Lovers and Liars

by Brenda Joyce

  “Forget it,” Abe said. “Didn’t you get notified? The Outrage production is suspended.”

  “What?”

  “Relax.”

  “What do you mean—suspended? I was told we’d go back into production in February. What are you up to, Abe?”

  “Nothing,” he said. It was one of the few times in his life he’d felt sorry for something he’d done. Not for canceling the show, but for bringing it up now. “It’s just a matter of reassessing the budget,” he said smoothly.

  “I knew you were up to something … you are up to something!”

  “Look, Belinda, you get some sleep and don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take care of that little cunt.”

  The phone went dead.

  “Damn!” He slammed his own receiver down. He couldn’t believe that cunt Mary was so crazy. And for a brief moment he felt regret—because, God, she sure had been a prime piece of tail.

  But no one, no one, tucks with a Glassman. With what was his. And Belinda might be a rebel, but she was his, dammit, his flesh and blood, his daughter, and one day the mother of his grandson. Fucking with Belinda was like fucking with him. The challenge couldn’t be more direct. He grabbed his phone book and dialed Mary’s number.

  There was no answer.

  What the fuck. He should take care of this in person anyway.

  72

  His phone rang and it was, unbelievably, Majoriis’s secretary. “Please hold,” she told him.

  Jack started to sweat. Then Ted was on, with a falsely jovial hello.

  “Hello, Ted,” Jack managed in as calm a tone as he could. “You can’t deny something’s going on. Last week you were personally taking my calls—and now I have to wait two days to get through to you?”

  “Jack, sweetheart, relax. Relax! I’ve had some major problems with a film on location in Brazil. Major! The two leads were having a hot and heavy affair—offscreen—which made for some fucking fantastic dailies. Now we want to shoot the major scene, and they act like they’re worst enemies, not—”

  “Ted.”

  “I mean, half the crew has food poisoning and I may have to fly down there and take Rob Dere by the balls and start squeezing. As for Barbara Sa—”

  “Ted, I don’t give a shit about some fucking film in Brazil. I had to find out about Berenger from a goddamn reporter, for chrissake! You think my own damn studio could call me and tell me what’s going on?” He was trying not to shout.

  “Jack, baby, everything’s under control. Everything’s looking great. You have nothing—nothing—to worry about, I promise you.”

  “Then Berenger is being released?”

  “Uh, at a future date, most probably.”

  “What is this shit?” Jack gave in and yelled. “And what about Outrage?” Then, to make matters worse, he heard a buzz on Majoriis’s intercom, his secretary telling him George Masters was there.

  “Jack, gotta super important meeting. I’ll get back to you. Don’t wor—”

  “No, Ted,” Jack said. “I’ve been trying to reach you for two days, not counting the times I tried to reach you over the holidays—a feat only a wizard could have managed. Meet me for a drink, lunch, breakfast. We need to talk!”

  “Christ!” Majoriis said. “Okay, tomorrow, Polo Lounge, at one.” He hung up.

  “Thank you,” Jack said to the empty line before slamming down the phone. He was standing, and he paced angrily around his office. No way Price could have ruined that film. No way he could not have made it into a beautiful thing. Not with a super script, great cast, good crew, and Price himself.

  Majoriis had better not stand him up tomorrow.

  One thing about this town: When you’re hot, you’re hot. It’s ass-kissing all the way. And when it stops, you most definitely know your ass is no longer being kissed. There was no doubt. January in L.A. was cool, but this was an arctic chill. He was being avoided like a leper, treated like a loser—not like a multi-million-dollar hot property. Motherfucker.

  Glassman.

  Always back to him.

  He was North-Star now. If he wanted Berenger released in one month, it would be done. He had enough power to make it happen. And the same was true for the resumption of Outrage’s production. And if he didn’t want it released …

  Would the man really take a loss of eight million dollars just because of him?

  After all these years?

  And there was still the biggest question of them all—why? Why?

  Jack’s heart said yes—Glassman was after him. His head said no—be cool, this isn’t happening; it isn’t how it feels.

