Playing for Love

by Mel Curtis

  “Wiggy Bottom,” she whispered, narrowing her gaze on the gossip columnist.

  “How do you…?” Lyle froze like a rabbit sniffing out danger. A sneaky rabbit who was bluffing about what he needed from her – not life coaching.

  Lyle’s name was on most of her father’s ground Rules, more than anyone else’s. Why would Lyle need so much life coaching? Unless he was using their time together as fodder for one of his columns.

  Evan was right. Amber was too gullible, a guppy for every shark circling the tank. Frustrated anger burned from her toes to her fingertips. She wanted a water weapon. Lyle deserved a soaking. But Evan had confiscated Amber’s pistol, which left her with only one option: retreat.

  Amber’s hands shook as she grabbed her tote. “I’ve got to go.”

  “We’re only a few minutes into my session.”

  “I’ll call and reschedule.” Like, never.

  “Wait!” Lyle followed her into the hall. “At least give me something to work on.”

  “Stop trying to bluff everyone, including yourself.”

  “You owe me.” Brock planted his loafered feet at the seam between Evan’s garage and the driveway.

  Too bad the garage door had a no-crush safety feature.

  Evan pretended to misunderstand Brock. “Owe you? For what? Talking to your wife?” He’d been trying to do the guy a favor. No man should ever grovel to a woman.

  “You owe me for doggin’ that last game in college. You could have played.” Brock was lost in the past, too blinded by jealousy to see what mattered was his situation today. “But no, you had to listen to your old man. How many times did we tell you to blow him off?”

  Evan’s fingers flexed. Why did guys spoiled by their dads think it was easy to get rid of loser fathers? “You need to leave. Now.”

  “Why? Because I’m the first person with the balls to say it? Or because you’ve believed your own press all these years? I mean, fuckin’ A, who came up with the gunshot angle? You in a gang? What a load of crap.”

  Evan’s stomach roiled. “Are you finished?”

  “Yes. No.” Brock shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

  “Then leave.”

  “I don’t think you get it.” Brock pushed his sunglasses on top of his head. The green tinged sadness in his expression was not nearly as compelling as the palpable loss in his voice as it sank to a hoarse whisper. “You made me look pathetic in front of Mandy. I need a place to crash and this dump is just as good as my car.”

  No. Evan’s house was his sanctuary. But he couldn’t vocalize his protest and didn’t move to stop Brock as he plowed past.

  Brock opened the door and stopped. “Holy shit. When did you go Goth?” And then he closed the door behind him.

  Evan watched the garage door shut out the rest of the world without hitting anything on the way down. Only then did he go inside.

  “If it wasn’t for the windows this place would be as cheery as a mausoleum.” Brock rummaged beneath the black marble bar. “Dude. There are more colors in the rainbow than black and gray.”

  “Hey, I’ve got an idea.” Evan dropped his practice bag on the tiled entry floor. “Why don’t you swing by your house with some flowers and a bottle of wine? Put the kids to bed early and remind Mandy why you got married.”

  Brock poured himself a shot of whiskey and powered it back. “You’re assuming you have sex after kids enter the picture.”

  Evan shielded his eyes. “Don’t tell me there’s no Santa Claus. You’re shattering my illusions.”

  “If I was your friend, I’d tell you what it’s like to watch childbirth.”

  “If you were my friend you would’ve brought me a bucket of chicken and a six pack.” Evan headed toward his bedroom.

  “You can show me to my room now.” Brock dogged his every step. “Does it have a coffin I can sleep in, too?”

  “Fuck you.” The hallway was dark, built against the high side of the hill, allowing the bedrooms to open up to the valley below. Evan stopped at the first door, a sparsely furnished guest bedroom. “Be gone by morning. And stay clear of my Starbucks.”

  Chapter 29

  L.A. Happenings by Lyle Lincoln

  …This in from the set of Kent Decklin’s latest movie, “Toys in the Attic.” Just days into filming, producer Cal Lazarus is questioning Decklin’s ability to carry off the sensitive role of Drew and has called a halt to production. What will the yummy actor do to prove he should keep the role?

