Don't Order Dog: 1 (Jeri Halston Series)

by C. T. Wente

  rigidly back, his jaw clenched tightly, his face crimson red as he fought desperately

  against his own body.

  “Help him!” Jeri heard herself scream as the nurse next to her steadied a large syringe over his body. The nurse was about to plunge the needle into her father’s leg when suddenly his convulsions stopped. The room grew eerily quiet as her father’s body relaxed and his eyes rolled slowly back until they settled on Jeri’s face, their deep brown intelligence replaced with a cold and vacant stare.

  Jeri woke to the sound of her own scream as she opened her eyes and shot up from the bed. She glanced anxiously around the dark bedroom, struggling to catch her breath as reality now rushed back to her. Outside, a deeper veil of snow rested against the corner of her window as the wind whispered lightly. She sighed and fell wearily back against her pillow, closing her eyes tightly before the forming waves of sobs could overtake her.

  20.

  The wake of the Achilles II stretched like a long white scar as its deep, cobalt-colored hull cut swiftly through the warm tropical water. Cruising at a steady fifteen knots off the Venezuelan coast, the ship’s massive twin diesels hummed quietly as they powered the hundred and thirty-foot yacht through the calm Caribbean Sea, their sound unnoticed by the party-goers above.

  On the main deck, Christina Lynch stared out at the distant lights of Puerto La Cruz as they flickered in the fading light of dusk. Warm tropical air stirred across the deck, rippling the handmade linens on the tables around her and teasing the chartreuse silk of her Valentino evening gown. Christina leaned lightly into the rail as her manicured nails tapped the empty crystal flute in her hand impatiently. Behind her, another two-dozen guests lounged around tables adorned with extravagant hors d’ oeuvres, picking lightly at plates of caviar, lobster and foie gras that were delicately arranged between intricate ice sculptures of dolphins and whales.

  A middle-aged man wearing a white jacket trimmed in gold suddenly materialized next her. “Miss?” he asked timidly as he held up the dark green bottle of Krug Clos Ambonnay she’d been waiting for, a polite smile trained on his placid face. Christina shifted her long legs and gave the server an irritable stare before holding out her hand. A torrent of shimmering gold filled the crystal flute as the priceless champagne flowed from the bottle, and she watched the ensuing eruption of impossibly small bubbles with mild admiration as they shimmered and sparkled with perfection. Her glass filled, the servant smiled again before curtly bowing and heading towards the next guest. Christina arrogantly waved the air with her fingers, as if brushing the air of the servant away. She knew that the modest pour of champagne swirling in her glass was worth more than the servant who poured it would make all month. But of course Christina felt no remorse for this fact. In her mind, this simple fact merely reinforced the significance of everything that now surrounded her – the importance of the evening, the power of the people standing around her, and thanks to her relationship with the man she arrived with, the importance of Christina herself.

  She took a sip of champagne and quietly watched the other guests. Most of the men around her appeared to be in their late sixties or seventies, all of them wearing tailored tuxedos and trailing forty-something trophy wives on their arms. Although by far the youngest, and undoubtedly the best-looking guest on the ship, Christina distanced herself from everyone else. She had no intention of socializing alone, especially when her boyfriend had abruptly left her to “wrap-up some business” with his team of lawyers below deck. Irritated by this fact, she took another sip of champagne and decided a more powerful form of relaxation was in order. Discretely reaching into her Lana Marks clutch, Christina found the small vial she relied on for just such an occasion. She deftly extracted two pills from the container and popped them into her mouth, swallowing them sans aqua as she’d learned from her years as a model. A few minutes later, just as their effect was beginning to take hold, a hand touched her shoulder.

  “Excuse me, miss,” a deep, confident voice said from behind her. Christina turned to find a tall, exceptionally good-looking man in his mid-twenties standing a few steps away. His tanned, chiseled face was fixed with a practiced smile as he waited for her to meet his eyes, which Christina eventually did after slowly admiring the way his trim, athletic figure filled his Brioni tuxedo and the stylish cut of his blonde hair. Finally succumbing to the pull of his hazel-colored eyes, she smiled curtly and slipped a lock of her long, wind-blown brunette hair behind her ear.