  He thought of her.

  And became even more angry.

  He should be laughing. It was so ironic that of all the women in the world, of all the prime tail, he would fuck her.

  Fuck her like there was no tomorrow, he thought, and automatically he was remembering every detail. To his increasing anger and dismay, he grew uncontrollably hard. He slammed his fist into the desk, and the pain was welcome.

  He was no longer interested.

  She wasn’t even his type.

  Did she have any idea how many millions of women would die to sleep with him?

  Not hundreds.

  Millions.

  It was still unbelievable that she had walked out on him—not once, not twice, but three times, if you included the shoot in Tucson.

  Belinda Glassman.

  Like father, like daughter.

  He was a bastard, she was a bitch.

  Used to getting her own way. She really thought she was better than him. He burned—in more ways than one.

  73

  The silence had lasted one second.

  “So when’s our date?” Lansing said, grinning and leaning against her desk.

  Melody flushed. She had forgotten, what with the trauma of having slept with Jack and expecting to do so again—but instead having to listen to him make love to someone else in Aspen. Then having to pretend to be indifferent while she was alone with him.

  “Don’t tell me you changed your mind?” Lansing said quickly. “You promised.”

  She looked at him, smiling slightly. He was appealing in a naughty-boy way, and she had said yes. “Well …”

  “Pick you up at seven,” he said with a dazzling smile.

  “Tonight’s impossible,” she said quickly.

  “Seeing the boss?”

  She started. “What?”

  “The boss. You know, the guy who pays you every week.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said coldly. She was seeing Nickie Felton. Actually, she almost wished she were seeing Peter instead.

  “You don’t have to play games with me,” Lansing said airily. “I don’t bruise easily. I’m not the jealous type. I can handle it.” But his stare was direct and sharp and penetrating.

  “Peter, I have no idea what you’re talking about. How did you ever get Leah to come?” She changed the topic with relief.

  The long, judgmental stare remained in full force for another moment, then was gone, disappearing into a twinkle of gold-flecked moss-green. “The color of money. And the smell. Nothing like the good old greenback.” He sprawled on the sofa, facing her at an angle. He grinned disarmingly. “How about tomorrow?”

  Melody thought about that creature who was Jack’s sister and how much he hated her being here. She felt a kind of spiteful elation—a far cry from how she would have felt in the past, when she was so ready to run to him with compassion and consolation. “Poor Jack,” she said and found that she was smiling ever so slightly. Imagining his discomfort. He deserved it! He had everything too easy—the bastard.

  “Oh, shit,” Lansing said, frowning. “So much for fucking jealousy.”

  “What?”

  She watched him stride toward the door, looking thoroughly disgusted. Had she done something? Said something?

  Jack and Leah walked in. Jack looked as disgusted as Lansing. “Mel, Leah needs money.”

  “Gotta buy some g
roceries,” Leah intoned.

  “What am I, a bank?” Melody snapped.

  Leah swaggered over to Lansing and firmly took his arm, pressing herself against him, ankle to shoulder. “You’re a fast worker, Pete,” she said sweetly. “When do I get to see you again?” Her look was blatantly sexual.

  “You don’t.” Lansing smiled, looking at her face. “I’m afraid my job is done.”

  Her hand slipped to his waist, stroking. “Take me to dinner tomorrow, Pete. I can promise you, you’ll enjoy dessert.”

  “Why don’t you put some of that, er, energy into your family?” He moved away.

  “Jesus,” Jack said harshly, frowning. “Will you try and act like you’re not a hooker, for God’s sake?”

  “Shove it where the sun don’t shine, big brother,” Leah said lightly. She stepped closer to Melody. “Have fun, dearie. He is good, isn’t he?”

  Melody was scandalized. Had they? She should have known. They were all the same. She turned to stare at Peter incredulously. But he was already gone.

  74

  She had stood him up.