  …All’s been quiet at the Fabulous Forum while the Flash has been on the road. They squeaked in two wins led by scoring from that yumster Evan Oliver. We hope the show continues this Saturday back at the Forum when they take on the Lakers. That Amber Rule is as unpredictable as next year’s fashion trends.

  Three days without Evan Oliver.

  Amber would like to say they’d been blissfully calm days, but she had more going on in her life to keep her on edge than a sexy as sin basketball player who wanted her in his bed.

  “One more meeting and then we’re done for the day. Why don’t you put on a fresh coat of lipstick and smile this time?” Blue had apparently given up trying to placate Amber’s foul mood, but he was still trying to polish her appearance.

  Over the past few days, Amber had been tested. Someone in a black SUV kept ringing her doorbell between midnight and three a.m. And the Zablonskis had ritualized breakfast at dawn. She wasn’t sleeping well. She’d read all her father’s books in between Blue thrusting one client after another at her. She’d watched all the infomercials and the 60 Minutes video. And still she’d found no answers to the questions that plagued her. Were the Rules really life changing? Had her father been using her? Or had he loved her all along?

  In response to the mayhem that had become her life, Amber’s inner bitch had escaped. She was curt and shrewish and hated herself for it, but what could she do? It was highly unlikely that Blue was going to apologize to Amber for lying (particularly since she hadn’t confronted him about it) or that Lyle would come clean about his motives for wanting life coaching. Then there was Cora and that persistent photographer hovering to capitalize on Amber’s missteps. And Amber was never going to get an apology from her father for an insurmountable list of grievances.

  Damn right her forgiveness flower had died. What was there to be chirpy about?

  “Let me see if he’s arrived.” Blue headed toward the lobby.

  He. Just what Amber needed. Another man bypassing eHarmony.

  Amber made a mental note to find a local kick-boxing class while she surfed the internet, waiting for Blue to return. Somehow her searches always came up with results for Evan Oliver.

  “You look gorgeous, Amber. Positively edible.” The velvety, masculine voice had once played a sweet soundtrack in Amber’s dreams. Too bad it now haunted her nightmares.

  Amber hadn’t been face to face with Kent Decklin since their break up. She resisted the urge to slump and minimize the breasts Kent had so cruelly objectified. But her hand crept up to the crinkle pink silk scarf at her throat before she could stop herself.

  “As I recall, Kent, you prefer a diet of underage silicon blonds.” Amber didn’t recognize the hard edge in her voice, but then again, neither did Kent, if his finely arched eyebrows were any indication.

  Standing at a wiry five-ten, Kent’s blond hair was fashionably long and pushed back from his face, making his blue eyes stand out in his delicate features. Evan’s classically etched face was craggy by comparison.

  Blue followed the actor in and closed the door behind him.

  “I see you two know each other,” Blue feigned ignorance. “Did I miss the traditional handshake?”

  Knowing Blue would read her the riot act if she didn’t greet Kent with at least a smidgeon of civility, Amber stood and extended her hand across the desk. There was no way in hell she was kissing Kent’s cheek. Or his ass.

  “I’ve missed you.” Kent captured Amber’s hand and planted his lips on the back of her fing
ers.

  There was no jolt of electricity. Kent’s smile was too polished, his moves too practiced for it to jump start Amber’s libido.

  “I’ve really, really missed you,” Kent expounded, pulling his chair closer to Amber’s desk.

  Amber sat, quickly wiping the back of her hand against her Citizens of Humanity jeans, vowing to charge Kent a shitload of money. “I hear you’ve become a believer in the Rules.”

  “I’m ready to be molded into a better person.” Kent’s smile was angelic.

  Fortunately, Amber knew Kent had clipped his wings a long time ago.

  “Kent,” she began, trying to hit the replay button on the spiel she and Blue had been making the past two hours, but two words kept pounding in her brain: Charity Case.

  Had her father considered her a charity case? Had Kent been laughing at Amber the entire time they were together? The anger she’d barely held back all afternoon broke free. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up today.”

