“What’s it mean, Mama?”
“I know what it means,” Andy said, smirking. “It’s when a man puts his dickie in a stupid girl’s mouth.”
Ellen turned on him angrily. “Stop it, Andy. Stop it right now!”
At that moment the door opened, and Lara Ann’s father, Dan, walked in. He was a big, blustery man—handsome, although heavy around the jowls, with a gut that was growing every day.
“Daddy, Daddy!” Lara Ann squealed, running over to him, throwing herself into his arms. Dan swept up his little daughter, hugging and kissing her. She smelled liquor on his breath, but she was used to it. Her father owned a liquor store, and every Saturday morning he took her there. Sometimes, when it wasn’t busy, they’d sit in the back and he’d let her drink as many Coca-Colas as she could manage, while he’d swig scotch from the bottle and warn her not to tell.
“Can I have half your chicken, Daddy?” she asked, cuddling up to him.
“You’re late,” Ellen said, moving over to the stove, sounding grumpy.
“Glad you noticed,” Dan replied, putting Lara Ann down.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ellen asked.
“You know what it means,” he said, swaying slightly.
“No, I don’t.”
Dan pulled out a chair at the kitchen table, sat down and told the two children to go in the other room and watch TV.
“I wanna stay with you, Daddy,” Lara Ann objected, clinging to his hand.
“No, pumpkin,” he said, giving her a little shove. “I’ll see you after I’ve had my dinner.”
“C’mon, scaredy cat,” Andy said, pulling her arm.
Ellen wagged a warning finger at her handsome son. “Don’t forget—Charlie’s Angels.”
Lara Ann sat quietly in front of the television, staring at Farrah Fawcett and her glorious mane of golden curls. Andy picked up a toy car and began zooming it around the living room floor, making loud car noises. “Be quiet, Andy,” she said.
“No!” he said, sticking out his tongue again. “You’re a stupid girl. Girls gotta shut up.”
“No they don’t.”
“Yes they do.”
“No they don’t.”
They were so busy arguing that at first they didn’t hear the raised voices coming from the kitchen.
Then Andy said, “They’re fighting again—shush!”
“Bitch!” They heard Dan shout. “Cheating bitch!”
Then Ellen’s voice. “How dare you accuse me.”
“I’ll accuse you of what I want. Everybody in town’s talking about you and that dentist! It’s not just your teeth he’s filling, Ellen . . . it’s not just your fucking teeth.”
“Elliott Dunn is nothing more than a friend.”
“Yeah, a friend who screws your ass off.”
The raised voices frightened Lara Ann. “What are they talking about?” she whispered.
“Dunno,” Andy said.
“I refuse to be the laughingstock of this town,” Dan yelled. “Oh no—not me. Not Dan Leonard.”
“People like to gossip; there’s nothing going on.”
“Says you.”
“It’s the truth.” A moment of silence; then, “Dan . . . Oh my . . . what are you doing? What are you doing?”
“Defending my fucking manhood. Something I should’ve done a long time ago.”
“Don’t be silly, Dan.” Ellen’s voice rose in panic. “This . . . isn’t . . . sane. PLEASE DON’T . . . DON’T . . . NOOO!”
There was a terrifically loud explosion. Lara Ann jumped and covered her ears. She knew something bad had happened.
Andy leaped up.
“Don’t go,” Lara Ann whimpered, clinging to his arm. “I’m frightened, Andy. Stay here with me.”
“I gotta go see,” he said, pulling away and running into the kitchen.
Lara Ann cowered on the couch. She heard her father bellow something, then the sound of a short struggle and, after that, another loud explosion.
She stayed exactly where she was, still covering her ears.
Suddenly her father ran into the room with a wild look in his eyes. “C’mon, pumpkin,” he said, pulling her up.
His eyes were all bloodshot and scary, but she loved her father more than anything in the world, so she didn’t argue.
“Where are we going, Daddy?” she asked meekly.
“Away from here,” he muttered, scooping her into his arms and carrying her through the kitchen.
