Lately he’d taken to talking to her as if she were a hooker.
“Fine,” she answered coldly, wishing she could smash his lying face in. “And how’s my lazy-ass little hubby with the big cock?”
This surprised him, he was not used to Lissa tossing it back at him.
“Don’t be vulgar, it doesn’t suit you,” he said cuttingly.
“Oh, sorry,” she said with a sarcastic edge. “I thought cock and tits went nicely together.” And with that she marched into the house before he could come up with an answer.
Better take it easy, she warned herself. It’s not clever to signal that you know.
She hurried upstairs to her dressing room, where she stripped down to her bra and panties. Her masseuse was due at the house soon, and she wanted nothing more than to feel a strong pair of hands releasing the built-up tension in her shoulders and neck. It was tough constantly playing the wronged woman.
Just as she was reaching for her robe, Gregg sauntered in. “You’re in a pissy mood today,” he remarked.
“I’m tired,” she said, turning away from him.
“Tired, huh?” he said, dodging in front of her, preventing her from reaching her robe.
“Move,” she said sharply.
“Why? Can’t I get an eyeful of my wife in her sexy undies?” he said nastily. “Or is that sight reserved only for Madam’s faithful fans?” And before she could stop him, his hands went for her breasts, pulling up her bra with one swift move so that her breasts were bared and yet trapped by the bra above them.
“Great tits for an old broad,” he said. “You sure you never had ’em done?”
She recognized his mood. It was his “I’ll bring this bitch down to size” mood. The one where he tried to get even with her because she was successful and he wasn’t.
“Stop it, Gregg,” she said, trying to stay calm.
“Stop it, Gregg!” he mimicked. “Miss Famous Tits an’ Ass wants me to stop it.” And he shoved his hand down her panties and began fingering her.
“No!” she said sharply, attempting to fight him off.
“You’ve been holding out on me, babe,” he said. “And now I’m taking a piece of what belongs to me.”
She struggled, but to no avail. He was strong. Too strong. He bent her back across a stool, ripped off her panties and began thrusting himself inside her with a grunting intensity.
Lissa was so shocked that she didn’t know what to do. How could she scream in her own house and accuse her husband of raping her, because that’s what the son of a bitch was doing.
He finished quickly, thank God, stood up and hoisted his swimming trunks back into position.
“Not bad,” he said condescendingly. “And I thought you were getting frigid on me. See you later, hon.”
And with that he ambled out of her dressing room as if nothing had happened.
She was stunned. What kind of a man was he anyway?
A bullying monster, that’s what kind.
And the sooner she was rid of him the better.
•
LATER IN THE DAY, Saffron and Nicci sat side by side in a Korean beauty shop on Westwood Boulevard, enjoying manicures and pedicures.
“I was thinking of inviting Evan’s brother to dinner at the house when they get back,” Nicci said, wriggling her bare toes.
“Why?” Saffron asked. “You told me he was a totally-into-getting-laid jerk—and now you want to have him for dinner. What’s the scam?”
“He is about to be my brother-in-law,” Nicci pointed out, determined not to reveal her crush, although she was dying to confide in someone, and who better than Saffron? “So this will be my major peace move.”
“How come?” Saffron demanded, stretching out her elegant fingers as a short Korean woman applied gold polish to her long nails. “Did you two get into a fight?”
“No. It’s just that Brian’s kind of cold toward me,” Nicci explained, as a second Korean woman placed her feet in a bowl of warm water. “I know it’s ’cause I’m marrying his brother and that probably doesn’t thrill him. They may not look alike, but they are twins. And I’ve heard twins have this kind of cosmic karma—like if one gets married, the other one feels deserted.”
“Twins. Very close,” the manicurist painting Saffron’s nails said in a low, singsong voice.
“I don’t get it,” Saffron said, yawning. “You can’t even cook. So what’s the deal?”
“I’m planning on hiring a chef for the night.”