  “Yes,” Blue cut in. “It takes a lot of nerve to admit you need help. And then to show up and pay for it in advance.”

  Amber sent Blue a look that said whatever Kent paid wasn’t enough. And then she gave Kent what he was looking for – a smile, although it felt more like a sneer. “We all know that no one could ever mold Kent into a better person. He does such a great job of finding perfection in the mirror every morning.” Yep, Kent was perfect. On the outside. Millions of movie goers around the world melted when he flashed those pearly whites. But since his physical attributes far outweighed his acting chops, considerably fewer movie executives were charmed.

  “You always had that something extra,” Amber continued. Like the makeup artist behind the soundstage. Or the assistant producer in his trailer.

  Kent smiled broader, taking Amber’s compliments at face value. “I’m having trouble capturing the character in my latest film. You were always good at helping me understand the layers of a character.” He spared a glance at Blue. “But it’s getting late. How about we discuss this over dinner? Say seven-thirty at Matteo’s.”

  “Sure,” Blue said at the same time that Amber said, “No.”

  Kent laughed. “Do you need to check your calendars?”

  Blue glared at Amber. “No. Tonight’s perfect.”

  Kent had star power.

  He got them into Matteo’s in Westwood without a reservation, but not without attracting the attention of the paparazzi. Kent’s grip was firm on Amber’s arm as he smiled for the photos outside the trendy restaurant. She should never have accepted his offer to drive her to dinner.

  Luckily for Amber, she was dressed to be ogled. To show the world she didn’t care about that painful video, Amber wore a midnight blue halter dress, the hem of which fell just below her wounded knees. She’d pulled her hair back into a chignon and carried a black sequined clutch, too small for water weapons.

  And surprise, surprise. Mr. Red Hat wasn’t amongst the click-happy crowd. He was probably napping before another midnight raid on her doorbell. Too bad he didn’t know that Amber had disconnected the bell box.

  Enough. Amber subtly ground her high heel into Kent’s Italian loafer, which finally turned him away from the photographers. She was missing dinner with Trina – again – to be the Foundation’s sacrificial lamb.

  As soon as they entered Matteo’s, they were ushered into a booth in the middle of the dining room where they’d be on display to any patron. Amber held back a frown.

  “Oh, there’s only two of us,” Amber said, noticing the table was set for three. “Blue’s not coming, remember?”

  Blue had bowed out, claiming a previous coaching commitment and wanting to review the Rules. Amber hadn’t bought it, but hadn’t argued either. It would be so much more fun to toy with Kent without Blue running interference.

  “Mimi’s coming,” Kent explained, shaking his napkin out.

  Mindful of the hostess waiting for their drink order, Amber ground her teeth to keep from reaching across the table and smacking Kent upside the head. Besides, knowing Kent, he’d think it was foreplay.

  As soon as they were alone, Amber leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I thought you broke up with Mimi.”

  “I did, but we’re still sort of friends. I stopped by her place to get some of my things.” Amber wished Kent would stop trying to blind her with his smile. “One thing led to another and well – ”

  “You had break-up sex.” Wonderful. “Please tell me you didn’t film her.”

  Kent grinned as innocently as a choir boy caught swilling church wine. “I learned my lesson when I filmed you, babe. My Q rating dropped significantly.”

  “He can be taught,” Amber murmured. “Since our private time will be limited, we need to talk about the specifics of coaching.”

  “Let’s hold sessions at my house. You haven’t been to my new place. The bedroom has a sweet view of the ocean. With the window open I can hear the tide come crashing in every morning. You’d love it.”

  Kent awoke to the waves while Amber awoke to the Zablonskis. It figured. “I don’t think Mimi will like the idea of me in your bedroom.”

  “Mimi doesn’t own me,” Kent said stubbornly. “I don’t like to be tied down.”

  “I know.” When they were dating, she’d heard rumors about Kent’s infidelity, but ignored them. She’d thought they were in love and she assumed everyone else was jealous, fabricating stories to hurt her. But Kent hadn’t been interested in restraining his needs or honoring the term “commitment to a relationship.”

  Some things didn’t change.

