by Jack Kinsley
Often while attempting to convince, and re-convince, a client to fly back with him, Travis would settle in at a blackjack table to kill time. Sarah had been working as a pit boss at the Bellagio — an unusual position for a girl of her stature and age. She weighed in at under a hundred pounds, barely stood five foot one, and was in her late twenties. But she had the ability to humble men twice her size with her quick wit and sharp mind. The belligerent gamblers were left in shock at her manhandling, by what they most likely had assumed to be nothing more than a pretty face behind the velvet ropes. From a distance it was an easy mistake, but once inside her conversational radius, it was immediately understood she hadn't ascended to her position by way of flirtation and compromise. She made the burliest of men look stupid and had them exiting the casino with a snap of her finger, tail between their legs. Travis had seen it firsthand and was thoroughly impressed.
His rehab clientele weren't really the burly type, but being rich and high brought a certain kind of entitlement and childish stubbornness that required the same kind of disciplinarian; one that commanded respect and whose word would be abided. And Sarah never led with her looks, which in a way made her even more attractive while simultaneously making her an even more intimidating presence. It took Travis two separate trips and three offers to finally convince her to come work for him in Malibu.
Travis continued to eavesdrop on the conversation in the living room. "Just what the hell happened to him?" he heard Nathalie ask Sarah.
He was tired of repeatedly asking himself the same question, as if reiteration would draw the answer from thin air, and he turned and asked the pup directly, "Who is to blame for this?"
The pup just lay there, perfectly dead.
After Travis had exhausted every passing explanation his mind could conjure, he kept returning to one dark possibility that became increasingly likely: Devon Cunningham, the cigarette-flicking prick. He'd been living in the Valencia Suite for the last five months, feeding off a trust fund set up by his celebrity father. There wasn't an ocean view from that room, but it did overlook a dying flower bed that had been planted just out of reach of its required sun.
Travis assumed Devon had already returned to his suite this morning, waiting for the event to blow over, and he had to willfully restrain himself from marching down the east wing and kicking Devon's ass up between his shoulder blades.
When he placed Little Jack in the shoebox, his fragile frame nestled into the white tissue with one last rustle and then lay quiet once again. It was so final. No more surprise visits from him in the office, no more licks at Travis's bare feet under his desk, and no more shared dinners after the rest of the clients had gone to bed.
Suddenly a disturbing image of Travis's five-year-old daughter, Bella, flashed in his mind. She was lying in the same shoebox, sleeping on her side and Little Jack was a stuffed animal in her arms; only she wasn't sleeping and Little Jack wasn't a stuffed animal. They were both dead and it sickened him. If Travis had had any food in his stomach he may have thrown up right there on the sheets. He quickly chased the thought from him and placed the lid on the box.
He had been reluctant to allow his clients to bring a pet with them. After all, it was a rehab for addicts, not some holiday spin-dry where clients brought their pets to die — or possibly be murdered. This was a place of serious business, treating serious addictions, and the range of reasons why the clients came were as diverse as the vehicles that drove them to the edge of their cliffs: OxyContin, Percocet, Vicodin, Percodan, crystal meth, crack, ice, Valium, Xanax, Quaaludes, amphetamines, methadone, PCP, Ketamine, heroin, cocaine, LSD, ecstasy, the all-too-familiar legal abuse of alcohol...and sex addiction.
But Travis knew the double-edged sword his marketing campaigns played in the minds of his wealthy clients, as well as in the court of public opinion. Labels were kept out of sight at Crystal Heights. Gone was the detrimental use of harsh labels and guilt-ridden exercises. The terms 'substance abuse' and 'drug addiction' were never used, but were reserved to describe the less fortunate, the lower class; certainly not a description for the wealthy. They were 'clients,' not 'patients.' They had 'personal challenges,' not 'physical dependencies.'
