by Brenda Joyce
Wouldn’t it be fantastic if they ran into her mother?
The small pickup truck rolled to a stop in front of the closed gates of a Bel Air residence. On the side of each door was written LOS ANGELES MUNICIPAL WATER DISTRICT. A serviceman got out of the truck and rang the intercom.
“Yes?”
“L.A. Municipal Water.”
The gates opened. Peter Lansing got back into the truck and drove through.
Bart Shelley was a Hollywood director. He had been around for years. He was still around. He no longer did feature films; he did miniseries for TV. He was well respected in the industry, despite his bisexuality. His reputation for wild parties and orgies was known by all the insiders.
Nine years ago, just before Jack had given up drugs and alcohol, according to Melody, he had been a paid escort invited to one of these parties. The services he performed on several women guests at one and the same time were videotaped. At the time Jack had not been aware of the camera. He had told Melody he was pretty much out of it, the whole thing a blurry haze. It was only when Shelley had invited him back and run the video for him and tried to grab his crotch that Jack realized he’d been filmed, Shelley, being a great director, had gotten some very good shots. Close-ups. Worse. There was another man there who had also been screwing the two women. The man had tried to screw him. That had been easily circumvented. But the way Shelley had put together the film, it looked as if the climax of the orgy was a homosexual coupling.
Jack, of course, had rejected Shelley’s overtures. In fact, he had run—literally—from the house at the end of the film.
Lansing knew that the screening room was on the third floor, last door on the right. He knew that all the films were stored there. He stopped the truck in front of a large brick home with huge white pillars in the Greek Revival style, which looked as if it had been transplanted from the antebellum south, along with the magnolia trees gracing the entry and the carefully designed gardens.
“Yes?” The man at the front door was clearly a servant.
“There’s no cause for alarm,” Peter said slowly. “But there might be some leakage of sodium chloride into the drinking supply of the houses in this area. I need to run some tests on the tap water at various locations in the house.”
“Leakage of sodium chloride?”
“Again, there’s no need for alarm. However, we are advising that you drink bottled water for the next few days, if you don’t already—until we reach a definite conclusion.”
“Come right in,” the servant said worriedly.
Melody was humming.
Peter Lansing had told her not to worry. He would get the video one way or another. And that was a promise.
She smiled.
Just you wait, Jack.
104
“Are you going to do it?” Lydia asked.
He looked into her wide brown eyes, full of faith, and he nodded grimly.
“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered, hugging him. And then she ran out the door, leaving Rick alone with his brother, who had disappeared into his room.
It was Friday afternoon, and this was not how Rick wanted to spend it. But he had felt so guilty ever since he had overheard Jack accusing Leah of stealing the cuff links and tie clip. (Did he notice a crystal ashtray gone as well?)He had finally blurted out the whole thing to Lydia. She was aghast but not accusing.
“You have to tell him,” she said firmly. “Come clean.”
He was relieved to have gotten the terrible burden off his chest and relieved that she wasn’t too disgusted to love him anymore. “Aren’t you … don’t you wonder how I could have done it?”
“Yes,” she said. “Do you want to tell me?”
He nodded. They were walking in the park after school, oblivious of everyone else. “I didn’t like Jack. Maybe I hated him. He has everything. He’s rich. I starved my whole life. It seemed like no big deal, to take a couple of things so I would have money to party.”
“I understand,” she said softly. They were holding hands.
“But now I sort of like him.” Rick felt embarrassed, so he stole only a glance at her. “And he is my brother.”
“And he does love and trust you,” Lydia pointed out. That, of course, clinched it.
“Jack?” He stood in Jack’s open doorway, very tense and anxious.
Jack looked up, throwing a shirt on the floor. “Can’t ever find a fucking thing,” he growled. “I’m gonna fire the fucking maid. Maybe if she spoke fucking English, it would help.”
