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Page 21
“Not for you,” he says, and gestures to the door. “Never for you.”
I make my way into her office, take a seat, and toss the open packet on her desk where it lands with a crisp thwack.
She hangs up the phone, her face scrunching in that way that makes her look like a pickle the handful of times I’ve turned her down “So?”
“Why can’t Scarlet or Lily help this guy?” I ask.
“His people specifically requested you.”
The envelope lies on the immaculate desk, the packet white and clean – unlike my profession.
Pristine – unlike my past.
Tempting – how I envision my future.
“He’s an actor.”
“Movie star,” She corrects me.
“Whatever. He’s in L.A. I’d bet the house his agent is the one looking to hire me. The actor might not even be on board with this.”
“The manager guides the actor’s career,” Germaine says. “He’s been with him for twenty years. The actor will do whatever the manager says.”
“What’s he looking for?”
“Hope.”
“Not the manager. What’s the actor looking for? He’s the one who’s broken.”
“Redemption, Evie.”
I sigh and tap the envelope on the pristine antique desk. “Aren’t they all?”
I’ll head to L.A. to do my best to tap into the psyche of a broken movie star and find the twisted, messed up core belief that shut him down. As per usual, I’ll give my all. I’ll push myself like I always do for my beautiful broken men to help him heal. But first – a girl needs to beautify.
I hit up the usual high end places for hair, nails, waxing. Undoubtedly my new client will give me clothing. Expensive, pretty dresses and jewelry. Chances are he’ll want to show me off to his friends and business associates. The guys usually enjoy that at the beginning, before we get down to doing the dark, dirty, gritty work. But I’m not a child, and I don’t expect him to wave a wand and make all my teenage girl clothing wishes come true. Handsome Movie Star isn’t spending insane amounts of money to hire Dress Up Barbie. Handsome Movie Star is hiring a Healer.
Nordies is my go to place for cocktail dresses and I nab a few. I hit Shoe Factory for new runners. I’ll convince Movie Star to exercise with me and release endorphins from his gorgeous body. He already hits the gym, does yoga, Tai-Bo, whatever his role, his handlers, and his job call for. Exercise and endorphins are a terrific tool in my bag of tricks to break inside men’s psyches and make him reveal secrets. I scoop up athletic wear, tights, T-shirts, and running bras at a pop-up store on State Street.
It’s 9 p.m. and the store guards lower protective gates, gearing up to close. I’m starving by the time I walk into my favorite falafel joint under the el train tracks on the way home to my condo in Greektown. I bit the bullet last year and rented a place with an option to buy. A few months ago my accountant said it was time, so I bought.
I stand behind the counter at Queen’s House of Falafels. The sixty-something proprietor with the immaculate salt and pepper hair looks expectantly at me. “What’ll it be, Evie?”
I order what I always get. “Gyros, pita and hummus plate to go, Mr. Katsis. No time to make dinner tonight.”
“You look healthy and happy,” he says.
“New haircut,” I say. “How are things?”
“Me? I’m up, down. Left, right. My oldest, Constantine, is divorcing the wife.” He looks sad.
I can feel his melancholy, his fears. No grandkids for me. Only the restaurant.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Katsis,” I say, searching for things to say that will make him feel better. “I predict more daughters-in-law in your future. Constantine is a handsome man.”
“You interested?” He waggles his eyebrows.
“I fear he’s out of my league.” I frown, wring my hands, and sigh dramatically.
“Ha.” He cracks a smile. “How’s your mother?”
“She’s good, thanks. We’re going on vacation one of these days.”
“She’s coming to visit you here in Chicago?” His eyes light up like a kid catching candy at a parade. “When? For how long?”
“Do you have a crush on my mother, Mr. Katsis?” I smile and hand him a twenty.
“She’s so nice every time you bring her in here. Like mother, like daughter. I put some extra chips in the bag for you, Evie.” He hands me change. “No extra charge. I know how much you like them. Besides, you’re getting a little thin.”
“You’re a sweet man. Are you trying to make me fat?”
“No, Evelyn. I’m trying to bribe you into bringing your mom back to my restaurant next time she comes to town.”
“That can be arranged.”
I walk out the door of the hole in the wall joint swallowing a smile, the chimes on the door ringing as I leave.
Inside the elevator at my condo building I punch the button for the 12th floor. The gears engage, hum, and grind, as the lift rises to my loft condo on the top floor. I pull open the accordion door and transfer my purchases into the hallway.
I pick them back up, three in each hand, and walk down the hallway to my corner unit. I drop one handful and dig through my bag for my keys. I twist the key in the top deadbolt but it doesn’t open with the clunk that I expect because it’s not locked. It’s already open.
How is it already open? Weird. Oh, holy hell have I been robbed? My hand trembles as I slide the key in the bottom lock where it catches. I turn the key, the tumblers clunking over. I nudge the door open with my knee and peek inside. The TV is still on the wall, the computer still on the recycled barn wood dining table. There are no broken windows visible. I probably forgot to bolt the door on my way out. In my haste to get everything done before I leave tomorrow I forgot to lock the deadbolt.