More importantly, they were not going to a rehab facility. We're not a rehab, and you're not an addict. It was an unspoken agreement. Crystal Heights was a place for introspection with the added benefit of a minor mental tune-up. It's what the clients wanted to hear. But they knew where they were going. They were well aware there would be bag searches before being admitted, that they couldn't bring their drug of choice, and they could never expect a glass of Pinot Noir with their gourmet dinners. And, unfortunately, if the client's deciding factor rested on whether they could bring their Miniature Pinscher, then he was only to blame for Little Jack's current state. Travis had accepted the additional fee for the little dog's stay.
The only comfort Travis found in his charade was seeing the real success he had in helping his clients. He was also very grateful for his team being big believers in the validity of the program. They understood the process of getting the clients in the door, the marketing manipulation, but they never second guessed the actual work and progress the clients ultimately made. They were witnesses to the shattered figures arriving at Crystal Heights; they watched the transformed clients who walked out the door. For how long the transformation lasted was often debated, but his staff knew that after all the ass-kissing and hand-holding, each client would receive their well-earned butt-kicking in therapy.
They could only hide from themselves for so long.
Travis secured the lid on the shoebox and tucked it under his arm as he made his way for the bedroom door. He was still inclined to go pound on Devon's door and ask the bastard point blank if he had done it. Just as he cleared the thought from his head, Sarah caught him at the doorway and pushed him gently back into the suite.
"Christ, are you holding a séance in here?" She walked him in backward a few additional feet.
Her eyes were wet, but she didn't allow any tears to fall. It was a look of vulnerability he had only seen once before; just a few weeks ago, when she had suspected her long-distance boyfriend of two years of cheating on her. Travis wished he could have photographed that look. It was almost an excuse for him to have to hold her — though not in a romantic way, of course, he reminded himself. It was simply a moment when he could be the stronger of the two — even if only fleetingly.
"I told you before, no pets." He was careful his voice didn't carry out of the suite.
"Oh, this is my fault? I'm the dog killer?" She made a beeline to the sliders and pushed open another pane of glass.
"I'm just saying no more pets. Unless it's a goddamn goldfish — no more pets." Travis adjusted the shoebox under his arm and tried to make his way out of the room.
Sarah was quicker than him. She stood squarely in his path and shoved a firm pointed finger into his chest.
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to the vet."
"No, I mean: what are you going to do?" she asked in a more deliberate tone. He could tell he wasn't going anywhere until she had her answers.
"I don't know yet." He looked across the room in reflection and then met her eyes firing at him. "We don't have any proof." Her rising frustration was palpable and it only made him want to get out of the room faster. Having a lengthy debate with Sarah was like sitting at a blackjack table for too long. It was only a matter of time before the odds would tip in her favor. And Crystal Heights had become her casino.
"Even if we did," he continued, "you think I'm going to pick a fight with the trust-fund baby's father? I'm not pissing in the wind over this."
"You're such a coward," she replied at a level higher than his comfort.
He brought himself closer to her in order to regain the privacy. "No, I'm a man who wants to stay in business. You like your job? Want to keep it?"
"So he gets away with it? No consequence!" she spoke even louder.
"Damn it." Travis shut the door to the suite, knowing it would be impossible to control her volume.
"Don't forget we're here to help these people," she continued. "After they sign that contract, we are responsible for them. That includes everything that happens under this roof. We're the ones in control here. Not the clients." Sarah picked up a chew toy Nathalie had purchased for Little Jack only the day before and chucked it into an overflowing basket of others.
Travis watched as Sarah began to move a little more freely about the room. He looked back at the shut door. Damn. He had sealed his own exit.
She was suddenly back in his face. "We need to keep our clients and staff safe, Travis." He expected more words to follow, but she waited, eyes boring into him, until her full meaning registered. There was a strange bit of something in her expression that he'd never seen before, never in the three years they had worked together. It was a hint of fear — not only for the staff and clients, but for herself. Her words finally carried the weight he needed to hear.
"He wouldn't dare," Travis said with confidence, gaining more as he carried on. "That kid doesn't have the balls."
