Playing for Love

by Mel Curtis

  “I brought some coffee cake,” Yvonne was saying. “And Sonny’s bringing the coffee. We thought you could use an afternoon pick me up.”

  Trying not to look at Evan, Amber tugged her bra back in place and searched for her underwear. “I really need a shower. Can you come later? Er…Come back later?”

  “Here’s the coffee, puddin’. Where’s our girl?”

  Yvonne lowered her voice, “Taking a shower. Let’s put this in the kitchen and come back in a bit. She says she’s got a friend out walking.”

  “I’ll watch for him. There’s been strange men lurking in our hedges all morning.”

  There were sounds in the kitchen and then the front door closed.

  “I think they’re gone,” Amber said, risking a look at Evan in the mirror.

  Clothes on? Check. It wasn’t as if either one of them had much to put back on.

  Strong desire to leave? Double check. Evan wasn’t meeting her gaze.

  “Neighbors?” he asked, dropping his wallet into a pocket of his basketball shorts.

  “No. The overly friendly housekeepers my dad hired,” Amber explained absently, still standing between Evan and the door. She couldn’t quite bring herself to move. Every woman in L.A. knew the way to hold onto a celeb was imaginative, urgent sex, but apparently her pent up frustrations were too much for Evan. Not that she wanted to hold onto the basketball player.

  Evan tilted his head. “Amber, your dad is dead.”

  “I know that,” Amber said absently. Maybe there was something wrong with her. Maybe she did need Senge’s instruction.

  “So why do they still work here if you don’t like them?” Evan must not have cared too much for the answer, because he nudged Amber out of the way and opened the door.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Leaving.”

  Amber grabbed the back of his damp T-shirt as he stepped over her slipper. “You can’t leave yet. They think you’re out walking.” And the photographer…

  “Soon they’ll know I’m just walking out. That’s what guys do after bad sex.”

  Amber didn’t care about the bad sex…much. “Just…hold on…”

  But he wasn’t. Evan kept walking. “I just embarrassed myself, Amber. I need to go.”

  “Embarrassed yourself?” Amber let him go. “Because you had an orgasm before I got mine?”

  He stopped, one hand on the doorknob. “No. Because I had one practically the moment I was inside you. That’s not how a man has sex.”

  “I…” She wouldn’t admit that she came apart when he touched her. She’d be a liar, because she hadn’t gotten there as quickly as he had. But she’d been damn close. There were extenuating circumstances, after all. And now that he wasn’t touching Amber, reality was intruding and the reasons she couldn’t have – er, attempt – sex with Evan again returned.

  “Just go,” she said in a tired voice.

  Evan’s grip tightened. He wanted to turn around and show Amber what a great lover he was. Below decks Mr. Happy was rather excited by the possibility. But what if Evan wasn’t man enough for Amber? What if he blew it again?

  Three strikes. You’re out.

  Yeah, but in the NBA you got six fouls before you were out of the game.

  Six? What guy needed six times with a woman to get it right before being benched?

  Evan needed air. He practically ran out the door. “I’ll tell Jack you turned the job down.”

  “The hell you will!” Amber was a sight to behold – fire in her dark eyes, most of one shapely thigh exposed, blouse askew and hair mussed. If Evan hadn’t just made a fool of himself he would have been unable to resist trying to score.

  “Don’t show up at practice Monday, Amber. I won’t be accountable for what happens if you do.” Evan forced himself to turn away.

  “That must have been a fast walk, boy.” An old man with a cane stood in the driveway near the side gate.

  A photographer wearing a red baseball cap leaned around a bush, snapping away.

  “He’s known for his speed, Sonny,” Amber shouted, punctuating her statement by slamming the door.

  “Fast ain’t always the way to go,” the old man commented, continuing to stare at Evan.

  True to his speedy reputation, Evan peeled out and sped away.

  Chapter 22

  L.A. Happenings by Lyle Lincoln

  …Most statement makers appear in public fully clothed. I’ll let the photo (available online) be the judge, but Amber Rule’s skirt yesterday rivaled Mimi Sorbet’s fashion choices for lack of coverage.