Sprawled on the kitchen floor was her mother, a thin spiral of smoke snaking out of a gaping hole in her chest.
Slumped by the door was her brother, his head blown half away. There was blood everywhere.
“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” Lara Ann began to scream. “Mommy’s been hurt. Mommy’s bleeding. So’s Andy.”
He wasn’t listening. He carried her out the door and almost threw her in the back of his car. Then he jumped in the driver’s seat and they roared away from the house.
“Daddy, Daddy,” she whimpered, so frightened she could scarcely breathe. “What happened? Why’s my mommy on the floor? Why’s Andy all bloody?”
“Nothing happened,” he muttered, picking up a bottle of scotch from the seat next to him and taking a swig. “They’ll be fine.”
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, bringing her knees up to her chest. “Daddy, something bad happened! Who did that to Mommy and Andy? Who did it?”
“Your mother got what she deserved,” he muttered. “Cheating bitch!”
Lara Ann began to cry, big gulping sobs that shook her entire body.
Dan drove to a motel, stopped at the desk and got a key. Next he parked outside a room and carried her inside. She was still crying, a river of silent tears running down her face. She loved her father, and yet she knew in her heart he’d done something terribly bad.
“Sit down and watch the TV,” he ordered gruffly.
“I wanna go home,” she whimpered.
“Do as I say. Switch on the TV, and don’ start whining like your mother.”
He slumped into a chair, taking another swig from the bottle of scotch, which was now almost empty.
Her daddy had never spoken to her so harshly, but she knew his anger had something to do with the bottle in his hand. Andy had told her that when people drank stuff like that they got drunk. And when they were drunk they got sick and talked in a funny way. Her daddy was sick.
As the evening wore on, she grew more and more exhausted. Her father went out to the car and came back with another full bottle of scotch. She peeked at him as he drank the whole bottle, muttering to himself.
Later that night she heard the sound of police sirens in the distance. Her father heard it too, because he sat up very straight and stared right at her. “Y’look jus’ like your mother,” he said, slurring his words. “You’re pretty, but inside you’re a slut, like your mother. An . . . ugly . . . little . . . slut. Thass what all women are. Unnerstan’ me?”
Her eyes filled with more tears that rolled down her cheeks. Her father had never said such horrible things to her before. She’d always been his favorite, he’d always loved her.
Her world was crumbling and there was nothing she could do. “I want Andy,” she cried out. “And I want my mommy.”
Dan took a gun from his pocket.
Lara Ann stared at the harsh glint of metal. He was going to shoot her, just like she’d seen people get shot on Charlie’s Angels, just like he’d shot Mama and Andy. She wouldn’t even have a chance to grow up.
“Daddy—” she started to say, her little face puckering.
“Doncha ever forget,” he mumbled, his mouth twitching. “Inside you’re an ugly slut, jus’ like your cheatin’ mother.”
Then he put the gun in his mouth and blew his brains out.
Blood and hair and pieces of flesh splattered all over her.
She was six years old.
• •
After a while, Lara went back inside, contemplating another
long, lonely night.
It was okay; she was used to being by herself. She’d manage. She always had.
CHAPTER
12
ALISON SEWELL FIRST SPOTTED LARA Ivory at a film premiere. At the time Alison was trapped behind a pack of stinking, sweaty men, all of them blocking her way.
Alison was not popular with her fellow photographers, so anytime they could keep her from getting the shot, they did. Truth was, they hated her.
Alison didn’t care, she had ways to outsmart them—her ways. A swift kick in the shins. A lethal knitting needle thrust into a vulnerable body part. A feigned fainting fit. Oh yes, Alison had tricks that could get her anything she wanted. After all, she was a woman, so the pigs thought twice about fighting back.
One guy tried. He tripped her up, following this move with a vicious punch. She promptly sued him. They came to an arrangement out of court, giving her a six-thousand-dollar settlement. It was a warning to all of them. Don’t mess with Alison Sewell or you’ll regret it.
