Palm Springs Heat

by DC Thome

  “It’s that obvious?”

  “It’s that obvious.” Sun shook her head. “Men. You think you’re so hard. So inscrutable. But, down deep, you all have soft, mushy centers.” She put her wrap back on. “I don’t know what’s going to become of you, Mr. Mush, Clay Creighton, but I think it’ll be interesting to watch.”

  * * *

  “Are you fucking out of your mind?” Sushma Vishnuveda shrieked.

  Clay couldn’t blame her. People outside her office had stopped to rubberneck, so Sushma shut the door hard to convey more than a hint of authority.

  Everything about Sushma’s office conveyed more than a hint of authority. It was spartan in the extreme—from the commanding view of the stark crags outside to the interior color scheme, limited to black, silver and tones of gray. An outsized oil painting, a severe study in amorphous gray shapes, tyrannized the room. A black-as-night laminated desk glistened with a funereal quality, and two chrome-and-black-leather chairs in front of it could have been standard issue for an interrogation room. A wide-screen monitor hung from one corner; the desk top held only a wireless mouse, a monitor and a black ceramic teapot on a wooden tray.

  Sushma sat on the edge of her desk and towered over Clay. “Bringing this woman to Rev was very unwise. That horrible Lucretia Moray has it all over her Facebook page. You have a brand to protect.”

  Sushma didn’t appear at all imposing. Born to a privileged family in Mumbai, she stood barely five feet tall. But with her fully fleshed-out curves, there was a whole lot of sexy packed onto her frame. She had dark olive skin and a heart-shaped face dominated by round eyes with long lashes that made her look like Bambi when she blinked.

  But now Clay was locked in on her scowl. Sushma was not Hindu, but she came on like the deity Shiva—a force that could be creative or destructive, depending on the situation. Her outspoken nature had put her at odds with many in the organization, but because Fast Lane thrived like never before under her command, Clay deferred to her on all business matters.

  Being a brand is a pain in the ass.

  “So,” he said, “the fact that I know Lucretia Moray’s no problem, but bringing a guest to my own restaurant is over the line.”

  “You may bring in your guests. If they are approved. The media have been calling all day to inquire about ‘the mystery woman.’”

  “It’s different with Lara. Maybe…” He pursed his lips for a moment. “Maybe it’s time to think about ending The Rotation.”

  “My god. Has she stolen your mind?” Sushma leaned until her face was inches from Clay’s. “Let me spell it out for you: The restaurants, the resorts, the clothes, the music downloads, the books, the golf clubs, the lingerie—even that godawful brussels sprout liqueur—what do you think happens to all that if you end The Rotation?”

  “Cynar is made from artichokes, not brussels sprouts.”

  Sushma was not amused. Chastened by her icy gaze, Clay continued. “You really believe ending The Rotation will make everything come crashing down? Isn’t that why we introduced all this other stuff—so we wouldn’t have to rely just on the website for income?”

  “The Rotation is not just some abstract notion. It is not some…gimmick. People equate Fast Lane with The Rotation.”

  “And me.”

  “Yes…and you. Do you think there is no other place where one can find an article by Neil DeGrasse Tyson? Or a titty shot of some French actress?” She shook her head and muttered to herself like an angry parent, only in Hindi.

  “You know,” Clay said, “I’m actually the boss here. I think I should have a say in some of these decisions.”

  “Certainly you own the final say. I am just a hired gun. You can do whatever you want. But maybe what you want would be more productive if you started thinking with this head”— she poked his temple—“instead of this one.” She punctuated her point with a flick of her fingers to Clay’s crotch.

  “I’ve been okay so far doing it the other way. Why change now?”

  “Because now your little head has given you a truly stupid idea.”

  Clay could not help but smile, which only infuriated Sushma even more.

  “That pushiness,” he said. “It’s why you spent less time in The Rotation than any other woman.”

  “But one.”

  “Yes, but one.”

  “My pushiness, as you refer to it, also happens to be the reason this company still exists.”

  “So what should I do, Signora Consigliere?”