  “You promised me food and coffee,” Trina grumbled as she slouched her way through the door and into retro land Sunday morning, her face hidden beneath her hoodie and a pair of sunglasses. “This better be good. I mean, seriously. You blew me off for dinner all last week and called me before noon on a Sunday when I closed Tingle at four a.m.”

  Amber shut the door, careful of the scrapes on her palms from her foray into streetball. She wore a William Rast T-shirt and black yoga pants – feel sorry for me clothes.

  Trina halted mid-slouch. “What’s that smell?”

  “Banana blueberry crepes and fresh brewed coffee.” After a sleepless night spent wondering what to do about Evan, Amber needed Trina’s advice and something to bribe her with. Thank you, Yvonne. The housekeeper had left breakfast warming in the oven and a note saying the pair was taking the day off.

  Trina sniffed and continued into the kitchen. “I’ll give you props for that if it’s still hot.”

  It was. After they’d eaten and Trina was on her second cup of coffee, Amber decided it was safe to broach the topic at hand, starting with the meeting with Jack, ending with Evan’s dual quick draw. Amber had a black and blue toe, scrapes on her hands and knees, a huge raspberry on her butt and an ache for release that her vibrator hadn’t been able to satisfy. Damn Evan Oliver. “And so I have to come up with some Rules – ”

  “Other than not letting him touch your va-jay-jay?” Trina was fully alert now and cutting to the chase.

  “ – to improve his game.”

  “Unfortunately, it looks like physical contact with you helps his game,” Trina plowed on. “If you don’t watch out you’re going to be his pre-game ritual. I could be wrong, but I don’t think that’s a legitimate sales strategy.”

  “I know, but – ”

  “I mean, it would be great if you could use the fact that you’re more woman than the Candy Man can handle, but it’s not exactly a precedent you want to set for other clients.”

  “I know, but – ”

  “It’s unethical.”

  “Enough! I need to find out how my dad made the Rules work all these years. Let’s search the office.” Amber headed down the hall, her gait stiff from the bruise on her derriere. “Maybe we missed something the other day.”

  Once inside Dooley’s office they paused, taking in the bright colors, sixties memorabilia and goddess lamp.

  Amber sighed. “It’s hopeless isn’t it?”

  Trina ambled over to the unframed drawing of starflowers leaning against the wall. “I still say I see naked women in all his pictures.”

  Amber chose not to comment.

  “This is weird.” Trina knelt in front of the picture.

  “My dad wasn’t very talented.”

  “He wasn’t untalented either.” Trina surprised Amber with her praise. “Look.” She pointed to the rolling ground beneath the flower stalks. “It is a woman’s body.”

  “Trina – ”

  “Don’t be such a prude, Miss Almost-Got-Hers.” Trina stood and outlined the base of the drawing with her finger. “Here’s her head. The dip and swell lead to her torso – naked, I might add. And then her hips, her legs and feet.”

  Amber didn’t see anything but uneven ground at first, and then something caught her eye. “Do you see the word Ego in the lines of her torso? See? The E is here. At her breasts.”

  “Wait. What does it say on the stem of this flo
wer?” Trina traced the stalk with one finger. “Wijjy Bottom? That makes no sense.”

  “No. That’s not right.” Amber squinted at the picture. “It’s not Wijjy Bottom…it’s Wiggy Bottom. Oh, my God. I’ve seen that phrase in a couple of files.” Amber practically pounced on the file drawer. “And he wrote a book one time about dealing with inflated egos.”

  “So that could be something he did life coaching for.” Trina bent her head to the picture again. “This other stem says Expose Me. Wait. There’s something on each one of these stems. And the flower petals? These are…they’re names.”

  Amber spun around. “Names? Whose names.” Three steps had her back at Trina’s side.