"You know he hates me, but still wants to fuck me. And you know how many times I've bitch-slapped him verbally. It's almost a daily occurrence. I've embarrassed him publicly on several occasions. You know how obnoxious he is! The blatant sexual comments he's always throwing my way. He's disgusting! And I'm here late at night, alone. He's always coming into the office after everyone's gone to bed, looking for an extra sleeping pill, but really just to chit chat and maybe catch a glimpse of skin." Her eyes flicked to the shoebox. "I know the son of a bitch did this."
"I see him cowering like a boy when he gets within ten feet of you. You underestimate yourself, Sarah."
"I don't have to estimate myself. I'm not here for that. And this is not only about me. We both know he doesn't belong here."
Travis switched Little Jack to the underside of his left arm. Christ, why did she always have to be right? "Fine, but let me handle this first. I'll figure something out. Okay?"
Sarah remained standing in front of him with her arms crossed.
"Okay?" he repeated.
She kept her gaze locked on him for another second and then switched gears. "Your wife called. I mean your ex-wife. She—"
"We're separated," he interrupted. "Just call her Ana. You might as well, seeing as you talk to her more than me."
"Okay...Ana. She wanted me to tell you to pick up Bella at seven tonight."
"Seven? I'm supposed to get her at six!"
"She said she needed to run a few errands."
Run a few errands, he thought. She has all day, living a life supported by yours truly. If I had said seven she would have said six! If only it were Ana in this little box. His last thought surprised him.
"Are you done?" she asked.
"With what?" He looked at the shoebox under his arm, thinking what else he might be missing. "No, it's all here, a dog in a box."
"Cursing under your breath about your Ana." She gave him a teasing grin that lasted only a second, and then it was all business again. "I'm counting on you to deal with Devon. Okay? I'm telling you. Don't let this go." And she stabbed at his chest a last time.
"Go." Travis motioned for her to get out of his way. She obliged and opened the door, finally setting him free.
Travis walked into the dining room, where client Nathalie sat folded over in a chair. Her torso rested over her thighs and her lower, pale back was exposed; it looked like a hinge on a trap door. She lifted her head and immediately spotted the shoebox under his arm, quickly dropping her gaze back to the hardwood floor. Girlfriend Dani stood by her side, rigid, still showing no sign of affection. She only gave an approving look to the shoebox coffin she had chosen for Little Jack.
Perhaps it's a relief for Dani? he speculated. Little Jack had stolen the show at Crystal Heights and probably in their relationship as well. Travis was pretty sure Dani also suspected Nathalie of having an affair with Devon, but she didn't let on to it. She had even kept quiet about it in her sessions with Helen Ross, the staff therapist, who shared everything with Travis.
Thanks to Helen, he had the nitty-gritty on everyone, including his staff, who regularly used the therapists between client appointments for personal advice. There was the issue of therapist-client privilege, but that was for courts of law and visiting relatives. It didn't pertain to Travis.
According to Helen, Dani had found Nathalie as someone might pick up a stray dog. She had seen Nathalie on several occasions wandering her neighborhood without any destination or purpose, obviously homeless and lost. Only a month prior, Dani had lost her father to a fatal heart attack and inherited his fortune. Although she had lost her father, Dani had immediately gained her sexual freedom, having hidden her sexuality from her father, and the rest of the world, all of her life. That is, up until his passing. She'd told Helen that she now felt liberated, and wanted to experience the feelings she had repressed for so long.
Dani spied on Nathalie from her bedroom window for the next few days, and after lonely and sleepless nights, she finally built up the courage to approach the girl, offering to buy her lunch. The two quickly became friends for different reasons, and eventually became lovers for those same different reasons. Unlike Dani, Nathalie had not been a lesbian created by Mother Nature. In truth, Nathalie told Helen that she'd been wandering the neighborhood in an attempt to win back the love of a man who lived just a few houses away. She was destitute, with nowhere to turn, and her decision to be with Dani was more an act of self-preservation than attraction. It was the keen insight of therapist Helen who pointed out Nathalie's heavy use of heroin had begun soon after she and Dani shared their first sexual experience.
