You Don't Know Me

by Nancy Bush

  “Your attitude stinks.”

  Hayley slid him a sideways look. “Kinda goes with the smell around here, huh?”

  Lines tightened around his mouth. He was the worst kind of manager: big on authority and criticism, small on help and praise. Since her night out with Gloria Carver, Hayley had learned a thing or two about lowlifes. Jason, though not as desperate and morally empty as the men she’d encountered, was still a lowlife. He was mean in a small-minded way that was totally annoying. He enjoyed his petty insults and liked to see people squirm. It bugged him that Hayley was more impervious than most.

  “You think you’re so smart,” he finally muttered, turning to bark at the newest waitress, a fumble-fingered eighteen-year-old who squeaked in fear every time Jason growled at her. He slammed his way through the swinging café doors into the kitchen.

  The eighteen-year-old raised tear-filled eyes to Hayley.

  “Men,” Hayley said by way of commiseration. “Ever wonder why they populate the planet?”

  “So we can have babies?” she ventured.

  The girl’s innocence was almost unbearable. “They’re here to make sure we never get away with anything. They’ve got to keep us in line. It’s a male rule. And they like it best when they’re hurting us.”

  She stared at Hayley as if she’d said she was from Jupiter. “What?”

  “Never mind.” Hayley was brusque. She hated that kind of naiveté. It was so easy to crush that type of soul.

  At that moment the door opened and Gloria Carver herself sauntered to the nearest booth, licking her lips as she slid across the bloodred cushion.

  “I’ll take this one,” Hayley called over her shoulder, butterflies revving up for flight inside her stomach.

  “So,” Gloria said.

  “So,” Hayley answered.

  After their evening at “Keith’s,” which actually turned out to be a roving address to keep the vice squad off Danny’s—Danny of the red pole club, that is—neck, Hayley and Gloria had been picked up by the same black sedan with the same stone-faced driver. They’d been dropped back at the club and Hayley had then hailed a cab to her apartment.

  There’d been no other contact, so Hayley was curious and alarmed at her new “friend’s” appearance.

  “So you’re a watcher, huh? Dumbest thing I ever heard.”

  “Stick around here. It gets dumber.”

  “Kind of a smart mouth you got.”

  “My manager would agree.”

  “Wanna go out again?”

  Hayley sized her up. For the life of her she couldn’t see why Gloria Carver should care.

  “They liked that,” she enlightened Hayley. “Makes ’em feel like real studs to have a girl watch.”

  Hayley fought back visions she would rather forget. Gloria Carver was a professional and she gave good service for the right price, no matter who was watching.

  “They already had female company,” Hayley pointed out.

  “Oh, her.” Gloria dismissed the vapid blonde with a sound of disgust. “She just likes the drugstore. But you were stone-cold sober, weren’t you? Sittin’ there watching. Did you get what you wanted?”

  “It was an education.”

  “Got off on it a little, too, didn’t ya?”

  Hayley regarded her carefully. Gloria Carver would probably hoot and holler if she knew how repulsed Hayley had been. Willing herself away from the scene had been the only way to get through the evening.

  “Y’know, I got some other friends, too.”

  “What kind of friends?” Hayley asked cautiously.

  “Expensive friends. Money. Kinky. Really wild.”

  “Celebrities?” Hayley questioned, her pulse quickening.

  “Oh, yeah. Hey, one of Danny’s girls got a part by doing somethin’ special with her little piggy toe.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “Uh-uh. Come out with me again. I’ll take you somewhere nice.”

  “Why? What’s in it for you?”

  “More money!” She looked surprised that Hayley was so dense. “I scored big the other night.”

  Hayley shook her head. “Next time, someone might want a different performance out of me. I don’t need to risk it.”

  “How much do you want that part?”

  Hayley met her knowing gaze. Gloria Carver was too smart and too insightful for a street hooker.

  “We can go clubbin’ at some hot spots.”

  Hayley eyed Gloria’s street-walking duds but remained silent. Gloria read her mind.