  “Yes?” she replied with a falsely irritable tone. Despite his looks, the man was apparently part of the ship owner’s staff, and Christina couldn’t resist the urge to treat him as such.

  “Mr. Birch has asked for you down stairs,” he said warmly, his smiling eyes reflecting the last dying rays of sun light as he held up his arm. “May I escort you there?”

  “I suppose,” Christina said with a sigh. “But first–” She pointed her little finger to the sky and drained the last of her champagne before dropping the crystal flute on the tray of a passing waiter. “Okay, let’s go,” she commanded, her green eyes tracing over him. She took his arm and squeezed it casually, feeling the toned muscles beneath his jacket. They walked past the evening’s entertainment – a four-piece band playing 80’s tunes. Christina recognized the song that was playing and began swaying her hips seductively. Had the circumstances of the evening been different, she was sure the man now leading her would have made a deliciously nimble partner for both dancing and more private activities below deck. As if reading her mind, the man tensed his arm as they descended the grand stairway of inlayed marble toward the staterooms below.

  “Beautiful night, wouldn’t you agree Miss Lynch?” he asked as they entered a long corridor that ran through the center of the ship.

  “Yeah, sure,” she mumbled, silently wishing a waiter with a fresh tray of champagne was within sight. Her little pharmaceutical friends had taken their full euphoric effect, and she was craving more of the sweet swirling bubbles of carbonation that tickled her throat with every savory sip. Unfortunately they were alone in this area of the ship. She glanced at her escort with a cynical smile. “Just like every other night I’ve seen since I arrived here.”

  “Of course, Miss Lynch.”

  “Oh Christ, don’t call me Miss Lynch,” she replied flirtatiously, squeezing his arm roughly. “My name is Christina.”

  “Okay. So I take it you’re not a fan of Puerto La Cruz, Christina?”

  Christina winced at the sound of her own name and gave her escort a surprised, questioning look. Even in her chemically-altered state, she couldn’t miss the venomous tone he had managed to inject into the pronunciation, as if her name were a choice curse word. “Haven’t seen enough of it to say, really,” she replied flatly. “Other than the resort and this ship, I wouldn’t know what this god-forsaken place even looks like.”

  “Well, if you get a chance, I would highly recommend a day trip to the small town of Santa Fe. It’s a beautiful little town, nestled in the foothills of the Turimiquire Mountains. And the view–” he exclaimed, suddenly raising his arm in front of him, “is truly breath-taking.”

  Christina’s arm, wrapped around his, was swept up in the motion, ripping her purse from her hand and sending it sliding across the floor.

  “Fucking hell,” she muttered as she bent down to pick it up.

  “Please… allow me.” Without breaking stride, her escort deftly reached down and grabbed the small clutch, holding it for her as they walked the last few steps.

  Arriving at the last stateroom in the corridor, the man unwrapped his arm from her grip and tapped lightly on the door. Inside, Christina could hear the muted shuffling of someone moving clumsily towards the door. Her escort then gave her a heart-stopping smile as he gently opened her hand and placed the small purse in her palm.

  “Thank you,” she said, leaning seductively towards him. “What was your name again?”

  “Call me Thomas.”

  “Thank you, Thom
as. And thanks for the advice. I’ll do my best to visit Santa Fe if I ever get off this damn boat.”

  “I hope you do. Good night, Christina,” he said quietly as he bowed, holding her with his stare. He turned and disappeared into the narrow servant’s corridor next to her as the click of the stateroom door lock sounded.

  “Good night, Thomas… you tall, handsome bastard,” Christina whispered, staring vacantly into the dark corridor as the door to the stateroom suddenly flew open. A half-dressed man with brown, thinning hair and a round cleft chin stood in the doorway.

  “Oh, well… there you fucking are,” her boyfriend Derrick said, glancing nervously down the corridor before grabbing her arm and quickly pulling her into the room. He slammed the door and spun around to face her. “What the fuck took you so long?” he asked, pushing her aside as he made his way to the wet bar behind her.

