by Mel Curtis
“Of course, I’ll go if you need me.” It only took her a few seconds to compose a text to Trent canceling their date.
~*~
Rain check, Cora’s text read. Duty calls.
Frustration did a slow burn that began in his chest and spread from fingertips to toes. He’d just left her.
Logically, he knew she had responsibilities and the kind of job that required her to hold hands with athletes and celebrities at all hours of the day and night. Logically, he knew he didn’t have time to over-analyze what had made her skittish. The time had come to introduce innovation to the Flash’s offense.
He sent the athletes’ assistants and the Flash trainers out, closing practice to all but players and coaches.
“We’re trying a new multi-pronged offense. It may not work. Regardless, I don’t want to hear you’ve leaked it or posted it online,” he warned when the team circled round. “It’s a two minute rotation. We begin with our starters and our version of the Carolina break.” He wrote their initials on a small whiteboard imprinted with a basketball court. “At the two minute mark, we sub in Irving. Jablone comes out and Ren moves to the power forward spot.” He rubbed out some initials and wrote in others.
Ren mumbled something in another language, caught himself and said, “But – ”
“Hold your questions,” Randy said, grinning. “You’ll like this.”
“This loads up our power on one side of the court and our speed on the other, creating potential mismatches for us to take advantage of offensively. It’ll confound the defense. By the time they start to adjust and sub in big men, we’ll be subbing in for optimum speed.” Trent notated secondary guards’ initials over Ren and Irving’s positions. “I know we’ll miss some rebounds defensively because we’ll be shorter, but I want to run fast and hot – take good shots and cherry-pick the ball from their slower big men.”
“Is that all?” Evan was grinning now, too – a schoolboy, in-on-a-secret grin.
“No. After two more minutes, we’ll put in a complete bruiser line-up to wear them down defensively. And after two more minutes, we’ll put in our starters and run Chaos.”
“Chaos to the Nth degree,” Evan whispered reverently.
“Exactly. I want fifteen to thirty points out of the eight minute rotation.” Trent looked at the second string. “Second unit, I want you to start with man-to-man defense, then move to zone when the second rotation comes in. Run Triangle on offense.” He noted the second unit’s glum faces. “Hey, everybody’s going to get a chance for a spot in the various rotations. The more players we throw at the opposing team, the harder it’ll be for them to defend. Work hard and put the ball in the hole.”
And they did. They had fun with it, down to the last player. Even Irving. Randy and Berto toyed with player combos. Evan helped refine shot choice for different players. By the end of practice, Trent was pleased.
But it felt wrong that the bleachers were empty, missing one highly fashionable life coach.
~*~
“Cal, what a surprise.” Cora ignored the feeling of trepidation and arranged her sky blue, off-the-shoulder formal gown on the limo seat facing the movie producer. She hadn’t seen him since that day in the hospital cafeteria. “I hadn’t realized you were attending with Portia. She said she didn’t have a date.”
Leave it to Portia to ignore Cora’s warnings and play with fire.
“I pay for seats every year.” Cal’s smile was lukewarm. His gaze was not. Dark circles no longer rimmed his eyes, but when he looked at her, they were far from kind. “It made sense that Portia and I would show up at the event together to combat the speculation about my support of her in my film.”
Portia avoided Cora’s questioning gaze. She wore a classic, golden beaded gown. Her short, blond hair was swept to the side and held with a diamond studded comb.
During the drive, they exchanged pleasantries about nothing important, talking over the softly playing soundtrack from Cal’s last movie. Portia seemed distracted.
Finally, their limo inched forward toward the red carpet. Someone with a clipboard tapped on Portia’s door. The woman stuck her head in when Portia toggled the window down. She wore an ear piece and microphone. Her black polo had the Gossip network logo. “I’ve got Portia Francis, Cal Lazarus, and…” She glanced at Cora and pulled her head out. “Cora Rule. Do we care about Cora Rule?”
Portia tittered. “Sorry. I guess this isn’t the L.A. Happenings column.”
