Last night she’d realized it was about time she started concentrating on work again. Gregg had been slowing her down, filling her with self-doubts. Now she had to get herself together, remember who she was and what she’d achieved.
Over the last six months, Gregg had taken great pleasure in constantly calling her stupid and dumb, while picking on everything from her clothes to her choice of scripts and songs.
Too bad for him she was so resilient, a true survivor.
When Gregg was history there’d be no more men coming into her life, spending her hard-earned money and telling her what to do. She wanted to enjoy more time with her friends and with Nicci. Lately she’d been lamenting that they weren’t as close as they should be. Nicci was getting married soon, and it certainly wasn’t too late to become more involved.
Once Gregg was gone, she had big plans.
•
SOMEHOW or other Carol ended up spending the night. Michael hadn’t intended for her to stay, but one thing led to another, and before he could think about it she was in his bed.
He made love to her automatically. As far as he was concerned there was no passion left in their relationship, the sex was a series of going-through-the-motions moves, and he was pissed at himself for not ending the relationship sooner.
The sad truth was that if he finished with Carol, he’d be alone again, and sometimes spending time with the wrong person was better than being alone.
He also realized that if they broke up, he’d probably start with somebody new, leading to the same old dance.
Rita, his deceased wife, had ruined his trust in women. Rita had lied to him from day one—going so far as to pretend that the baby she was pregnant with when they got married was his. For five years he’d thought he had a daughter, until one day he’d found out the real truth. Bella was not his daughter, Bella was the child of his lowlife brother, Sal. And when Rita moved to L.A., she’d decided to send Bella back to New York to live with Sal and his wife. Only nobody had told him. He’d found out by accident—well, more like he’d paid for the information from a stripper pal of Rita’s who’d been desperate for money. As soon as he’d found out, he’d flown straight to New York, raced to his brother’s house, where he’d beaten the crap out of Sal and had the story confirmed. It had been the worst day of his life.
“I wish I didn’t have to work today,” Carol said wistfully, as she stood in his small kitchen cooking bacon, eggs, and sausage for breakfast. “Maybe on Saturday we can drive to Santa Barbara for lunch. Can we, Michael?”
“I’ll be working this weekend,” he answered, wishing she wasn’t so needy.
“All weekend?” she said, making a disappointed face.
“Looks like it.”
“How come?”
“High-profile client. Needs plenty of attention.”
“Who?”
“You know our policy, Carol. No names.”
“Oh, come on, you can tell me.”
“ ’Fraid not.”
She was about to say something, thought better of it, and went back to pouring him more coffee.
Smart girl, Carol. Knew when not to push it.
•
BY THE TIME Taylor arrived at Oliver’s it was past noon. She’d planned on a morning visit, but it was not to be, too much stuff going on that she had to deal with. She was on the boards of several charities and they were always—because of her position—asking her to do something. “Can you get us Ricky Martin to perform at an upcoming event honoring Tom Hanks?” “How about a signed script from Steven Spielberg for our auction?” “Would Larry be willing to donate a walk-on role in his next movie?”
Stupid requests. But she was who she was, and occasionally she was able to oblige.
Some mornings she joined Lissa and her private yoga instructor. Today she didn’t have time because a facial, manicure, and pedicure were definitely more important. Not to mention a Brazilian bikini wax.
When she finally arrived at Oliver’s, he was on his cell phone, pacing up and down in front of his beach-view window, speaking animatedly. He waved her away when she attempted to hug him, which kind of pissed her off. He should be kissing her ass, because not only did they have great sex, but she was paying him to work on her script.
It looked like he’d been entertaining, there were empty beer bottles everywhere, several overflowing ashtrays, and empty pizza boxes piled high.
She watched him as he talked on the cell phone. He was clad in a torn USC T-shirt and dirty khaki shorts. His outfit didn’t matter, he still looked hot.
Idly she wondered how risky it would be to check into Shutters at the Beach, where they could share some quality time together. Not to mention clean sheets and a working shower.
Too risky. Much too risky.
This morning, before leaving for the studio, Larry had asked what her plans were for the day.
She’d answered him vaguely.
“No more visiting writers in bad neighborhoods,” he’d admonished sternly. “In future have them come to the house. You can use my office.”
“Thanks, sweetie,” she’d said, imagining herself naked in her loving husband’s office, making crazed, passionate love to a horny, out-of-work screenwriter.
Now here she was at Oliver’s, impatiently waiting for him to get off the phone.
“It’s uh . . . like friggin’ unreal,” Oliver said into the phone. “I’ll be there pronto.”
“Be where?” Taylor asked, as soon as he clicked off.
“You’re not gonna friggin’ believe this,” he said excitedly.
“What?”
“My agent sold my spec road-trip script for a million friggin’ bucks!”
•
CONCENTRATION WAS EVERYTHING. At least her parents had taught her one useful lesson. Work hard and don’t expect thanks. Well, yes, she worked hard all right, but she got plenty of thanks. Her fans loved her. They adored her. They never let her down. Unlike her parents, who had no idea of the success she’d achieved.