  Sushma rolled her eyes, plunked down into her cushy chair, pressed her hands together and pointed them at Clay as she leaned toward him on her elbows.

  Ah, the scrunched-up shoulders. Here it comes.

  “This is what I believe we should do,” she said. “Bring this Lara Dixon into The Rotation and see how things play out. If you still feel the same about her a few months from now, maybe we can find a way to work it into the grand scheme of things. It is perhaps possible that the great ladies’ man, Clay Creighton, has finally decided to settle down with just one woman. Perhaps that will even attract a new audience. But such a move must be thoroughly planned.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Clay said with more than a hint of resignation.

  Sushma dialed back the aggression—and even managed to crack half a smile. “Of course I am right. Is that not what you pay me to be?”

  Clay shrugged.

  “I’m not sure it’s what Lara would want,” he said. “But I’ll give it a try.”

  * * *

  As soon as Clay left, Sushma got on the phone.

  Turnbow answered. “Yes, Ms. V?”

  “Perhaps you can explain to me what the fuck happened at Rev last evening.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Do not play dumb with me.”

  “Bergmann called me as soon as he got word about Mr. C’s guest.”

  “So you knew in advance.”

  “Yes, but not much. I had to hustle to get down there in time.”

  Sushma’s eyes narrowed. “Why was I not told?”

  “I thought I could handle it.”

  “Afterward.”

  “Mr. C specifically asked me not to tell you.”

  Sushma ground her teeth. The look on her face said she wanted to rip out someone’s throat. Most likely Turnbow’s. Or Clay’s. She composed herself by straightening her blouse and patting her hair. “All right, then,” she said in a calm, but dangerous, voice, “now I am telling you to find out everything there is to know about this Lara Dixon.”

  “I’ll have my people start the usual check as soon as possible.”

  “I suggest you start sooner than that. By my clock, you have already missed the deadline by, oh, twelve hours.”

  She hung up the phone by flinging it against the wall.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, a zillion miles away from Malibu, in the tiny, hot Fairfax district offices of HardCoreGrrrls.com, Gina fiddled with her chrome lighter and laughed. “I’d say you’re better at this game than you might think,” she said.

  “It’s not like it’s easy,” Lara replied.

  “Yeah, but he gave you his shirt. His wine-stained shirt.”

  “That is kind of a romantic gesture.”

  “Fucking molten hot lava romantic.” Gina lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and held the smoke for a long time. “Clay Creighton’s turning out to be every bit the cool, charming bastard everyone says he is.”

  “You don’t think he meant it?”

  “Meant it how?” “Like how he wants to fuck your brains out?”

  To put it delicately. “I suppose,” Lara said, “I thought it would be good to play it cool.”

  “Oh, it was. Always leave them wanting more. So what’s next?” Gina carefully sculpted the ash of her cigarette, twisting it slowly on the edge of the translucent amber ashtray on her desk.

  “I’m not sure. He said he’d call me this weekend.”

  “You’ve got clothes for whatever?”

&
nbsp; “There’s the lemon yellow dress.”

  “With the white stripes and the…” Gina slashed the air with her cigarette-holding hand to indicate a V neck. “Good. For daytime. What about the evening?”

  “I think I’m set, no matter what.”

  “Maybe it’s a good time to unleash the crimson dress,” Gina said with a naughty grin.

  Lara loved the crimson taffeta shift. It screamed flaming hot sex. She had never owned one that color before, and when she tried it on, she got a kick out of looking into a mirror and seeing a Woman in Red. The yellow dress was pretty, like something the nice girl next door would wear on a ’60s TV show. But the crimson dress? That one was right out of Mad Men.

  “We’ll see,” Lara said.

  “Okay, then. Keep me up to date.”

  Lara got up to leave.

  “And keep doing whatever it is you’ve been doing,” Gina continued. “You seem to be on to something.”

  Lara paused. “I’ve never been good at playing hard-to-get.”

  “What, you were voted Class Slut in your high school yearbook?”

  “I just don’t want to, you know, push it too far. I don’t want him to lose interest.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” Gina said as she ground out her smoke. “I don’t get the idea Clay Creighton is the kind of man who easily gives up on things he really, really wants. And he seems to really, really want you.”