“Oh, wow,” Saffron giggled. “Now you’re going Hollywood on me.”
“I can’t do it without you, so you’d better show up.”
“Yeah, yeah—wouldn’t miss it, that’s if I can find a sitter for Lulu.”
“Doesn’t your mom ever sit?”
“Get real!” Saffron exclaimed, hooting with laughter. “Can you imagine the great Kyndra sweeping into my tiny house and baby-sitting? Oh, when she has a free moment she takes Lulu. But you know what? That woman never has a free moment—exactly like Lissa.”
True, Nicci thought. My mom always has something going on. If it’s not work, it’s a man.
“Will you bring Mac?” she asked.
“I cannot only be seen with screaming gay men,” Saffron said. “I might bring a studly actor I met at an audition last week.”
“Studly actor good,” the manicurist interjected, nodding knowingly.
“How come you haven’t mentioned him?” Nicci asked.
“ ’Cause you’re always too busy catering to Evan.”
“I do not cater,” Nicci said crossly.
“Yes you do.”
“I so don’t.”
“Whatever,” Saffron said, admiring her manicure.
“Coffee? Tea?” the manicurist asked.
“No, thanks,” Nicci answered, as the other woman gently dried her feet with a cloth towel.
“Can somebody run out and get me a Jamba Juice?” Saffron said, tossing back her long dreadlocks. “Raspberry, with all that health stuff in it. I need energy.”
“So, have you come up with any ideas for the bridesmaids’ dresses?” Nicci asked.
“I was thinking short and muted purple. Something way sixties with an edge.”
“Sounds cool.”
“Maybe you should approve them?”
“When do I have time?”
“It’s me you’re talking to, Nic. You got the time to do anything you want, it’s not like you have a job.”
“Organizing a wedding is a job.”
“I mean a proper job.”
“I’ve tried a million and one jobs. Anyway, you can talk, all you do is go on auditions and never get the part.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” Saffron said huffily. “It’s so good to have encouraging friends.”
“Sorry!” Nicci said quickly, realizing she’d stepped into a sensitive area.
“Anyway, let’s get real,” Saffron said. “We’re both supported by our families.”
“True,” Nicci admitted. “Only I’m marrying Evan, so no more handouts.”
“Then he’ll support you,” Saffron said. “What’s the difference?”
“There’s plenty of difference,” Nicci said irritably. “And anyway, how come that big dumb basketball player doesn’t give you more money? Lulu is his daughter.”
“ ’Cause I don’t care to take money from him,” Saffron said, her face hardening. “If I accept his money, then he’ll think he has some big, fat claim on her.”
“He should be giving you plenty,” Nicci said.
“I dunno,” Saffron sighed. “Whatever happened to all our feminist vows growing up? We were gonna own the world. Remember?”
“Yeah, well, all I want to own is Evan,” Nicci said, which wasn’t strictly true, because she didn’t want to own him, just be with him. “Y’know,” she mused. “It’s like I’ve dated so many bad boys, and finally along comes a good one, so I’m bagging him. Nothing wrong with that.”
“And let’s not forget he’s mega bucks rich,” Saffron offered.
Nicci hadn’t really thought about Evan being rich. But then she realized that of course he was.
Oh my God, she thought, Antonio’s marrying a rich woman. Am I doing the same thing? Copping out just so I’m comfortable for the rest of my life?
No way. I love Evan. And if it wasn’t for Brian . . .
“I mentioned the phone call I had with my dad, didn’t I?” she said, trying not to think about Brian again.
Saffron nodded. “What was Lissa’s reaction?”
“Haven’t told her yet.”
“C’mon, girl. You gotta at least warn her.”
“I will,” Nicci promised. “This wedding’s getting horribly close, and I’m nervous. Wouldn’t you be?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Saffron said, waving her gold nails in the air. “I’m planning an amazing bachelor night for you.”
“You are?” Nicci said, perking up.
“Yeah, top secret. You, my dearest friend, are gonna love it!”