Rick wondered why he had been walking around like a wounded grizzly bear for two days now, when for the week before that he had been nothing but quick smiles. “Can we talk?”
Jack sighed, softening. “Yeah, sure, kid. Come on in.” He looked at him quizzically. “You look like you think I’m going to bite your head off.”
“Maybe you will,” Rick said on a deep breath. Then he blurted out, “I took the cuff links and tie clip. I’m sorry!”
“I don’t understand.”
Rick had never felt so low. “I hocked them. For extra money.”
A muscle on the side of Jack’s face twitched. “I see.”
“I’m sorry,” Rick said again.
Jack came forward, looking hurt and wounded. “Why? I trusted you. I gave you just about everything—I would have given you more, but I thought it wouldn’t be healthy. Why did you do it?”
Rick faltered. “I needed money. To party. I hated it here at first. It seemed like you had so much. I didn’t think you’d even notice or care. I’ll pay you back. I’ll get a job after school and pay you back.”
Jack stared, then smiled faintly. “You don’t have to pay me back. You told me the truth, and that’s payment enough.”
They looked at each other, and Rick flushed under his brother’s intense gaze. Then Jack said in his familiar big-brother tone, “So what do you mean by party?”
Rick went redder. “Uhhh …”
“What? Booze? Drugs? What?”
Rick knew there was no escape now. “Just some brews and pot.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Diamond-studded cuffs and a tie clip would buy a lot of brews and pot.”
“A little coke,” Rick said miserably. After all, everyone in Hollywood did coke—except his brother, of course.
“A little coke,” Jack said, folding his arms. “You snort, shoot—or what?”
“Just snorting,” Rick said quickly. “And a little freebasing—everybody does it.”
Jack stared thoughtfully. “Go get your coat,” he said.
“But—”
“Get your coat,” Jack said.
Rick went and did as he was told, very aware of the fact that Jack had shut his bedroom door after he’d left, and gotten on the phone. He was perspiring, realizing he had gotten off lightly so far. But now what?
They jumped into Jack’s Ferrari and headed downtown. Jack never said a word. Rick was afraid to ask where they were going. When they stopped in front of a city hospital, he felt fear. “What are we doing?” He didn’t realize he was whispering.
“Come on,” Jack said, getting out. “As the old adage goes—a picture is better than a thousand words.”
Miserably and apprehensively, Rick followed. All he could think of was that everything had backfired. This hospital had one of those drug programs that were so popular, and Jack was going to make him attend—and maybe stay—and he hadn’t even gotten to say good-bye to Lydia. Jack didn’t even pause to ask directions but went right up to the second floor to a doctor’s office, where they sat waiting in silence for almost a half hour. Then the doctor walked in—a well-groomed, attractive woman who did not look like a doctor, except maybe like one on St Elsewhere.
“Sorry, Jack,” she said, pushing strands of ash-blond hair out of her face and peering through large preppie glasses. “An emergency.” She looked at Rick. “You must be Rick. Hi. I’m Dr. Edwards.”
They shook hands.
Jack clapped a ha
nd on Rick’s back, and they followed Dr. Edwards into the elevator and through a maze of corridors and swinging doors, into what looked like a recovery room. Several guerneys were lined up, one suspiciously lumpy and draped with a white sheet. Edwards walked over to the lump and pulled back the sheet. Rick had no choice but to follow, because Jack was pushing him forward.
The lump was a young man, maybe five years older than Rick.
“Is he …” Rick felt fresh sweat break out on his entire body.
“Yes,” Doctor Edwards said. “He died a few hours ago. We’re waiting for the morgue boys to pick him up.” She looked at Rick. “He died from a seizure. Do you know what that is?”
Rick shook his head.
“The electrical activity of his brain stopped. Just like that. Of course, he had been doing coke—just snorting it, mind you—not even that much, according to his girlfriend. A few lines. But sometimes it’s fatal.”
Rick knew he was going to be sick.