  “The strokes are really fine, which is probably why we didn’t notice any of the writing before, but…maybe Cal Lazarus.” Trina lowered the picture. “Oh, my God. He’s a huge movie producer and he used to have this horrible ego. When I was a kid I remember he was up for some award, didn’t win and then told the press his work was more deserving or something. A real Kanye West moment pre-Kanye West.”

  “He’s very different now, humble for a successful movie producer,” Amber said absently, trying to decipher some of the small, delicate letters hidden in the petals. “Look, there’s Lyle Lincoln’s name.”

  “What a tricky bastard. Your dad hid his secrets at home in plain sight.”

  “In artwork none of us ever wanted to look at closely.” No wonder her father’s will forbid Amber from remodeling. Otherwise she might have thrown away the secrets to the Foundation. “So that means the other pictures…?”

  They rushed to collect eleven more pictures and set them all up in the living room on the black leather couch and Halloween orange club chairs.

  “There are twelve themes here,” Trina summarized, pointing at each as she read slowly, “Self-esteem, Control, Choice, Love, Sexuality, Discovery, Ego, Creativity, Reinvention, Happiness, Courage and Forgiveness.”

  “Each theme features a different flower. And there aren’t the same number of flowers in each picture,” Amber said, feeling more than a bit overwhelmed. “Which means just because he was helping people with self-esteem or reinvention or whatever, sometimes he had a lot of tools and sometimes he only had a few.”

  “And the really big news.” Trina practically danced in the thick white shag. “The really, really big news is that we know who got coaching for what.”

  “Trina.”

  “Do you know what this means?”

  “Trina.”

  “This is your retirement strategy right here, sister. If this gig at the Foundation doesn’t work out you can land yourself a book deal. Actors, politicians, business moguls, celebrities. Or you can auction off names now to the paps and buy an island in the Caribbean. I know a guy – ”

  “Trina, I can’t sell any of this.” The idea was sickened Amber.

  Her friend stopped dancing and gave Amber a hard look. “It’s your information to sell.”

  “I can’t make money off these names. I’m sure my dad signed non-disclosure agreements.”

  “Who cares? After all your dad did to you and what he’s putting you through now, no one would blame you. This town lives on dirt. People ask me all the time about who shows up at Tingle.”

  “If I sell any of this, I’ll be betraying my own secrets. My name’s in here, too.” On four different pictures – Self-esteem, Choice, Reinvention and Forgiveness. She’d seen her sibling’s names as well, but rarely on the same picture as hers.

  “You could make enough money to disappear forever.”

  Amber imagined a house on the beach on some remote Caribbean island that had running water, cable and internet access. It was tempting for about two seconds. She shook her head.

  “Ok, I get it. It’s a shame, but I get it.” Trina sighed and paced the display of Rules. “But don’t look so sad. You’ve just made an earth shattering discovery. Evan Oliver has a huge ego and you’ve got the answer to his problem right here.”

  “Not exactly.” Amber picked up the Ego picture they’d started with. “I don’t know what Expose Me, Wiggy Bottom and Heavy Suitcase mean.” That was as much as they’d been able to read without a magnifying glass.

  “So close. So close and yet so far,” Trina warbled.

  Although Amber didn’t recognize the song, she did agree with its sentiments. “Exactly. I’m more depressed than I was this morning.” And Amber wasn’t sure which was more disturbing: the idea that her father thought he’d made her a better person or the idea that he actually had.

  “Then there’s only one thing we can do,” Trina said.

  Amber rubbed her forehead. “What’s that?”

  “Reheat the leftover banana blueberry crepes.” Trina herded Amber back into the kitchen.

  After Trina extracted a promise from Amber to show up for dinner Monday night she left to get some sleep. For a long time, Amber sat in a chair in the living room and continued to study the Ego picture, but there were no more clues to be found.

  “Expose Me. Wiggy Bottom. Heavy Suitcase.” Amber ran her finger over the words. It was so clear to her that Evan needed his big ego bubble burst. But how? “What does it mean, Dad?” Amber cocked her head as if expecting Dooley to answer.

  She imagined she heard her father’s laughter.