She’d been in the business for eight years, taking over from Uncle Cyril when he succumbed to throat cancer. She made a reasonable living catching celebrities and politicians doing things they never wanted to be seen doing. Once a month she flew to New York. Three times a year she covered Washington. She hit the streets every night, staking out the openings, fancy premieres and parties. She had photos of O.J. during the famous freeway chase; she was outside the house when he was arrested; she’d caught Johnny Romano with a hooker; Madonna in Miami with a new boy toy; Venus Maria, topless by her swimming pool.
Yes, Alison Sewell got the gritty pictures the tabloids craved. And for that, several photo editors paid her handsomely, although none of them particularly liked her.
Alison didn’t give a damn; she had no personal life. Men didn’t attract her, nor did women. Sex was the cause of all evil, and Alison Sewell simply wasn’t interested.
She lived with her mother—now bedridden—in Uncle Cyril’s house, which he’d left to them in his will. Most days she slept, hitting the streets at night clad in her uniform of army combat pants, sturdy hiking boots, brown T-shirt and a flak jacket with numerous pockets in which she stored her precious film.
Alison worked alone. She didn’t need anyone slowing her down.
That first time she actually saw Lara Ivory in the flesh, it was a striking revelation. Pure, innocent beauty. A face so perfect Alison almost cried out.
She automatically raised her camera above her head, popping off as many shots as she could. Then she went home and developed the film in the shed at the back of the house, which Uncle Cyril had converted into a darkroom.
When the finished images came to life, Alison was stunned by Lara’s incomparable freshness and staggering beauty. Hers was the most special face Alison had ever photographed, and she immediately wanted more.
After that she didn’t look back. Lara Ivory became her major obsession.
Like a ravenous lioness tracking its prey, Alison set about finding out everything she could concerning the famous star. She changed her working habits to include any event Lara might attend and was always up front, kicking anyone who got in her way.
Soon Lara began to recognize her, favoring her with a smile, a friendly wave. Alison saw this as a sign. She began writing notes and printing up photos for her idol and handing them to her—or trying to. Usually some unwanted publicity flack or bodyguard came between them, blocking her line of communication. This infuriated her, because surely—without interference—she and Lara Ivory could become friends.
Alison had never had a friend, somebody to talk to and confide in. All she had was her mother, who did nothing but whine and complain as she lay in bed withering away, her frail body riddled with cancer.
“That’ll teach you to smoke,” Alison scolded almost every day, the same thing she’d said to Uncle Cyril when he was dying.
Alison didn’t smoke. Instead she ate chocolate bars—sometimes seven or eight a day. They might make her fat, but she wasn’t stupid enough to smoke like her two closest relatives. Look where it had gotten them.
One day, Alison decided to pay Lara a visit. She’d located her address in a map-of-the-stars book, which she kept beside her bed for two weeks before getting up early on a Saturday morning and setting off in her beat-up old station wagon for the long drive to Hidden Valley Road—which, according to the star book was located somewhere off Sunset.
Alison was excited. It was a bold thing to do, but she knew in her heart that Lara would welcome her. She took with her a scrapbook she’d put together—a pictorial record of Lara’s comings and goings for the last three months. There were some wonderful photos, but the only one the tabloids had chosen to run was of Lara and her current boyfriend, a man called Lee Randolph, having an obvious fight in public.
Alison did not like this Lee Randolph character. He was not good enough for her Lara. She deserved better. Although why Lara needed a man at all was beyond Alison’s comprehension. Men were pigs. They farted and swore and spat and fought. They were liars and cheats and philanderers, and Alison hated them all.
When she reached the house she was surprised to find it unprotected. No high hedges or big iron gates. Just a driveway leading up to the simple-looking, although quite large, ranch house.
She rang the doorbell and waited. Just her luck—Lee Randolph came to the door.
“Yes?” he said. “Can I help you?”
“Uh . . . I’ve got something for Lara.”
“I’ll take it.”