“What a waste,” Dr. Edwards said, flipping the sheet back up to cover the corpse completely. She looked at Jack, and they exchanged a silent communication—which Rick didn’t see in his struggle not to throw up.
Dr. Edwards came to the rescue with a pan just as Rick could contain himself no longer.
While Rick heaved, Jack met her eyes again and mouthed a silent thanks. Louise had not been thrilled to participate in his scheme, but she had succumbed. Whether to his persuasive charm or to her own love of life, he didn’t know—although he suspected the latter.
105
“Vince, I know it’s late and you’ve finished for the day, but would you mind putting up a picture for me?”
His crew was already in their cars, heading out. Vince paused by the side of his truck, drowning in Shanna Jacobsen’s gray eyes—eyes the color of a winter sea, and just as fathomless. She smiled and he smiled back, nodding.
He followed her back to the house. She was wearing short shorts and he could see the bottoms of her perfect buttocks. His pants grew tight. She was not wearing a bra under the thin cotton tank top—that he had noticed several hours before, when she had appeared to watch them work for a few minutes. She had small, young, pointy breasts. Her nipples had been hard, and he had tried not to look, unsuccessfully. Now he watched her swinging ass and wondered how he was going to manage not to blush when she noticed he had an interested erection.
Of course, there was always the possibility that she wanted to seduce him.
But he didn’t think so. He had met Mr. Jacobsen several times. He was forty or so and very attractive—tanned, fit, polished, handsome. Shanna wasn’t like the other Hollywood wives who had wanted his ass, what with their fat or bald or bizarre husbands. But he grew very hopeful when she started up a huge curving staircase and threw a casual glance over her shoulder, gray eyes seeming soft and amused.
Her bottom swung inches from his face once he got two steps behind her.
He wasn’t sure he had ever seen such tight shorts. They were riding high into the crack between her cheeks.
They walked down a hall plastered with modern art—prints, paintings, and sculptures—and then she swung open a door and they stepped into what was clearly the master suite.
He’d seen “California kings” before, but this bed had to be a king and a half.
“The picture goes on that wall,” she said, her voice soft and lilting, with a touch of humor. He quickly looked away from the bed. The painting was somewhat abstract, but there was no mistaking the subject—two nude women, done in bold lines, reclining in each other’s arms, and a nude man, very erect. A tangle of linear but living bodies.
“Uh, sure,” he managed, sweating.
He noticed her crotch. The shorts looked uncomfortable. He could see how her cunt lips strained against the white fabric, clearly and suggestively outlined. “I need to get some picture hooks,” he said.
“Good idea,” Shanna said, moving forward—to him. She stopped a foot away, smiled into his eyes. Carelessly and, yes, with amusement, she reached out one long, manicured finger. The nail was long and coral, and with it she traced his prick from the tip to its root. Vince emitted a half groan.
She looked up. “But I have a better idea.”
106
“I want to talk to you,” Nancy said.
At her mother’s tone Belinda paused. They were in the kitchen; Belinda had been making coffee. “Want a cup, Nancy?”
“No.”
Belinda turned to face her mother squarely. She didn’t have to be a mind reader to know exactly what was on her mind. “Fire away.”
“This isn’t funny, Belinda.”
“No, I suppose it’s not.”
“He was here the other night.”
“I’m a big girl, Mom.”
“He spent the night.”
“It’s not your business.”
“Belinda! I’m trying to protect you! Just how involved are you with him? It wasn’t the first time—was it?”
“No,” she said, her jaw tensed. She was angry. “It wasn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last. He’s too good to pass up, Mom. Oh, but I forgot—you know that already!”
Nancy paled, then flushed angrily. “Do you know what your father would do if he knew the two of you were seeing each other?”
Belinda was very attentive now. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”
Nancy laughed. A short and nervous laugh. “Well, he’d certainly do something!”