Or maybe they did and still had no desire to contact her. It made her angry and sad when she thought about them, so she tried not to do so.
Lissa easily outpaced her dancers at rehearsal, she had enough stamina to keep going all day without a break.
“You’re the bomb, honey,” her sleek, black female choreographer informed her admiringly. “Dunno how you do it.”
Hard work. That’s all it takes.
She kept going until six, then lingered at the rehearsal studio going over stuff with her publicist. Max had all kinds of television and magazine interviews lined up for her. She said yes to some, nixed others.
She knew she should inform Max about her impending breakup, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to mention it. Another divorce made her feel like such a loser, and yet she knew that wasn’t true. Gregg was the loser, not her.
When she finally arrived home, there was a message from Gregg saying he’d be working late again. She was relieved. If only she’d known, she could have arranged to have him thrown out sooner.
Tomorrow was the big day, and with any luck she’d never have to see him again.
•
TAYLOR WAS in a dazed state of confusion. She was in her car, driving home, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. Oliver, her writer, her lover, was about to get paid one million dollars for a spec script. While she, Taylor Singer—married to the Lawrence Singer, was still struggling after two years to get her lousy movie made.
And she wasn’t too happy about Oliver’s attitude either. He’d hustled her out of his house as if she had the goddamn clap!
“What about my script?” she’d asked as he’d shoved her toward the door. “Have you even looked at it?”
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” he’d said. “I gotta get over to my agent’s.”
Graciously, she hadn’t pursued it. Not that he’d given her much choice.
A fuck would’ve been nice. A celebratory fuck.
Ma
ybe tomorrow.
She phoned Larry from the car.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Shopping,” she replied.
“I’m putting Edie on. Give her the name and address of those people who helped you yesterday.”
“What people?” she asked, totally blanking on her lies.
“The neighbors.”
“Oh, yes,” she said quickly. “The neighbors . . . I uh . . . didn’t get their exact address. And you know—I’m not sure of their name.” A pause. “Why do you need to know anyway?”
“Because I thought we should send them a gift basket, or champagne. Something to let them know we appreciate what they did.”
“Absolutely,” she said. “I’ll find out and let Edie know.”
“Speak to her now, give her the name of the writer you were on your way to see. She’ll get the information.”
“I’ll deal with it myself,” Taylor said quickly. “I’d like it to seem more personal.”
“Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.”
She clicked off the phone. Larry was always so worried about other people. He had his precious personal assistant, Edie, who’d been with him forever, do everything. Send flowers. Write notes. Buy gifts. God forbid someone didn’t get a proper thank-you.
Taylor drove her car directly to Neiman’s and indulged herself with two hours of ferocious shopping to calm herself down. Everyone was getting what they wanted.
When was it her turn?
•
DEJDRA BAKER was fed up with working for a living. She had a plan, and that plan was to snag herself a rich man. She didn’t care what he looked like or how old he was, as long as he had big bucks, he would do.
Deidra was twenty-five, not a beauty, but an attractive, if somewhat too-short brunette, with long hair and a compact body. Her best asset, unfortunately for her, had to be kept under wraps. Deidra had quite phenomenal nipples. They were huge and dark brown, and when aroused, startlingly erect. Men flipped over her nipples, but she had yet to find the man who’d flip out enough to pay her rent so she could give up her job and start enjoying herself like the affluent women she waited on at Barneys, where she was a salesgirl. It was better than her previous job, which was working at a children’s clothing store in the valley.
Crossing over the hill had been the best move she’d ever made. At least she got to meet people now. Rich people. Rich men.
At night she hung out at the latest clubs, always on the lookout for a man who could take her places. Sitting at the bar, she made connections, although never the right ones, merely guys who were looking to get laid and nothing else.
Then one day along came Gregg Lynch. Deidra recognized him immediately when he wandered into the store to check out cashmere sweaters. Mr. Lissa Roman. Husband of the superstar.
Deidra was smart, she didn’t let on she knew who he was. After some banter back and forth, he came on to her. She responded. Why not?
He took her out for coffee a couple of times, and before long they were sleeping together.
Gregg discovered her nipples with a vengeance, toying with them for hours on end. He truly got off on them, most men did.
Deidra didn’t mind, for she was under the impression that she’d finally found her ticket to the big time.
Only one problem. He was married.
It took him weeks before he told her who he was. When he did, she acted all surprised, especially when he revealed the identity of his wife.
Because she didn’t throw a fit, he started to feel very comfortable with her, and soon he was complaining about his famous wife nonstop. According to him, Lissa Roman was a cold, unloving bitch with the biggest ego in the world, and his most fervent complaint was that she refused to help him with his career.
Deidra had listened to a few of his songs, immediately understanding why Lissa couldn’t help him. The man had no talent except in bed.
Of course she didn’t tell him that. She told him he was the most gifted, fabulous, hot, sexy man she’d ever slept with. And he had the biggest, most exciting cock she’d ever seen. And his wife was an idiot, because she did not appreciate him.
Gregg believed every word—he was a man, wasn’t he?