  Vince slammed his hands on the steering wheel and stared at his house. She wasn’t even returning his calls. Maybe he should go over there again and wait until she got home. Or maybe she was home. Maybe this was it. Maybe she didn’t want to see him anymore.

  Last night he had gone over and waited and waited—the wonderful anticipation slowly fading, becoming replaced with frustration, hurt, and anger. Until he had known he was being stood up. Known it and hated her. Almost.

  He was losing her. He was sure of it. He hardly saw her anymore, and the other night, after she’d gotten back from Aspen, it had taken a long, long time to bring her to a climax—one single one. And then Belinda hadn’t wanted to make love again. She had asked, then insisted, that he leave. Saying she was tired from her ski trip.

  Vince got out of his truck. Damned if he’d crawl anymore. Let her call—let her apologize.

  But as he walked up the stone path to his house, he was so damn tempted to turn around, jump into his Ford, and drive over. He could be there in thirty minutes. Thirty-five minutes from now, after she had apologized, he could be making love to her.

  Mary was sitting on the floor surrounded by newspapers, looking ghastly. “What’s with you?” he asked out of curiosity, not interest.

  She looked at him as if she were about to cry.

  “You on the rag, or what?”

  “Fuck off, Vince,” she said, starting to weep.

  He shook his head and stalked into the kitchen. She looked like shit—he could barely stand the sight of her—and she had a mouth to match. Too bad she wouldn’t move out on him, maybe in with her lover, so he wouldn’t have to leave. Because once he told her about his plans for a divorce, one of them was going to have to relocate. But he wasn’t in the mood now—he was too aggravated about Belinda. He’d tell Mary tomorrow about the divorce.

  Then he felt her as she threw her arms around him from behind. “Vince, I’m sorry.” She was sobbing. “Oh, please don’t be mad.”

  He disengaged himself and looked at her. “Are you high? Drunk? What is it with you?”

  She wiped her eyes. “My whole life is falling apart,” she moaned.

  He quickly decided he wasn’t in the mood. “I take it you’re not cooking tonight—again?”

  “How can you think about food?” she wailed.

  “Shit,” Vince said. “I’m ordering a pizza.”

  Mary walked away, slumped, and Vince felt a twinge of remorse. He wasn’t being very nice to her. But, God, couldn’t she at least cook him dinner every other night? Was that too much to ask?

  Belinda would never cook for him.

  Oh, she had, two or three times, when they were first seeing each other; but back then the meals had gone cold because they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

  Where the hell had she been last night?

  Better yet, with who?

  He couldn’t think about it. If he did, he would go crazy.

  There was a sharp knocking on the door. Vince wondered who could possibly be dropping by. As he passed Mary he wondered if she were really ill. She was so white. He opened the door to see two uniformed police officers and a man in jeans. The man in jeans was holding up a police badge. “Police,” he said. “You Vince Spazzio?”

  “Yeah,” Vince said, thoroughly puzzled. “What’s this about?”

  The detective was looking past him, at Mary. “That your wife?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you realize, Mrs. Spazzio, that leaving the scene of a crime is a felony?”

  “It was an accident,” Mary whimpered.

  “What!” Vince exclaimed.

  “I’m afraid you’re under arrest,” the cop said to Mary.

  “Arrest?” Vince was stunned. “For what?”

  “Leaving the scene, for one. Suspicion of intent to do bodily harm, for two. Possible assault with a deadly weapon. She got a license to carry a gun?”

  “Mary?”

  “I didn’t mean to, Vince.” Mary was weeping. “I didn’t.”

  “Lady, anything you say can and will be held against you,” Hewitt said. “Come on, I’ll read your Miranda rights as we go.” He looked at Vince. “Maybe you should call the family lawyer.”

  “I don’t understand,” Vince said. “What the fuck happened?”

  “Your wife shot Belinda Glassman yesterday afternoon.”

  75

  Belinda tried to wake up. The hands were welcome, reassuring. Soothing, stroking, calloused, a man’s hands. She tried to remember where she was. Ah, yes, Aspen. She snuggled closer. Jack. Jack was here; she was still with him; he was saying her name, a hoarse caress of sound.