  “I got nicer stuff. You’d be surprised who I know.”

  John Callahan?

  No, he wasn’t into this scene at all. He might be a womanizer, but the only way he’d contact a hooker was for the same reasons Hayley was currently leading this double life: a film project.

  “All right,” Hayley said tautly.

  Eye on the prize.

  Carolyn’s party had hit that phase between fake smiles and kisses and down-and-dirty drinking, smoking, and turning on. It was the point when things could turn fantastic or ugly, depending on the makeup of the crowd.

  It had been four days since Denise had collapsed on the sofa—and not a damn thing had changed. The initial excitement over her fainting spell had changed to boredom when the venerable Dr. Stone had made an uncharacteristic house call and ordered—as a prescription—a hearty bowl of soup. So, okay, she hadn’t been eating regularly. Denise still didn’t feel Stone had a right to be so irritatingly authoritative.

  “You’re going down,” he said, another comment completely out of character. “You’re not sinking. You’re diving.”

  Denise had been lying on the chaise, a blanket tossed over her legs. Feeling vulnerable, she’d shrunk away from him. She’d never been so close to him before. No desk separated them. He was sitting in a chair right next to her, turned so that he could look square in her face.

  And the light was so goddamn bright in the solarium. Jeezus! You’d think Carolyn would have more forgiving illumination. Denise felt exposed and uncertain and afraid.

  “How much is this house call costing me?” she demanded. “Double the rate?”

  “I’ve listened to your flippancy for weeks. It tells its own story.” When she didn’t bite, he enlightened, “Your life is a cover-up.”

  Now, that was interesting. Stone, making a prediction? All she’d thought he could do was parrot other, better psychiatrists. “Okay, what do you want me to say? I’m sorry? From now on I’ll remember to eat?”

  “Want to tell me what happened after our last visit?”

  Denise considered. “I went on a little vacation,” she said cautiously.

  “What was it that set you off?”

  “Set me off? Look, Doc, I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.”

  “You left my office and drove away in Carolyn’s car. Were you aware of your actions?”

  “Yes,” she answered belligerently. Did he have to sound so arrogant and accusatory?

  “You’ve been suffering from delusions. I just want to know if your decision to leave was made consciously.”

  “I was pissed after our last session, okay?”

  “Because I accused you of acting?”

  His hazel eyes gave nothing away. No compassion there now. She had the sensation that he was angry with her. Maybe he actually got annoyed with his whackos once in a while.

  “You really take your job seriously, don’t you, Stoner?”

  “Denise, do you remember what I told you at our first session?”

  “Let me think. No, don’t tell me. I bet I can come up with it.”

  “I said I was only in Houston temporarily.”

  “You didn’t give me a chance to answer,” she complained. Damn the man. She hated it when he acted like he didn’t hear her.

  “My home’s Los Angeles,” Stone went on relentlessly. “I gave up my practice and moved for personal reasons, but I’m going back now.”

  Vaguely,
she recalled some part of this story. A wife. An ex-wife, maybe? And a life that seemed shallow and pointless. He’d left for Houston because . . . because . . .

  Her mind shut down. Panic seized her. “You can’t,” she whispered, tortured.

  He didn’t answer, but his eyes saw everything. To her horror, Denise felt tears burn. She would not cry. Nothing could make her cry in front of someone except a director’s cue. She damned well wouldn’t let it!

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Denise’s throat closed in on itself. She stared mutely.

  “But I didn’t come here to talk about me,” he added more gently. “We need to discuss you. Your therapy, and where we go from here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I haven’t been your doctor long enough to make predictions on your illness.”

  “But I’m definitely ill, right? We’ve established that.”

  “You’re symptomatic of a cyclothymic personality and—”

  “Speak English, Doc.”

  “—I think you’re heading toward, or are already suffering from, a severe bipolar mood disorder.”

  “So I’m bipolar. Big surprise.” Denise shaded her eyes against the glaring sunlight so she could see him more clearly.

  “It’s also possible these delusionary spells and lapses are drug-induced.”