•
“WHERE WERE YOU?” Larry Singer asked, greeting his wife in the foyer of their Pacific Palisades mansion. He was of medium height, skinny, with a bearded, pleasant face bordering on homely, and a receding hairline. “I’ve been going crazy trying to find you. I almost called the police.”
“It’s a nightmare story,” Taylor said, rushing toward the stairs. “Let me take a quick shower and get dressed. I’ll tell you everything on the way to your event.”
Larry followed her up the stairs into their bedroom. “Were you in an accident?” he asked, removing his glasses and staring at her. “You look terrible.”
“Uh . . . sort of,” she replied, running into her bathroom and closing the door.
“What kind of accident?” he questioned, opening the door and following her in. “Are you hurt?”
“No, sweetie, I’m fine,” she answered. “But please, let me get ready, then I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Christ, Taylor!” he said, frowning. “I was worried sick.”
She took a moment to placate him. “I know, darling,” she said, patting him on the cheek. “Everything’s all right now. I promise. So go downstairs, fix yourself a drink, and I’ll be right down.”
“Only if you tell me what happened to you,” Larry said stubbornly.
“I was uh . . . mugged.”
“What?” he roared, enraged.
“The main thing is I’m okay,” she said soothingly. “And I have exactly fifteen minutes to dress. So . . . in the car, the full story.” And she pushed him gently out of the bathroom.
Somehow or other she managed to get herself together in record time. Black velvet Valentino strapless gown, Steiger pumps, Bulgari jewelry, hair piled on top of her head, and a regal smile. She was every inch the genius’s wife. Beautiful, caring, a fine partner for such an important and respected man.
Sitting beside her husband in the back of the limo, she wove a web of lies.
I was on my way to see a writer about my script . . .
Run-down area . . .
Mugger came out of nowhere . . .
Knocked unconscious . . .
Friendly neighbors took me in . . .
Wow! She was good. By the time she’d finished her story she almost believed it herself.
Larry was very concerned, he wanted to know if she’d called the police.
“No,” she lied. “Who needs that kind of publicity? Certainly not us.”
Then he wanted to know what she’d had stolen.
“Nothing,” she answered truthfully. A pause before she came up with more lies. “My purse was locked in the trunk, and by the time the mugger tried to pull the rings off my fingers, the neighbors came running out and scared him away.”
“Jesus Christ!” Larry exclaimed. “Why didn’t you call me immediately?”
“Because, my love,” she answered, leaning over and kissing his cheek. “I know how you get, and I didn’t want to alarm you.”
Larry shook his head in amazement. “You,” he said, “are my life. If anything ever happened to you . . .”
Guilt overwhelmed her.
It wasn’t easy screwing around on a genius like Larry Singer.
Chapter Eight
* * *
ERIC VERNON WHISTLED TUNELESSLY as he followed the girl in her silver BMW, watching her as she went about her business—such as it was. After weeks of trailing her, he’d realized that she never did much of anything. Most mornings she attended a kickboxing class, picked up a cup of coffee from Starbucks, then sometimes she went shopping along Melrose, or met a girlfriend for lunch. Most times she headed back up to her boyfriend’s house, at the top of Mulholland where she lived, then spent the rest of the day lying by the pool—putting in time on her already perfect tan.
Lazy, spoiled bitch. It was patently obvious she didn’t have to work for a living like most people—Eric Vernon included.
He resented her lifestyle. It wasn’t right that someone could go along week after week, month after month, doing exactly nothing.
Eric’s mother had been a maid to a rich family in Philadelphia. She’d had no husband to support her, because his dad had walked when Eric was only a few months old. This meant that six days a week his mom was forced to clean up after two adults and three over-privileged children—two girls and a boy. The boy was the same age as him. Sometimes his mother had dragged Eric along with her to help scrub the tile floors.
