.”

  “Your Cuban friends dragged his ass out to one of the landfills. Nothing says ‘fuck you’ like being dumped in Jersey.” Eddie pointed to the color picture of Jonny and some blonde. “Where did they dig this one up?”

  “Who knows? That photo has to be at least a year old.” He rubbed his eyes which made them hurt worse. “Remind me to send them some new ones.”

  Eddie screwed up his face and stepped around him. “Go home and get washed up. You smell like something scraped off the barroom floor.”

  “Ahh, c’mon, I’m not that bad.” He shoved his hand through his hair.

  “Did you think about what I said?” Eddie asked.

  “I told you, seeing Cheryl’s not an option.”

  He’d never been faithful. He didn’t understand the first thing about a real relationship or how to love her the way she needed, and he refused to hurt her again.

  “You know what? Don’t do it for you, do it for me,” Eddie pleaded.

  “I’m sure she’s doing fine without me.”

  “Sure.” Eddie turned toward the door. “She’s great.”

  “You’ve seen her?”

  “We were friends way before you came into it,” Eddie said over his shoulder, then continued toward the door.

  “Wait . . .” He hated himself for asking. “How is she?”

  “She looked a little pale,” Eddie mumbled.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

  “‘Cause you said you didn’t wanna hear her fuckin’ name. That it was too painful.”

  “Now, all of a sudden you listen to me?”

  Eddie liked to torture him with reality.

  “She’s working at the Oasis again, and she has a room upstairs.”

  “What?” His alcohol-induced headache exploded behind his eyes.

  “She said she wanted to be self-something.” Eddie threw his hands up in defense. “I can’t remember.”

  Jonny ignored the sharp pinpricks that stabbed at the back of his eyes as he stormed around the room, muttering curses in Spanish and English.

  “Why don’t you quit dickin’ around and go talk to her,” Eddie said.

  “Maybe I will,” he said with a defiant attitude he didn’t feel.

  “And for fuck's sake, stay cool,” Eddie tossed over his shoulder before he left.

  Jonny rubbed at the base of his neck and caught a glimpse of himself in the ornate mirror hanging behind his desk. Bloodshot, hooded eyes, dark circles, sallow skin with a scruffy growth along his gaunt jawline and an insolent scowl. He stared into his biggest fear—waking up one day and being like his old man. That quick glimpse into his future scared the truth into him.

  He had everything he always wanted, and yet—

  His mind dared him to finish the thought, but it was no use. He could smell h
er perfume, feel her hands on him, hear her moans when he made her come. He wanted to hold her, crawl inside her, anything to make this pain go away. He needed her as much as he needed to eat or breathe and there wasn’t enough liquor in the State of New York to numb that truth.

  Chapter 41

  Jonny's hangover subsided to a dull ache behind his eyes, and a raw gnawing in his stomach. Standing outside the Oasis, engulfed in the stench of rotten fish from the pier, didn't help. But something else had his guts churned up worse than all that eighty-proof tequila. Fear.

  The broken neon sign dangled sideways over the doorway with only the ‘O’ and the last ‘S’ flashing. The splintered wooden door creaked when he pulled on it. He stepped through the dingy doorway, and the stink of spilled beer, piss, and mildew shot straight to his brain. The air had the clammy feel of an air-conditioning system that was broken half the time. A month ago he hadn’t even known Cheryl, but now her working here and living upstairs made his stomach twitch.

  Scratchy music blared out of a bad sound system and scraped against his nerves. He scanned the room, squinted against the haze of smoke, then patted the little velvet box inside his pants pocket. Knowing Cheryl, she’d fight him, back him down, and throw him plenty of attitude, but he had only one shot to make good, so screwing up was not an option.

  Something crunched under the leather sole of his shoe, and he was grateful for the dim lighting. He shuddered to think what lurked in the dark corners, or what horrors were revealed in the daylight. Even Jon Taffer couldn’t rescue this bar.

  Jonny scanned the crowd. Lowlife guys half-drunk to falling down sloppy, and women with too much make-up and ratty hair flashing fake tits in tight tops, but no Cheryl.

  The crowd parted, and he spotted Sal, the owner, perched at the end of the bar. A huge bear of a man in his mid-forties, he used his hands to punctuate every word of his thick Brooklyn accent. After three ex-wives, his personal relationships consisted of his bookie and the horses at Belmont.