  Christina glared back at him, her large, oval-shaped brown eyes cold and hard.

  At thirty-six years old, Derrick Birch was already a well-known and highly respected entrepreneur in the world of alternative energy development. After getting his degree in Chemical Engineering at MIT, Birch immediately landed a coveted research position with Reich-Walston Labratories, a key research firm for the world’s largest energy companies, where he quickly proved his genius by developing a hydrogen fuel cell design that was three times more efficient than anything before it. Armed with the rare gift of having people-skills that matched his engineering genius, Birch skillfully ascended the politically fortified ranks at Reich-Walston until, at age 30, he decided he could start his own energy research firm and avoid the bureaucratic bullshit altogether. Eighteen months and thirty-million in angel investment dollars later, Birch and a hand-picked team of researchers and lawyers were a tour-de-force firm specializing in energy-innovation research, development and patenting. With each major new innovation, almost always the result of Birch’s own inspiration, the company spun-off a new corporation. Covering a wide spectrum of technologies that ranged from cutting-edge fuel-cell development to fossil fuel refinement, the nascent companies were almost always caught in a bidding-war between the world’s largest energy companies and conglomerates, all of them salivating for technologies that promised new market opportunities and competitive advantage. Along the way, Birch had found himself a very rich man.

  And as Christina had learned early on in their short, turbulent relationship, Derrick Birch had an ego and a temper to match.

  “What are you talking about?” she replied flatly. “Up until five minutes ago I was upstairs trying not to stick out like a pathetic, lonely loser when your man-servant found me and dragged me down here.” She walked to the bar and roughly opened the wine chiller, grabbing the first bottle of Dom Perignon she could find. “Where the fuck have you been?”

  “You know exactly where I’ve been, Chrissy,” Derrick replied, using the nickname he knew that she hated. “Stuck on this fucking boat for ten hours, trying to hack out an agreement that won’t completely fuck me.” He poured a tall glass of straight vodka over ice and took a long sip before staring at her solemnly. “Christ almighty, even after all these years it’s still David versus fucking Goliath in these things.” He paused for a moment, as if expecting her to speak, but she returned his stare with a vacant expression. “The deal’s almost done, and suddenly they’re trying to break my fucking balls over some tax records from four years back. I’m sitting there with three high-priced lawyers on my side of the table, and I still had to call Roger in fucking Houston and get him to explain every tax shelter we’ve used since god knows when. It’s fucking unbelievable.”

  He walked over to the bed and sat down heavily on the corner.

  “And of course, the whole time you sit in these meetings with these guys and their lawyers, they try to make you feel like they’re doing you some kind of fucking favor. As if what I do could’ve just come from anyone.” Derrick drained the rest of the strong drink in a single gulp and walked back to the bar. “Assholes. I should tell them to fuck off and re-open negotiations with Exxon. At least they aren’t a complete bunch of pricks.”

  “Sure, do it,” Christina remarked absently, admiring her shoes as she leaned against the bar next to him. Derrick grumbled irritably as he poured another vodka and settled his pudgy frame onto the chaise lounge in the corner of the room. He sat quietly for a few minutes, staring into his glass as his thoughts drifted around him.

  “You know,” he said finally, gazing at her with glassy, bloodshot eyes that seemed to be staring through her, focused on the memory he was seeing, “when I was a kid, I used to have the best fucking dreams. Better than anything fucking Hollywood could’ve made. And I’m not talking about that silly flying shit either. No, I had the best dreams imaginable. I could just see things the way they were supposed to be… the way they should be.”

  His eyes focused back onto hers.

  “Do you even know what that feels like?”

  Christina stared at him silently. She’d seen Derrick drunk enough times now to know that his questions were simply rhetorical statements, like lines in a one-man play. He didn’t want her to answer, and wouldn’t hear her even if she did.

  “That’s what I always wanted to be, you know… a director. A fucking Hollywood director. Christ, I even became a fucking thespian in high school out of sheer eagerness to make it happen. Of course, I spent more time designing sets and tinkering with the shitty video equipment than hanging out with all the damn wannabe drama queens, but I was convinced it was my destiny.” He threw back another slug of his vodka and laughed. “Fuck, I was a naïve kid back then.”