  She knew what he was asking. She didn’t blame him. And she wasn’t exactly drug-free. “Just say yes,” she teased.

  “Women are more prone to bipolar illnesses.”

  “Do say.”

  “Women have two X chromosomes, which is important in bipolar illness, if dominant X-linkage is involved.”

  The meaningless words were coming out of his mouth, but Denise was reading his eyes. He was saying, “Please, let me help you.” She could almost believe his sincerity.

  But that would be too risky. Too, too risky.

  “You’re going to miss talking about my sick sex life,” she murmured, her voice whispery and weak.

  His brows pulled into a frown. For once in his life he seemed stumped for some professional platitude. Reaching into his breast pocket, he drew out a business card, holding it out to Denise. It took an immense amount of energy to accept the card.

  “If you change your mind, this is my L.A. office number,” he explained.

  Hope surged inside her. She didn’t live here, with Carolyn. Hell, no! She was an Angelino herself.

  But he was rejecting her. Call it what you will, he’d come here to personally drop a diagnosis on her, then make sure she understood their relationship was over.

  “You’re also going to miss a big chunk of income.”

  She saw him draw back and regard her thoughtfully, almost sadly. Well, why not? He was losing big bucks here. Did he really think she’d follow after him like a lovesick fool? Did he think she’d buy that mumbo-jumbo, psychiatric bullshit?

  “Call me,” he urged.

  “You belong in L.A., Stoner. That dyed hair and that mock serious look. Now if you learn to curl your lip a bit, you could do one of those fifties’ James Dean-Marlon Brando jeans commercials.”

  To her surprise he reached for her hand. Denise’s heart jolted at the contact, but he simply shook her limp fingers in a gesture so poignantly symbolic of endings that she nearly lost control of those bottled-up tears.

  “Maybe when you learn to trust a bit more,” he said, bestowing one of his rare smiles on her before he left.

  Well. That had certainly been a bad day. She’d spent the rest of the afternoon sitting around with Carolyn and dropping acid. She didn’t normally do many drugs. But she’d been so miserable since she’d run away from L.A. and John, she’d simply fallen into whatever Carolyn was doing. And Carolyn and her friends had gone retro and were doing acid.

  She hadn’t ever told Stone, of course, though now she suspected he’d guessed as much. He would most likely blame her delusions and time lapses on LSD, and there was undoubtedly some truth to that. But he thought she was more than bipolar and that was frightening. What he was really saying was she was flat-out crazy, and Denise was viscerally afraid of being truly certifiable.

  She’d surfaced sometime the following afternoon and had been stone-cold sober ever since. No fun, but she’d also experienced one of those short, clear periods when life seemed to make some sort of sense and her destined path didn’t seem so bumpy.

  She had to cut ties with Carolyn. It was time to move onward and upward. She shied away from actually returning to Los Angeles and her career, but what else was there?

  She had to go back. And this decision had absolutely nothing to do with Dr. Hayden Stone. Nothing.

  Liar.

  “Hey there . . .”

  Denise surfaced from her reverie to find Peter smiling at her. He’d been fairly self-contained since he’d discovered her on the doorstep. At least she hadn’t experienced any sexual delusions, nor had he displayed his endowments.

  “Want something?” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the bar but Denise knew he was offering a veritable drugstore of delights as well. She’d already turned down cocaine, Ecstasy, and several others she hadn’t bothered to learn the names of. Yes, Carolyn ran with the hot, young Hollywood crowd when she was in L.A. and some of them visited her in Houston when they were looking for a change of scene.

  Flat-out crazy . . . But I’m not like that. I’m not.

  Peter was still waiting.

  “I’d like to look something up on the Internet,” she said. “Could you bring me a laptop or iPad?”

  “Is this a trick question?”

  His gaze slid from her face to her breasts. Her blouse was taupe silk and a line of black lace peeked out from the deepest point of the V. “Yes, it’s a trick question. The trick is to see if you understand it.”

  “I understand.”