I ease inside my condo, place the bags on the floor, and toss the dry cleaning over a chair next to the dining room table. Nothing appears an inch out of place but the hairs on the back of my arms are raised and something feels off.
I walk down the hall to the bedrooms. The movie posters are all hanging straight on the walls. The framed photographs of my mom, my sister and me that could pass for a smiling department store family are grouped neatly on their own space.
I poke my head in the guest bathroom. The towels are straight, the toilet lid down. The organic lavender soap in the plunger bottle is still next to the glass bowl. I open the door to the smaller bedroom. The futon is bright and cheery with the cover I bought from a seller on Etsy. The windows are intact. My second computer hasn’t budged an inch. And still, I can’t shake the weird feeling that something’s not right.
I wander down the hall and enter my room. There’s a gap in the center of the curtains and my bed is still made, but that’s where the similarity ends.
A six by six inch blue box with a white bow rests in the center of the bed. It wasn’t there when I left this morning. It could pass for a box from my favorite jewelry store.
My heart thumpity-thumps in my chest as I make my way to the bed. My breath ratchets up a notch. I untie the bow and lift the lid. There’s a wafer-thin page ripped from a book. It’s fragile and yellowing – could be antique. It’s a page from a Bible and one verse is highlighted in yellow:
“But if a woman has long hair, it is a glory to her: for her hair is given her for a covering.’ 1st Corinthians 11:15”
What–?
There’s a white card with typed letters. It’s been a while since I received one of these notes, but it looks awfully familiar.
Dear Evelyn:
* * *
It’s been two years. I had hoped by now you would have grown your hair back. But there is no covering, there is no modest Evelyn, there is only boastful Evelyn. Proud Evelyn. Evelyn who flaunts everything she has.
* * *
And this disturbs me.
* * *
I’m not sure what to do about this. I’m weighing options. I’m just a mess inside and yet you slee
p easily. Some days I can’t eat and worry gnaws at my bones.
* * *
And I wonder — what if Evelyn doesn’t have a covering and some kind of sicko realizes that and picks a fight with her? Evelyn used to be awfully nice, but she’s changed. She shows off. She’s entitled. Now she’s putting herself out there. Right there in the crosshairs for just the right predator to come around and take, take, take whatever they want from Evelyn. Whatever they crave.
* * *
What do you think they’ll take first, Evelyn? Your covering’s gone. I’m disappointed in you. So very disappointed. I’ve been silent a while, but I can be silent no more. I just had to say something. I hope you don’t mind.
* * *
I only want your best, Evelyn.
I am, as always,
Your Devoted Fan
My hand trembles as I set the note and the page aside. It continues to shake as I unfold the white tissue paper.
Clipped hair lies is in the box. Silky, shiny, brunette clipped hair. It could be mine.
I think it just might be mine...
Dear Reader: I hope you enjoyed PLAYER #1. If you did, please consider leaving a review on the site where you purchased the book.
Evie’s journey continues in MOVIE STAR #2 . Gorgeous movie star Jake Keller’s on track to win an Oscar. But Jake’s shutting down, going off grid, doing nothing to help promote his chances. Evie travels to Hollywood to try and help discover what -- or who -- broke Jake. But dirty little secrets prefer to stay buried…
One click MOVIE STAR #2! Or turn the page to view an excerpt .
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21st CENTURY COURTESAN is a sexy, dark, addictive series filled with love, lust, family loyalty, deceit, revenge, and all the sweet little things in life worth killing for... Sign up for my NEWSLETTER to learn about new books and bookish developments.
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* * *
I was an underpaid assistant working at a matchmaking agency. How was it possible that I made a love match that resulted in the society marriage of the year?
I didn’t plan on running into the smoking hot, tuxedo-clad brick wall of a man at the wedding. I didn’t plan on him stopping my fall by grabbing onto my boob and Not. Letting. Go. I most definitely didn’t plan on this gorgeous man being my new CLIENT. One-Click THE CLIENT now.
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Turn the page to read a few excerpts. Happy reading!
Xoxo
* * *
Pam DuMond
Excerpt: MOVIE STAR
BEFORE
Blood pumps through my arteries, my muscles gear up to throw punches and dodge bullets while my brain tries to figure out if there’s really a problem. My body knows when someone wants to hurt me. It’s had a lot of practice.
One Saturday afternoon in the 6th grade I hung out at my friend Emily’s house. The music was loud. Her sister was hosting a pizza party after a high school football game. A guy with bloodshot eyes stared at me from the far end of the kitchen, his hand caressing the watery drops beading on his soft drink can. Just looking at him made my stomach lurch about like the pizza I’d eaten was bad.