  “Whatever, Kent. I won’t be coming to your house. We won’t be sleeping together.” Amber paused, half expecting to hear Evan say “pity”, but Evan wasn’t here and Kent merely smiled at Amber as if he didn’t realize she’d been painfully inoculated against faux angelic smiles. “Now listen very carefully. I want a copy of your script, the cell number of your director and a list of all your non-acting activities.” Because she’d learned during their time together that Kent had to live his role to portray a character.

  “You want to know what I do with my spare time?” Kent hitched one eyebrow in an I’m-open-to-sex look. “Like surfing, skinny dipping and sex?”

  “You can leave out the sex.” Had she been so blinded by Kent’s physical attributes that she’d overlooked what little resided between his ears? Amber ran a hand over her thigh, missing Evan’s touch, not to mention his considerably higher IQ. But Evan was off limits.

  “And by everything do you mean who I went surfing with and who I’m having sex with?”

  “Forget the sex!”

  His laughter poked at her patience. “Well, that makes it easier.”

  “Let’s hope so. When can you get all that for me?”

  “Soon.”

  Amber narrowed her gaze on him. “Tomorrow or the deal is off.” They’d called a halt to production on Kent’s film. Time was money in Hollywood. If Amber made progress with Kent quickly her stock in Tinsel Town would rise significantly. Provided she could contain her coaching with Evan Oliver to the court.

  Kent shrugged. “Okay.”

  The waiter slid their drinks on the table.

  Amber raised her glass, but someone squealed across the room before she could take a sip of her dirty martini. Mimi Sorbet, no charity case, ran expertly on high heels to Kent’s side, planted a big wet one on his lips and then slid into the booth next to him.

  Looking like a 1960s swinger (she’d fit perfectly in Dooley’s house), Mimi wore a slash club dress in her trademark colors – pink and orange – with a matching gauze scarf wrapped in her teased long blond hair. If Lyle Lincoln was right – and Amber refused to believe he was wrong about this – Mimi was the creation of L.A.’s finest surgeons. A perfect bow mouth, a pert little nose and chin, attention-getting breasts that rivaled Amber’s. And if that didn’t catch a man’s eye, a pair of long tan legs.

  “Amber, it’s so nice to meet you.” Mimi extended her
hand, but merely touched Amber’s fingers limply, as if afraid to break a French manicured nail. “I’ve heard so much about you and the way you deepened Kent’s work.”

  “Kent was just being kind. He’s a very talented actor.” If all you required was a good looking man with a mega wattage smile. Amber lifted her glass again, trying to forget that she’d come across photos of Mimi plastering herself over Evan at a Flash game on one of her many Google searches.

  Mimi giggled and reached across the table, putting her hand in the way of Amber’s martini. “Kent’s not talented, but then neither am I.”

  With a polite ha-ha, Amber extricated herself from Mimi’s grip.

  “Anyway, I heard about you from Kyle…No. What’s his name?” Mimi snapped her fingers. “Kevin…No. That isn’t his name either. It’s…Cal!” Mimi gave a mini squeal.

  “Cal Lazarus? The producer?” What actress forgot him? Cal Lazarus had been credited with discovering more stars in Hollywood than Cecil B. Demille. And he’d been coached by Dooley. Something suspiciously akin to pride had Amber setting her glass back down untouched, prepared to defend a Foundation client.

  “Oh, good. You remember him.” Mimi rolled her baby blues. “I have such a problem with names.”

  “Just like I have a problem memorizing lines,” added Kent with a fond smile at Mimi, who beamed right back at him.

  Mimi was the mental equivalent of Kent. Vanilla ice cream and sorbet. A blander combination had never existed. Amber craved something more challenging to her palate, like cherry rocky road.

  “Anyway,” Mimi continued. “Cal said you were the finest acting coach he’d ever seen. What was it he said Doodles?”

  Doodles?

  Mimi blinked adoringly at Kent, who appeared dumbstruck by the attention she was giving him.

  Amber couldn’t remember Kent looking at her with the same kind of reverence. She pushed the martini aside so she wouldn’t toss it in her former lover’s face.