Cora’s fingers gripped her white satin clutch, while her lips grappled with a stiff smile. She’d dreamed of being recognized and looked up to in the fashion industry. She’d imagined pulling up at just such an event, and having people anticipating what she’d chosen to wear – one of her own designs, or something equally stunning from another designer? She didn’t want to get out of the car.
Portia was helped out by a good-looking greeter.
“Driver, circle one more time.” There was anger in Cal’s voice. Angry, powerful men did stupid things. Things that spooked Cora.
“Hold up, driver. We’re getting out.” Cora hitched up her skirt and made her escape without waiting for anyone’s help. She didn’t breathe until she caught up to Portia. She wasn’t afraid exactly, and she hated the idea that she was running away from Cal. It just seemed prudent.
Trent had faith she could take care of herself. That didn’t stop her from missing his calming presence by her side.
She smoothed her skirts and waited in Portia’s shadow while the actress posed for pictures. Behind her, Cal posed for pictures solo, classy in a custom-fitted tuxedo.
Hundreds of voices crowded together as tightly as the paparazzi pressing against the barricades. Light bulbs flashed like a blinding lightning storm. The energy on the red carpet was just as electric. And yet, in her outdated gown, no one called for Cora’s picture.
When Portia was done, Cora took her arm and propelled her forward, like any good assistant would.
“Why aren’t you circling the block?” Portia’s question cut the last ties of friendship Cora felt for the actress.
Her grip on Portia’s arm tightened. “If this is a test for Cal or some idea you and he have for a three-way, I’m calling a cab.”
“Did someone say three-way?” Cal spoke in Cora’s ear.
Cora jumped. She hadn’t felt him come close to her. No one would think twice about his proximity. The fan and paparazzi noise made it necessary to stand close if you wanted to be heard by those in your party.
Cal hooked an arm around each of them and swept the pair up the red carpet to the second photo opp in front of the Women’s Gala logo board. Portia stepped forward to pose for more pictures.
“What’s up, Cal?” Cora asked with faux cheer.
“I could ask you the same question. I pay a substantial sum of money to have my father in a private room at the hospital.”
Cora didn’t deny she’d arranged for Cal’s father to have a certain Flash owner as a roommate. She’d known Cal would figure things out eventually. And she’d expected him to confront her about it. Just not in such a public venue.
“He’s a crotchety, pain in the ass,” Cal was saying. “The doctors said he had six months to live over a year ago. Sometimes I think the only thing keeping him alive is a love of cigars.” He spared Cora a hard glance that drifted to her cleavage.
He’s grieving, her brain said.
He’s dangerous, her instincts said.
She clung to intellect and her responsibility to the Dooley Foundation. “Your dad loves the company.” He’d certainly been a chatterbox when she’d visited. “Anyone can tell he’s a people person.”
“He’s in pain.” Cal leaned in, his breath hot and wet against her ear. “If it wouldn’t look bad in the press, I’d sue you.”
“For what?” Cora’s voice shook as if she was ten and climbing in the sparring ring once more with a bigger, more powerful opponent. “You signed a contract with the Dooley Foundation saying you were o
pen to all our methods.”
“Did one of those methods include screwing me? If so, you’ve earned your retainer by screwing both my heads.” Portia moved on and Cal followed, dragging Cora with him.
When she tried to slip ahead of him, he wrapped his arms around her, bent her over backward and kissed her. The resulting flashes were blinding.
Play it all like it was planned, her father told her once when she’d asked him how he handled the media when things went wrong. Things had gone wrong for her father a lot. Jealous ex-girlfriends who tried to run him over. Nervous clients who clung to him. Angry clients who punched him out.
That last had been Cal.
Cora didn’t kiss Cal back. She didn’t bite his tongue off. And she didn’t scream bloody murder when he finally righted her. She thought about Trent and his certain disappointment. She thought about Portia and revenge.