“No! I need to see her personally.”
He gave her a funny look and told her to wait. Then he closed the door in her face, and ten minutes later the police were there asking what she wanted.
That bastard! If Lara only knew what he was doing. He wasn’t protecting her, he was isolating her from her real friends.
She informed the cops she was a loyal friend of Lara Ivory’s, but the sonsofbitches didn’t believe her, and she was forced to leave, mission unaccomplished.
After that she started writing Lara letters—one or two a day—rambling on about how unworthy Lee Randolph was, what a moron her publicist was, how if only people would get out of Alison’s way, she and Lara could be friends.
And then she started going back to Lara’s house, sometimes seeing the housekeeper or Lara’s assistant or Lee. Each time she was there someone called the police, until eventually the cops told her that if she came back again, they’d arrest her for stalking.
Stalking! Who did they think she was—John Hinckley? What a bunch of dummies. She was Lara’s friend, that’s all. She didn’t mean her any harm.
But Alison didn’t want trouble, so she stopped visiting the house and instead continued sending letters, photographing Lara whenever she could.
After a while she started noticing that the people around Lara—her so-called protectors—began instructing their star not to look in Alison’s direction or go near her at premieres and big functions.
At first she thought it was her imagination. But no, it actually was happening. Lara no longer smiled and waved. The intimate looks stopped. And Alison began to get furious. Truly furious.
She had to do something to regain Lara’s trust and attention.
Something that nobody would forget.
CHAPTER
13
BEFORE JOEY KNEW IT, FRIDAY arrived, and they still hadn’t gotten to his scene. For three days he’d been stuck on a bar stool, observing Kyle “Mister Big Star” Carson blow take after take, while Lara sat there serene and lovely—never once complaining.
Kyle was a major dick, refusing to acknowledge Joey, acting as if he didn’t exist. Joey wasn’t used to being ignored. The women on the set made up for it. In spite of the fact they thought he was engaged, he was getting more invitations than he could handle. Truth was, he knew he could nail any one of them, including Trinee. But he wouldn’t. There was a time and a place, and this wasn’t it. Besides, since setting eyes on Lara,
he had no desire to bed any of the others. Instead he concentrated on charming them all, weaving tales about his lawyer fiancée and how smart she was.
They ate it up. Women loved a man they thought they couldn’t get.
Every day Lara seemed to go out of her way to greet him with a friendly wave and a smile. They’d never had a conversation, but he knew she was aware of his presence. Of course, it would be hard for her not to be, since he was always in the background of her scene, watching her.
He’d made it his business to find out more about her. So far he knew that Trinee was right: she wasn’t in bed with the director, and she didn’t have a current boyfriend. She was staying in a rented house on the beach with her assistant and a guard, and everyone seemed to love her. In spite of her friendly demeanor, it appeared to Joey she was a loner—exactly like him. His kind of woman. But for once in his life he was too edgy to go for it.
Joey Lorenzo. Stud supreme. There was no way he’d risk a turndown.
Madelaine had threatened to arrive that evening, so his immediate problem was figuring out a way to stop her. He borrowed a cell phone from one of the crew and called her. “You’re not gonna believe this,” he said in a husky voice.
“What?” Madelaine asked suspiciously.
“I got a bitch of a sore throat. It’s so freakin’ bad I can barely speak. Only good thing is they’ll never get to my scene today. I gotta be okay by Monday, so I’m gonna spend the weekend in bed drinkin’ hot tea an’ missin’ you.”
“Wouldn’t hear of it,” Madelaine said briskly. “I’ll come look after you.”
“No, honey, no,” he said. “I’m serious about this. I have to rest up.”
“But, Joey,” she said, hating herself for sounding needy. “I was looking forward to seeing you.”
“Jeez, Madelaine,” he snapped. “Don’t make me feel guilty about bein’ sick. It’s my big scene on Monday—you understand, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said reluctantly. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Doesn’t mean I won’t miss you,” he said, turning on the charm again.
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