  There were two days until the Flash played next. Despite what Jack Gordon said, Amber doubted her impact on Evan’s game. But just in case, Amber couldn’t risk letting yesterday’s event – Evan activating his star power before she’d hit orbit – be the last interaction they had before he played again. Amber was going to have to face Evan Oliver alone tomorrow at the Flash’s practice. If she had to pick something to battle Evan’s ego, she’d choose the heavy suitcase route. She’d already exposed herself and her bottom (arguably not wiggy).

  Maybe if she looked at one of the pictures with her name on it she’d be able to figure out her father’s cryptic code.

  Amber set the Ego picture aside, but couldn’t bring herself to pick up one with her name on it. The question remained – had her father messed up her life? Or had she done that three years ago all on her own?

  Too chicken to discover the answer, Amber went to the kitchen for a glass of water, then leaned against the doorway staring at her father’s legacy from afar.

  She should call Blue. He’d know what to do.

  Or he’d rub her nose in the pictures she was in.

  Ixnay that idea.

  Amber walked to the other side of the living room and set her water glass on the mantel. The couch holding the pictures was mere feet away. She needed reinforcements. She gave in and called Blue.

  “Hello?” A raucous crowd drowned out whatever else Blue tried to say. He was out having fun while she was angsting about their dad.

  “It’s Amber,” she shouted. “Call me back.”

  Something banged against the living room window, sending the blinds rattling and Amber’s heart pounding. She held herself perfectly still, listening, reassuring herself that it could be a cat or a bird or both.

  Bushes rustled.

  Amber went for her purse and reached inside for her loaded water pistol. She yanked open the front door. “Freeze or I’ll shoot.”

  Two men with cameras wound around their necks, one with a red cap on, bolted from the bushes next to the house – definitely trespassing.

  Gun shooting streams of water, Amber pursued the paparazzi to the sidewalk, but they were faster than her gimpy gait and fled safely in a black SUV with a series of numbers on the plate she had no hope of remembering. Calling the cops would be a huge waste of time.

  Amber limped dejectedly back to the house and locked herself inside, hoping she’d scared them away for good. But who was she kidding? They’d be back later and be waiting for her in the morning. She had to defend herself and her father’s secrets? But how?

  A delicate rose colored crystal bowl sat on the table in the foyer. It was the perfect size for a supply of water balloons. She
’d pick up some tomorrow after work. It was easier to think about water guns and water balloons than her father’s artwork. Easier, but not avoidable.

  Amber refilled her pistol at the kitchen sink and glanced into the living room at the row of pictures.

  She could do this.

  Just pick one.

  Trina had grouped the artwork with Amber’s name on the end of the couch nearest Amber. Self-esteem. Choice. Reinvention. Forgiveness.

  Not much was to be gained from Forgiveness with its ivy-like leaves, because Amber hadn’t let Dooley back into her life after he took advantage of the Kent Decklin debacle. He’d wanted her to go on Oprah and sob her way through how the Rules had helped her deal with her boobs being flashed all over the internet. Of course, she hadn’t forgiven Dooley. Or Kent.

  Immediately, Amber was assaulted with guilt. Her father was dead and she was still carrying a grudge. The guilt wasn’t enough for her to pick up the Forgiveness picture though. Chances were she’d only find something there that pissed her off.

  Reinvention? The spiky blue flowers that bloomed from low on the stem to the waving tips were deceptively innocent looking. Amber suspected the theme of reinvention had to do with transitioning from an overweight, clumsy pre-teen to a buxom young lady. She didn’t want to go there either.

  Self-esteem? Within the petals of the cheery sunflowers something sinister was no doubt hiding, something that would destroy her already hard earned, currently shaky confidence.

  Which left Choice, with its red geranium petals facing every which way. That had to be the least upsetting place to start.

  Amber knelt on the white shag in front of the couch and studied Choice. It must have been a popular service because there were so many red flowers they practically overwhelmed the picture. The nude making up the ground was twisted, her lower body facing the viewer and her upper body turned away. The stem holding petals with Amber’s name on it was finely labeled This or That.