And then she smiled demurely, digging her fingernails into Cal’s palm as she tugged him forward. Without warning she swung around fast, as if she had something important to say to him, and walloped him in the nuts with her clutch. “That was for punching my dad.”
Cal gasped. His face turned white.
“You want to talk lawsuits? The texts you send could be construed as stalking. Now listen, and listen good, because you paid me to make you feel better.” She looked around, but no one was paying attention to them anymore. “I talked to your father that night you met me at the hospital. He said you were spending every night there with him. He said it’s affecting your work. He was worried about your health and so was I. You’ve changed since we first met. And not for the better.”
He managed to glare at her.
She dug her nails deeper into his hand, dragging the limping producer forward. “Don’t set me up like this ever again, or it’ll be you strapped in that bed next to your father. I’ll do it. Don’t doubt I can’t.”
Trembling, she released Cal and air-kissed a shocked-looking Portia. She had to get out of there, before she lost it and did something really stupid, like call Trent to rescue her and burst into tears. “Suddenly, I feel rather sick, Portia. Don’t worry about me. I’ll catch a cab home.”
Chapter 28
L.A. Happenings by Lyle Lincoln
…I swear, Cora Rule has become the most interesting rule-breaker of the bunch! She was just the right bait to corrupt the good Reverend, yummy Coach Trent Parker. Last night she was seen smooching movie producer, Cal Lazarus, at the Women’s Gala.
…No one seems to see Glitterfrost Gem anywhere but with Mimi Sorbet. And Mimi Sorbet is rarely seen anywhere lately. Although the pair was photo-bombed by the Flash. Or maybe Mimi and Glitterfrost Gem photo bombed them?
…Winnie Tiegler and her husband were seen out on the town the other night. It’s great to see a long-lasting couple looking great and obviously still in love. Anyone interested in a little nip and tuck would do well to collect a recommendation from this couple.
“Where’s my boy?” Jack’s mother entered the hospital room whispering, waking him up. She held a small vase of blue carnations that reminded Jack of senior prom. “Oh, they still have you in your safety straps. You have to relax, honey.”
“Get me outta here,” Jack mumbled, still groggy from whatever shit they’d pumped into his I.V.
“I’m sorry. There’s no hope for your son, ma’am.” Lazarus chewed on his cigar.
Jack’s mother gasped and hurried closer, setting the flowers on a table. “He looks worse than the last time I saw him.”
“Don’t listen to him. I’m not dying.” Jack was exhausted. His head spun, but he was going to live. If he was dying, he wouldn’t feel so angry with the world – Nurse Disney and her prunes, Viv and her trades.
“This is the hospice ward,” his mother continued to whisper.
“I’m not dying.” But how to prove it? The beginnings of an idea surfaced through his foggy brain. “I can show you, Mom. I can walk to the bathroom.” If he had to use the bedpan one more time, they really would need to strap him down and commit him to a slow death.
“Have you been walking?” She looked doubtful.
Jack squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to yell at his mother. He never yelled at her, not like he yelled at Viv. But Viv could take it. His mother was fragile and gullible when it came to her son.
“Yes, I’ve been walking. They only keep me tied up when I sleep in case the dreams are violent.”
“He’s lying.” Lazarus deadpanned.
Jack’s mother took in his roommate’s purple velvet robe, his cigar, and his untrustworthy smile. She turned to Jack. “Let’s wait for your father. He’s parking the car.”
She didn’t believe him. Jack resisted the urge to shake the bed rails. What mother believes a stranger over her son? He needed words. Smooth words. Lying words.
“Mom, when Lazarus goes to radiation, the nurse has time to take me to the bathroom.” It took skill, but Jack held back his anger, trying to make his eyes look big, like a lost kitten’s. His mother loved to rescue kittens. At last count, she had ten cats at the house.
“I’m dying,” Lazarus grumbled. “They stopped giving me radiation last year.”
Then why aren’t you dead?
“It’s the meds,” Jack whispered. “Just like Uncle Artie.”
“Oh,” Jack’s mother softened.
The pain at the end of her brother’s life had been managed with morphine. And with the drug came hallucinations.