Help with the floors, for crissakes. He was nine years old and down on his knees, while the other boy—the sneering, spoiled prick—was playing with an expensive model train set and laughing at him behind his back. When he’d complained to his mother, she’d beaten him with a broom and told him he was useless and a burden and should learn to shut up.
It wasn’t the first time she’d laid into him, and it certainly wasn’t the last. Beatings were a normal part of his day.
Eric learned hatred and anger at an early age. He also learned how to hide it.
Eric smiled when the lady of the house passed on her son’s hand-me-downs.
Eric smiled and pissed in their drinking water.
Eric smiled and systematically broke all of the children’s toys in such a way that nobody could ever point the finger at him.
Eric smiled and spat in their food, kept in plastic containers in the fridge.
Eventually his mother was fired, no reason given, simply a month’s severance pay and a heartless, “We do not require your services anymore.”
She died of heart failure within months. Eric didn’t particularly care. She was a mean bitch, and at least he wouldn’t have to endure the daily beatings she handed out.
Years later he’d run into the son of the family she’d worked for at an after-hours club. He’d recognized him immediately, the same smug features and preppy clothes. Eric had paid an acquaintance two hundred dollars to beat the crap out of him. The result—permanent eye damage—was satisfying.
After his mother’s demise, Eric had been sent to live in a series of foster homes. Nobody kept him long. He was cited as being difficult, destructive, and moody—not qualities anyone welcomed. He spent time with a couple of state-certified shrinks who labeled him deeply disturbed and depressed.
Depressed. Shit. Didn’t the dumb bureaucrats get it? He was fucking furious.
At sixteen he was out on his own, making a living any way he could—delivering drugs, stealing cars, knocking off liquor stores. Until he got caught and suffered ten months in a correctional institution for juveniles—a place that really fired his anger.
As soon as he got out he was prepared for a life of crime. Realization had dawned that you sure as hell never got anything the legitimate way.
Within weeks he’d attached himself to a Puerto Rican drug dealer and his girlfriend.
It didn’t take long before he was cheating the man on his profits and fucking his girlfriend.
When the dealer found
out, the evil bastard had hired a couple of goons to break his arms and legs. They’d left him in a downtown Dumpster like a piece of useless trash.
Eric had never forgotten the pain and humiliation he’d suffered. Seven years later he’d tracked the man down and beaten him to a pulp outside a restaurant. Then he’d stood there and laughed as the man choked to death on his own vomit.
Later, the bitch girlfriend had fingered him, but with the help of a good lawyer and his entire bankroll, he’d gotten away with manslaughter.
After that, prison. Six long, grim years. Years he would never forget. Years of harsh punishment and pain.
Revenge was a good thing.
Money was even better.
At thirty-two, Eric knew it was time to make the big score.
And that score was soon to be Nicci Stone.
Chapter Nine
* * *
BY THE TIME Lissa recovered her composure and came downstairs, she found Gregg lounging in the den, watching football on the satellite TV as if nothing bad had happened.
Of all her husbands he was definitely the worst. She’d married her first husband when she was a kid—so he didn’t really count. Number two, Antonio, was a charming womanizer who simply couldn’t help himself. And number three, the Washington businessman, had turned out to be more interested in business than her.
Yes, Gregg took the prize big time. Not only was he screwing around, spending her money and putting her down, but he’d actually forced himself upon her, raped her, and she’d accepted it because she wanted to ease him out quietly.
She couldn’t wait until Friday. Couldn’t wait to never have to set eyes on him again.
“We’re supposed to go over to James and Claude’s tonight,” she said, forcing herself to speak in a civil fashion. “They’re running the new Mel Gibson film.”
“You go,” Gregg said, barely glancing at her. “It’s not my scene, hanging out with a bunch of fags. Anyway, I’m working tonight.”
“Really?” She couldn’t help herself. “What are you working on now?”
“Don’t you ever listen,” he fired back. “Oh, I forgot,” he added sarcastically. “Unless it’s about you, Miss Famous Movie Star never hears a thing.”
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