The pair checked into Crystal Heights as a couple earlier that summer. Dani of course had only come along to support Nathalie — she didn't have any addiction issues and wouldn't receive any treatment, but this was a familiar story Travis had heard on numerous occasions. It had only been a matter of days before Dani was having her own sessions with Helen Ross.
Sometimes, Travis wished he knew less about his eccentric family, but it was usually absolutely fascinating to his curious mind. Their shaded pasts were like Molotov cocktails waiting to be lit by too much money, boredom, and eventual substance abuse. He imagined if they ever learned of his knowledge of them, they'd all go running to the nearest bedroom and slam the door behind them like spoiled children, swearing to never come out again.
While Travis waited impatiently in the dining room for Sarah to find his misplaced car keys in the office, he felt the hard edges of the cardboard box cutting into his skin. There was little to no conversation with Dani and Nathalie, who seemed to also share the sense of urgency for him to get the hell out of there.
He suddenly remembered client Jordan, who had been absent from all the drama this morning. The clients were allotted an extra hour to sleep in on the weekends, but Jordan was a creature of habit who was always up before sunrise, no matter what day it was.
"Anyone see Jordan this morning?" Travis tried to fill the uncomfortable void.
The ladies only shook their heads no.
Travis thought it was probably best, seeing as he didn't feel like explaining the missing pair of Gucci shoes from the box he was holding. He'd almost forgotten about Lucy until he heard a glass shatter in the kitchen and the assistant's timid voice say, "Sorry, Mr. Martin." He hated it when she called him Mr. Martin.
Come on, Sarah. Where are those damn keys?
The front door abruptly opened. It made everyone jump, but they relaxed again when they saw Chef Tom enter with the morning groceries.
"Morning y'all," Chef Tom said brightly. He'd been making jokes lately in an adopted southern twang. Nobody returned his greeting and Travis could tell that he'd sensed the weight in the room. He quickly switched gears and said, "I'll be in the kitchen." He kept a steady stride toward it.
Travis and Chef Tom exchange
d a simple nod as he passed. Travis could see him looking at the shoebox under his arm, but he only shook his head at the man. Chef Tom disappeared from the living room.
Nathalie unhinged herself from her position and looked up at Travis. "When will we know?" she asked. A wet paper towel that had nearly deteriorated hung from her grip.
"I think it'll only be a day or two, but I'll keep on them."
"Me too," said Sarah, arriving with keys jingling at her fingertips.
Finally.
Then a faint click of a door was heard opening down the east wing. Everyone caught it and eyes met around the room. A second click followed, closing again. Travis had no doubt it was Devon, poking his head out to see if the coast was clear.
The rat bastard, Travis thought. He might not have his day in court, but tonight he will sit for dinner on the floor and be fed like a dog.
Chapter 2 / Little Bella
After dropping off Little Jack at the vet, Travis decided to take the long way back to Crystal Heights. He needed time to consider how he was going to deal with Devon — mainly, how he was going to avoid the long, powerful arm of the man's father. Conveniently enough, taking that time to think gave him the perfect excuse for a drive-by past 712 Hope Blvd.
A late September rain had caught Malibu by surprise that morning, and he thought he just might be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of his beloved Bella playing. It was his guess she was already out in the front yard swinging an umbrella around that would rarely make it above her head. She loved the rain. If there were puddles to be jumped in, her baby-blue galoshes would certainly find them.
It had only been seven months since he had been kicked out of his rightful home. It was a beautifully restored Victorian house constructed of heart pine, sitting on a half acre of land and conveniently located only a few miles from work, in a far less prestigious neighborhood than that of Crystal Heights. The renovation had taken nearly two years, and they had just finished the final touches on the fourth bedroom when Ana had given Travis two options: leave of his own accord, or be hauled away in handcuffs. It was a decision he paced around with for at least ten minutes on the wraparound porch before he finally conceded and exited out the back gate. He'd never forget the strong gusts of wind blasting through the leaves of the mature oak, the pecan tree, and the magnolias surrounding his home. It was as if they were hissing their unfavorable opinions of him.