  Something was wrong with the scenario, she knew it. Then she realized and was jubilant. She wasn’t in Aspen. That was days ago. She was home. She had been shot. But Jack had come. He cared.

  She turned her face into his hand. So real. He was really here.

  “Sweetheart?”

  She sighed. Tried to speak. She was so tired, she couldn’t move, not a muscle, not even her tongue. Jack, she thought.

  “Sweetheart? It’s okay, I’m here.”

  The lost shrouds of sleep left. Belinda nuzzled the large warm hand that cupped her face.

  “I love you. God, I love you.”

  Her eyes flew open and a vast disappointment careened over her, like a wave breaking on the sand. Vince. It had just been a dream, just a damn dream. So real, but already the exquisite sensations, the unbearable happiness was fading to nothing but a figment of her unconscious, nothing but a fantasy.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” Vince said.

  “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

  “The door wasn’t locked. I just found out. God, Belinda, I’m so sorry!”

  Belinda was too tired, too sore, and too groggy to be angry. She closed her eyes. She felt the bed dip, then felt Vince stretch out cautiously near her, on her good side. This was wrong. It was over. But … there was no one else who cared, and she was so alone, hurting and alone … Vince cared. “Oh, Vince,” she said, but it came out terribly choked. It was the pain-killers, she knew, making her overly emotional, making her self-pitying.

  “Shhh, I’m here.” He soothed her. “And I’m staying here until you get well.”

  “Hold me,” she murmured, and he did, awkwardly. The heat of his body felt so good, so reassuring, and his hands were so comforting. She fell asleep.

  Her dreams were a weird collage—her father, grinning; her mother, accusing; Vince; Mary; the gun. A crying baby. Belligerence became fear. The gun exploded. Fear became pain. Mary was screaming and screaming. Her mother was weeping. Abe was shouting. Abe became Vince. Comforting, solid. And the baby was still there, still crying. Was it hers? Then Vince started to drift away, just when she needed him so badly, and she begged and pleaded for him to stay. Or was it Abe? Then his face changed, became Jack’s, tw
isted with anger. “You’re a cold bitch,” he said ruthlessly, unmoved by her wound.

  A cold bitch.

  But I’m not! She was crying. I’m not, really, I’m not!

  He was leaving, slamming the door. It was only a dream and she knew it. She willed him back. But it was useless. He wouldn’t return.

  76

  “Everyone knows, Melody.”

  “So tell me,” she said, leaning forward.

  They were at Spago. They had just finished smoked-salmon pizza and Chablis—something Melody had thought sounded horrible but was actually phenomenal. Nickie Felton had removed his glasses, the better to come on, she supposed, but now he replaced them.

  “Abe Glassman has a hate thing for your boss. And I don’t know the particulars. Berenger was great. I saw the answer print—so did a lot of people. But Glassman—lunatic that he is—canceled release, and that is the end of that. Finita.”

  So there was a basis for Jack’s paranoia, she thought. “Will it ever be released?”

  “Who knows? I will tell you one thing though.” He paused dramatically.

  Melody waited.

  “Price was fucking pissed. I mean pissed! Livid. Ready to kill. You know how that bastard is. Hell, I don’t blame him.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I have no idea how he was calmed down. Needless to say, Price is about to go on location for a Paramount film.” Felton shrugged. “Price was offered our biggest-budget flick for eighty-nine and turned it down. So he may have stopped mouthing off, but I know he’s not happy.”

  Melody leaned back in her seat and thought. Berenger was never going to be released—she was sure of it—and Jack didn’t know it. It was only a minor setback, really—he had two more films to make. “What about Outrage? And exactly what are the budgetary problems?”

  Nickie gave her a funny look. “There are none.”

  “What?”

  “Haven’t you heard?”

  “Heard what?” Melody asked, her heart thudding in excitement.

  “The real scoop is that Outrage is finished. It’s not ever going back into production.”