  Christina raised her eyebrows in surprise as Derrick swirled his drink and smiled dejectedly. She’d never heard him talk about his childhood before, and she wasn’t sure how to take it. Could it be that there was actually an emotional, god-forbid vulnerable man behind the abrasive, egotistical genius? The idea made her shudder.

  “Then again,” he said suddenly, looking at her with sharp, lucid intensity, “I suppose I am a director in a way. Not on film of course, but in a much bigger way. Anybody can make shit up and put it on film, but how many can say they have the power to truly make their dreams a reality?”

  “Not many, D,” Christina replied in a tone that bordered on the patronizing. “You’re definitely one in a million.” She quietly commended herself for being supportive of Derrick, even under these circumstances. Her mind drifted for a moment as she contemplated the shopping trip it was going to take to get him out of the doghouse when he sobered up.

  Derrick gave her a thin smile and nodded his head. He drained his second vodka and placed the empty glass on the floor as he stood up unsteadily from the chaise lounge. “Fuck, it. It’s all nothing more than smoke and mirrors in the end.”

  Christina rolled her eyes. “God, you are such a buzz-kill. Was there a reason you asked me down here?”

  “Actually there was,” Derrick replied, clumsily tucking in his white tuxedo shirt as he walked towards her. He stopped just inches from her slender figure, his stare moving mischievously up her long tanned legs and past her modest cleavage before slowly focusing on her face. Christina gave him an irritated frown. A twinge of nausea suddenly struck her as he leaned in close, swaying slightly as his warm, alcohol-laced breath washed over her. He pointed at her purse.

  “I need some of your little friends.”

  Christina instinctively clutched her purse tighter as his hand moved towards it. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what the fuck I’m talking about,” Derrick replied, his eyes fixed intently on her. “Did you honestly think I didn’t know?”

  “Know what, Derrick?”

  “Jesus Christ, Chrissy – will you stop fucking around? You’ve got a small pharmacy in that tiny fucking purse and we both know it. Now listen… I don’t need coke or “e” or any fancy bullshit, I just want something to help me fucking relax.” He took a step back and smiled. “So are you going
to stand there and play fucking stupid, or are you going to pull out one of those little vials from the Lynch treasure chest like a good little girlfriend?”

  Christina stared at her boyfriend in shock. This was not normal Derrick. Even in her clouded state, she knew something was seriously off with him. It was strange enough that he was reminiscing about his childhood– a subject that, for as long as she’d known him, had been walled off from her like the safe in the bedroom of his Malibu estate. But the fact that he was now asking for drugs – and drugs from her – was beyond comprehension.

  “I can’t believe you’re asking me this,” she finally said, glaring at him.

  “Come on, stop being so fucking dramatic. I’ve just spent a whole goddamn day down here dealing with a school of sharks in suits, and now I have to go upstairs and act like I actually like these motherfuckers. Alcohol by itself isn’t gonna cut it tonight, so I’m asking you for a little extra help. So please, drop the fucking Mother Teresa act and show me what you got.”

  “Fine,” she said, handing him the purse. “Knock yourself out. And I mean that literally.”

  Derrick walked over to the bed and dumped the contents of the purse onto the mattress. “Holy shit,” he exclaimed, staring at the bed. “I was just kidding when I said you had a small pharmacy. I didn’t realize you really did.”

  “Fuck you, D. Do you have any idea how much I dislike you right now?”

  “I’ll make it up to you,” he replied as he leaned down and began rummaging through the collection of small vials and bags that contained an assortment of brightly colored pills and white, sugar-like powder. “So, what should I go with?”

  “Why don’t you try them all,” Christina answered dryly, pouring more champagne for herself.

  “C’mon, be serious. You’re the expert with this shit.”

  She walked over to the bed and brushed his hands away before quickly sorting through the paraphernalia. “No... no… no…” she remarked flatly as she tossed the items one-by-one back into her bag. “Definitely not… no… no–”