“Please, Mom.” Jack tried to pout like a little girl. He’d do anything for his freedom. “These ties are cutting into me and I need to go.”
Still his mother hesitated. “I should call the nurse.”
“Just loosen up one, Mom. Just one.” Anger pressed on the back of his tongue, urging him to shout.
“He’s a runner,” Lazarus noted. “You can see it in his eyes.”
“Uncle Artie,” Jack whispered again, before Mom could turn away.
“You’re going to get me into trouble, Jackie.” Here came his mother to the rescue, just like she always did. Only this time there’d be no Band-Aids, no homemade cookies, and no kiss to make his boo-boo better. She fiddled with the strap closest to her.
“Now we’re in for it,” Lazarus grumbled.
The moment she freed Jack’s wrist, he loosened the other three ties. His legs shook when he swung them over the bedrail. His head felt heavy. Unsteady, he nearly tumbled back in bed.
Mom flapped her hands. “Not so fast, honey.”
Jack reached for her, drawing his mother in for a fierce hug, surprising himself as much as her. They weren’t a hugging family. “I love you, Mom. You saved my life.” And his fortune. If he wasn’t too late.
He used her strength to leverage himself to a standing position. The beige linoleum was cold beneath his feet. The I.V. painful in his hand. “I think a walk will do me good.” With one arm across her shoulders, he staggered to the cupboard where he assumed his things were. Cell phone. Pants. It was a toss-up as to which he’d use first.
The cupboard was empty.
“I took your clothes home to wash them,” his mother explained, shifting under his arm. “And your father didn’t want anyone stealing your wallet or cell phone. We took them home, too. Did the nurse tell you about the hot water heater?”
“I want my phone.” A bit of toddler impatience flooded his words, raising his mother’s eyebrows. He tried another fake smile. “Never mind. Can you get my toothbrush out of the bathroom? I’ve got hospital breath.”
She looked doubtful again.
“I’ll be fine standing here.” He leaned against the cupboard.
She went into the bathroom. Jack closed the door after her, dragging a visitor’s chair in front of it and collapsing into it. He ripped out his I.V., staunching the flow of blood with his gown.
“Why didn’t you tell her my toothbrush wasn’t in there?” He stared at Lazarus, whose visage swam out of focus.
“And miss you trying to break o
ut of here with your nuts hanging out of your hospital gown?” He snorted, then coughed thickly. “I’ll run blocker for you if you come back and visit me. I like Cubans.”
Jack didn’t need an old man running interference for him.
“Agree or I’ll press the red call button,” Lazarus threatened. “I’ve been missing out on a lot of things while I’ve been dying. I’m not missing out any more. I also want tickets to see the Flash play. It looks like you signed one of those Duck Dynasty boys. I didn’t know they played sports.”
Jack had no idea what the old man was talking about. He rubbed his hands over his forehead, willing the world to stop spinning. “Whatever you want. Just be nice to my mom.” He drew a deep breath, taking stock. His toes stung with cold. The burlap chair cushions threatened to sandpaper his bare ass. His muscles felt rubbery, as if he hadn’t gotten out of his seat once on a flight from L.A. to London. At least the blood had slowed to oozing where he’d yanked out his I.V.
“Jackie?” The door handle jiggled. And then an angrier, “Jack!”
Lazarus stood in front of Jack. He’d moved with ninja prowess. Or Jack was just as high on meds as Uncle Artie had been, which didn’t bode well for his escape.
“Shove out of the chair,” Lazarus said. “I’ll need to sit there if you want her to stay inside.”
His mother continued her muffled cries. She threw in a choice cuss word or two. He’d forgotten she’d been in the Navy. It wouldn’t be long before she used the nurse call button next to the toilet.
Jack stood, his legs as unsteady as a seasick sailor’s. The room started to rearrange itself.
“Move!” Lazarus pushed him toward the door.
Jack leaned his shoulder against the wall and started walking, holding up the wall as he went.
~*~