After a while it occurred to Deidra she was not getting anything out of the affair except a litany of complaints about Lissa Roman. Gregg was not offering to pay her rent. Gregg was not buying her presents. Gregg was not mentioning that he would divorce his wife—thereby ending up with big alimony. He wasn’t even taking her out to dinner, claiming it was too risky for them to be seen together in public.
All they were doing was hanging out in her tiny apartment, indulging in endless sex. Which wasn’t a bad thing, because Gregg was quite a cocksman. On the other hand, Deidra had to think about her future, and if Gregg wasn’t prepared to come up with a plan that suited both of them and some big bucks, she’d better start looking elsewhere. After all, she wasn’t getting any younger, and Hollywood was chockablock with beautiful babes, a new batch arriving every day.
Deidra decided she’d better make a stand. So when Gregg arrived at her apartment on Thursday night, she was ready.
He entered, complaining. Nothing new about that.
Deidra listened for a while, stifling a yawn because it had been a long day—even though she’d had the pleasure of admiring Brad Pitt from afar when he’d come into the store with his wife, Jennifer Aniston. How lucky could one girl get? A hit TV series and Brad Pitt. It didn’t seem fair.
Gregg fixed himself a scotch. Her liquor, he didn’t even spring for that.
He sat down on the couch, still complaining about Lissa, then said something that really got her angry. “Take off your bra, babe. Shake those titties an’ gimme an eyeful.”
Who did he think he was talking to? A hooker? A stripper? A lap dancer?
She was suddenly livid.
“Gregg,” she began in an uptight tone. “I’ve been thinking . . .”
“You have?” he said, interrupting her. “Clever girl.”
“Don’t talk down to me,” she snapped.
He was surprised, it was the first time Deidra had raised her voice to him. “What’s up?” he said.
“First you ask me to take my bra off, then you treat me like I’m some kind of bimbo,” she said, steaming. “I am not a bimbo, I’m your . . . your lover. And I’ve been thinking.”
“Don’t give me shit, Deidra,” he said, starting to frown.
“What makes you think it’s shit?” she said, still simmering.
“ ’Cause you’ve got that face on.”
“What face?”
“The face women get when they’re gonna say something that’s gonna bug the crap outta me.”
“You come here, we make love, you go home,” she nagged. “What’s in this for me, Gregg? Are you planning to divorce your wife or what?”
“Jesus Christ!” he said, standing up. “Who mentioned divorce?”
“I did,” she said defiantly.
“Hold on a minute,” he said, his expression tight and nasty. “We’ve only been seeing each other a few weeks.”
“It’s not a few weeks, Gregg. You’ve been coming over here most nights for the last two months.”
“What’re you doin’, counting?”
Her voice rose to a high pitch. “And I’m not getting anything out of it.”
What the fuck? Why couldn’t women keep their pissy little complaints to themselves?
“Didn’t realize you were looking to get something out of it,” he said with a sneer.
“I can’t waste my time if this isn’t going anywhere,” she said, now in full nag and unable to stop. “You talk about Lissa as if she’s the worst thing that ever happened to you. If you divorced her, we could be together and start living normally, instead of sneaking around. I want to live somewhere nice, move up in the world. I want to be with you.”
“This is all I fucking need,” Gregg groaned.
“What
’s all you fucking need?” she said, her patience snapping. “Me to take off my bra and parade around so that you can stare at my tits?”
He slammed his drink down on the table. “Why else d’you think I’m here, baby? For your intelligent conversation?”
“What did you say?” she asked, her lower lip trembling with indignation.
“I get enough shit at home,” he growled. “I’m not listening to it here. So if you don’t like our arrangement, screw you!”
He started toward the door.
She went after him. “Where are you going?” she demanded, nervous because this scene was not playing out the way she’d imagined.
“Wherever the fuck I want,” he snarled.
She grabbed his arm.
He lashed out, knocking her to the floor.
“You bastard!” she cried out.
He looked down at her with contempt. “Like I’d divorce Lissa for a pitiful tramp like you,” he spat. “Don’t you get it? Lissa’s somebody. Who’re you? Just a nobody with sideshow nipples. S’long, Deidra. Thanks for the ride.”
And then he was gone.
Chapter Eleven
* * *
THURSDAY NIGHT, Michael and Carol were invited to dinner at the Robbins house. Since Quincy was laid up, Michael decided it might be a good time to fill him in on office business.
The first thing Quincy wanted to hear about was Lissa Roman’s situation.
“I told you,” Michael explained. “She’s waiting until tomorrow. I’m expecting a call from her first thing, then I’ll go right over and deal with it.”
“Lissa’s a nice lady,” Quincy said. “You gotta make sure she’s taken care of.”
“I will,” Michael said.
“And that’s all you gotta do,” Quincy added warningly.
“What’re you getting at?”
“Mister Casanova.”
“Bullshit, Q.”
Carol was in the kitchen with Amber, the hum of their conversation drifting into the living room as the two women chatted about their daily lives. The children were upstairs in bed.
“My wife’s cookin’ you my favorite meatloaf,” Quincy announced. “Along with sweet potatoes, collard greens, an’ black-eyed peas. You’re a lucky man to be invited to sample her fine cookin’.”
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