I didn’t want to get sick at Emily’s house, so I went upstairs and grabbed my coat from her bed. When I turned to leave the guy with the bloodshot eyes was standing in the doorway breathing heavily and staring at me funny. I slammed the door in his face. I jammed the lock and sat on the bed, my heart rattling about in my chest like a ghost haunting a closet.
He knocked and knocked. I squeezed my eyes shut and hugged my arms around my ribs because I knew no one would hear me over the music if I hollered for help.
When the music finally quieted, I popped open the door and peered into the hallway: he was gone. I bolted down the stairs and didn’t stop running until I got home. A few months later that guy’s face was plastered across our local paper because he had hurt a different girl at a different party.
“It’s him, Mom,” I said.
“See what I told you about respecting your instincts?” Mom made stir fry, the frozen vegetables simmered in the pan. “I bet that girl didn’t do the smart girl thing.”
“But what if she did?” I asked. “What if that girl fought back and hollered but no one heard her scream over the music?” My stomach knows when a situation is dangerous.
My bones know when someone dies. I was seven when Grandma Berlinger popped up in my dream shaking her owl-head baking spoon at me, fussing that she was taking a trip. “I’m out of here, munchkin,” she said. “I’m putting you in charge of taking care of your Mom.”
I woke with a start, the covers still tucked around me and yet there was a coldness in my bones, a heaviness that hadn’t been there when I’d nodded off. Sure enough, Mom got the phone call the next morning that Grandma Berlinger had passed away in the middle of the night.
Now it’s been seven long, heartbreaking days since we ran into the Wolfe brothers. A week since they bounced off our car, flew through the air like broken birds, and no one will tell me if they’re alive or dead.
No one will answer my questions. No one will take me seriously because I’m just that poor girl whose mother had a psychotic split. I’m that ‘sorry child’ who crawled out of the car toward the brothers bleeding on the cold, hard, white snow. I’m the– ‘Shh, don’t say that loud enough for Evelyn Berlinger to hear’ that her mother is going to jail for this you know’ girl.
I bet rumors are circulating about the Wolfe boys back at Beethoven Middle Grade school, but I’m not there to hear them. Mom’s been taken away, Ruby and I have been split up and sent to different foster homes. I’m staying in a different town with a perfectly nice woman in a house with other sad kids. But in spite of everything I know in my bones that Wyatt Wolfe is not dead.
If only I had Bones on speed dial. I’d pay my entire monthly allowance to hear him pick up. ‘How may we help you?’ Bones would ask.
‘Just calling to find out if Wyatt Wolfe’s still alive?’ I’d pinch myself as a reminder to keep breathing, not hold my breath and pass out because I’m so dizzy from the anxiety wriggling under my skin.
‘He’s not only alive, Evie, but he’s doing great,’ Bones would say. ‘A few of us were broken in the accident but we’re all healing up now. Thanks for asking.’
‘Oh, good,’ I’d say, relief coursing through me like a sugary soda. ‘I’ve been wondering ’cause he and his brother Easton haven’t been back to school. And I need to tell them how incredibly sorry I am. I need them to forgive me.”
‘Give it time.’ Bones would say. “Forgiveness can take some time.’
One click MOVIE STAR #2 now.
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PRAISE
* * *
“I FLOVED this book.It moves quietly along packing punch after punch.." Maura
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“a roller coaster of emotions and had me hoping that Jake Keller could be helped. “ arthistorygirl
* * *
“Who wants to come to Hollywood and help a super-sexy movie star, who is also a really nice guy, regain his mojo? Oh, and it might involve glitzy parties, star-filled movie premieres, and lots of hot, juicy sex. Me me me!!” Beverly Diehl
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One click MOVIE STAR #2 now.
MOVIE STAR: 21st Century Courtesan Book2 is © 2019 by Pamela DuMond. ~ All rights reserved.
FREE: His Sexy Cinderella: A
Crown Affair Prologue
Dear Reader: Start THE CROWN AFFAIR with His Sexy Cinderella - A Crown Affair Series Prologue — FREE! THE CROWN AFFAIR is the steamy royal romantic comedy series about Vivian, a down on her luck cocktail waitress, who gets caught up in a love triangle between two hot princes. (NOT menage!) In the end — who will win Vivian’s heart? Prince Max — the spare? Or Prince Leo — the heir?
PRAISE
"Deceit, suspense, jealously, heartbreak, love, angst—it was like reading a contemporary version of The Crown. I could not put this book down." April Symes
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"I absolutely love Vivian and Max." Amy Stephens
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"...story is most certainly ramped up... thanks to the introduction of the very dirty mind of a very hot ginger prince." Rae Sonethyn
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"...heart all mushing, sexy and delightfully entertaining romantic comedy." A. Reviewer
DESCRIPTION
I, Maximillian Rochartè, am Prince of Bellèno, and I do the Crown’s dirty work. The monarchy borrowed millions from oligarchs and the loans are coming due. I unearthed a billionaire who will fork over a fortune in exchange for marrying his daughter, Lady Cici, to my brother the Crown Prince. But Cici has to delay and time’s running out.