  Now his fingers were following the path of his eyes. Reaching forward, he drew a line from the hollow of her neck to the deepest point of the V, then back up over the mound of her left breast.

  “I don’t think you do,” Denise replied, but a terrible churning developed inside her. Anger and sorrow and fear vied for dominance.

  He moved closer. She could feel the heat of his breath against her ear. Then he moved around behind her. This was no dream. This was Peter the Proud, ready to entice her with drugs, alcohol, and oh, yes, let us not forget his favorite lure: Peter the Proud’s Penis.

  With a sense of inevitability Denise waited while his heat enveloped her. Her gaze lit on the luxurious appointments of Carolyn’s home: the vivid tapestries; the pre-Columbian art; silk drapes; the mosaic tile inlaid with gold.

  And the guests. Milling around, paying little attention as Peter’s hands slid over her back and around the front to move up her rib cage and cup her breasts.

  Like this, baby? You like this? Stop crying. I mean it, stop that!

  Denise jerked as if from a sound sleep. Peter was silently thrusting against her, rhythmically bouncing against her buttocks, as if there weren’t others in the room who were bound to notice any moment.

  She didn’t waste time on words. Just turned around and slapped him for all she was worth. The second afterward she stared at her palm, shocked.

  “Bitch!” Peter spat.

  Denise trembled all over. She stalked from the room and ran upstairs, her whole body suffused with color. Shame. Shame that she’d let him touch her.

  This was no delusion. None of it was a delusion.

  Your life is a cover-up.

  She pressed her knuckles to her flaming cheeks, biting her lower lip until blood flowed freely.

  “Denise? You in there?” Carolyn’s muffled voice sounded through the bedroom door. “For Christ sake, you’ve got the whole party in an uproar. Peter smashed my favorite Waterford vase, the fucking bastard, and said it’s your fault!” She rapped on the door. “Denise?”

  Reluctantly, Denise opened the door. She looked at Carolyn. Really looked at her. Her red hair was
artfully touched up but growing brittle, the telltale signs of too much tampering. Her face was unlined, to date, and she’d gone in for several sessions of permanent makeup so that now her eyes were always lined with a soft mink color of eyeliner and her lips were always pink rose. It was a procedure Denise was thinking about doing, too.

  “The prick says you slapped him. You should have kicked him in the balls.”

  “I thought you liked him.”

  “He smashed that vase into my mosaic tile. A piece hit Lambert Wallace on the chin. He’s bleeding, goddammit!”

  Underneath her fury at Peter was an accusation meant for Denise.

  And suddenly she was weary of this whole scene. Sick to the back teeth of Peter, Carolyn, and everyone else who’d cruised through the place these past weeks.

  She could be gone and back in L.A. by morning.

  As soon as Carolyn returned to the party, Denise packed up the clothes and personal items she’d bought since checking into Hotel Carolyn. An hour passed, an hour where the music downstairs swelled louder and louder along with the voices. Another night of revelry and self-indulgence and waste.

  Leaving her bags at the top of the stairs, Denise tiptoed downstairs again, determined to avoid Peter at all costs.

  No such luck. He was sprawled on the Aubusson carpet just inside the front door. Denise stepped gingerly over his legs; he was clearly stoned.

  Carolyn stood beside a slim, handsome man in a black T-shirt and gray sports coat, her arm wrapped possessively through his. He had a handsome face, but there was something cruel about the eyes and cheekbones. His near-black hair was worn long and had been bleached with yellowish streaks, giving him a kind of rock star look. Lambert Wallace, she recalled. He’d started out in the tech business, video games, maybe, but was now involved in film production. He was touching a handkerchief to his chin. Ah, yes. The Waterford crystal debacle.

  “Champagne?” Carolyn asked, her eyes too bright and wide.

  “No, thanks. Carolyn, I’ve got to leave. Thanks for everything,” Denise told her.

  Lambert gazed at her intently. Denise pulled out a smile of acknowledgment though she’d never felt less like smiling.

  “Denise Scott,” he said. “I saw you slap our downed warrior over there.”