“Probably shoot Ford,” Belinda murmured, something inside her twisting cruelly with dread. “Are you going to go running to Abe, Mom?”
“I’m only doing what I think is best for you.”
“Are you going to tell Abe?”
Nancy hesitated. “No. Belinda, you can end this now, before it goes too far.”
She almost said, It’s already gone too far. But she bit off the words. “Nancy, I don’t appreciate you intruding into my private life.”
“I’m only trying to protect you,” Nancy said. “I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I made. Don’t be a fool, Belinda.”
“I think you’ve said enough.” Belinda was furious. “If you’re my guest, you should respect my privacy.”
“Your guest? I only came to take care of you! But you seem to be well on the road to recovery, so I think I’ll go back to L.A.”
“That’s a good idea.”
Nancy turned angrily, but at the door she paused. “I really have only your best interests at heart.”
Belinda watched Nancy leave. She knew her mother was telling the truth—she believed Jack would use her and hurt her. But how many times did she have to hear this tune?
She sat down.
She couldn’t tell Jack about their child, and even if she could and did, she had no idea how he’d feel. She guessed he wouldn’t care much. She was certain he wouldn’t believe it was his.
And Nancy? Her mother would be horrified.
She thought about Abe. She was finally giving him his grandchild and heir. She knew that Abe had known about Nancy and Jack’s affair—she had found that out from her mother the night of Ted Majoriis’s party. Nancy had said he’d never forgiven her, and that sounded like Abe … Belinda bit her lip. She had not contemplated it before, but suddenly she knew her father wouldn’t be thrilled that his grandchild and heir was the son or daughter of the man who had cuckolded him. But just how adverse would Abe’s reaction be?
I’ll just keep it a secret, she thought grimly. Oh, God, how had this entire tangled web happened? She realized her hand was protectively splayed on her abdomen, and she had to smile. Another first. She was about to become a single mother, something no one would have ever predicted regarding her. And she wanted this baby. Fiercely.
Belinda’s doorbell rang.
Annoyed, she strode to the hallway and opened the door.
“Hi,” Jack said.
Every fiber of her being went tense. Even her heart for one moment; then it pounded madly.
“Hello, Jack,” she said as evenly as she could.
“Can I come in?”
She hesitated, then stepped aside and let him walk past her. She followed his gaze to her pile of luggage. His face was without expression as he walked farther into her house. He paused, staring out at the surf and sails, then turned to face her. His gaze swept briefly over her tight denim jeans, the skintight black turtleneck. Belinda folded her arms. She wanted an apology but didn’t expect one. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry I flew off the handle.”
Their gazes met and held. She felt a shiver of anticipation and pleasure. Every time she saw him she marveled anew at how attracted she was to this man. And not just physically. If, she supposed, he stayed away for a few years, she would probably be able to escape his dangerous pull. “Apology accepted,” she said, letting her arms drop to her sides. “We had such a wonderful night,” she heard herself saying, unable to stop. “It was a shame it had to end the way it did.”
“You’re the one who jumped into my bed while planning on sharing Gordon’s.”
“Don’t you dare go judging me—you, Mr. Pussyman of the century! And I didn’t jump into your bed—you seduced me!”
His fists clenched, but he controlled himself—admirably, she thought. He looked at her luggage, then exploded into three hard, swift strides that carried him to her, his hands like vises on her shoulders. “Don’t go,” he said urgently.
She looked at him, feeling like a liar, which she was, if silence could be a lie.
“Don’t go,” he said, his tone becoming less urgent, more seductive. His face came closer; his breath was warm and sweet. She looked into leaf-green eyes and felt incapable of denying him anything. When his mouth came closer she closed her eyes, and the touch of his lips was soft, a baby’s breath. He plied his mouth a little harder, and she clung to him.
He pulled away to cup her face in large, calloused hands. “You’re not going,” he said huskily.
“No,” she breathed.
“You’re going to take your stuff and put it in my car,” he said.