  * * *

  On a glorious Saturday morning, Lara sat with a cup of strong coffee on her postage-stamp-size back porch wearing an oversize T-shirt and men’s boxers that served as her pajamas. She rested her laptop on her knees and revisited the history of The Rotation. Since it began sixteen years earlier, The Rotation had had thirty-eight members. The average time it took to cycle through was fifteen months, though a woman named Virginia Warren lasted only six weeks. The website gave no hint as to why the woman with the pointy, little chin, smiling innocently from behind a tangle of lemony curls, left so soon.

  Sushma’s stint in The Rotation lasted seven months.

  Lara could not find an explanation of how Clay decided who was in. He can’t just seduce a new dupe and boot an old one out the door. She felt bad for Sun—and for every other woman who had passed through The Rotation. Then again, there was no guarantee Lara would replace Sun. Should I play hard to get? Throw myself at him? What turns him on?

  The thought of being intimate with Clay Creighton—the Clay Creighton—had appeal. Hell, the thought of being intimate with any man seemed like a great idea. Lara had been celibate since the day she came home early from a business trip to San Francisco, where she’d spoken with investors in one of Kyle’s inane movies, to the sound of the spa bubbling away. Hot and tired from the grueling drive, Lara decided to launch a sneak naval attack on Kyle. The brutal schedule of completing his latest flick had kept them apart—or so he had led Lara to believe. She came out onto the deck wearing nothing but her high hopes of a foamy frolic, only to discover two other women already living her fantasy.

  Two years had passed, but Lara was still haunted by her response. She had gasped, turned red and dashed out of sight. She had thrown on some clothes and was on her way out the door when it dawned on her that something was missing. Groveling. Lara had peeked through the blinds, expecting at least to find the sluts no longer there. On the contrary. Lara’s brief appearance seemed to have been completely inconsequential. That added insult to the injury of having believed Kyle would be content to look at, but not touch, the floozies he worked with every day.

  Humiliated, she had left, vowing to get even during the upcoming legal proceedings. But Kyle had no money. Worse, he had racked up big balances on their credit cards spending on other women. Seven years of marriage and eight years of free labor as a promotions director, and all I got was this lousy car.

  That’s when Lara resolved to make ending Clay’s cruel farce her personal crusade.

  Then, how to eliminate the tingle between her legs every time she thought of him? Lara unconsciously traced her fingers along the boxers’ fly as she read a blog entry about the proper way for a man to use his fingers to bring a woman “to completion.” That’s what Clay’s blog said. Not orgasm. Not pleasure. Not climax. Completion. Because without a man, a woman could never be complete—another pillar of the Fast Lane philosophy.

  Lara thought for a moment about going inside to her bed to “complete” herself. But no one could see her out here. She couldn’t even see the sky without standing at one end of the porch and craning her neck. Towels hung out to dry six months before obscured the view of the apartment behind hers. She had rarely seen whoever lived there outside—and never in the morning. She slipped one hand under the elastic of the boxers; the other snuck up under the tee. Clay’s touch. She licked her lips. Clay’s kiss. She reclined in the chair. Clay’s body pushing into mine.

  And then her phone rang.

  Fuck!

  Lara grudgingly straightened herself up on the chair and checked the caller ID. Clay. At nine-thirty a.m.?

  “Clay…hi!”

  “Hope it’s not too early to call.”

  “No! I was just…working on something.”

  “Great. I have to run an errand this afternoon, and I was hoping you’d come with me.”

  * * *

  A few minutes before two that afternoon, Lara sat at a table on the terrace at Gardain. Pronounced “jzar-dah,” it was a hipster restaurant overlooking Hollywood from a perch between Runyon Canyon and Wattle’s Garden Park. Business was brisk, and though the yellow dress didn’t match the thrift-store-chic tastes of the calculated bohemian clientele, Lara wasn’t worried. She didn’t have to impress anyone but Clay.

  She’d ordered an appetizer made with giant Japanese tiger shrimp marinated in El Jimador aged tequila and trimmed with an exotic coriander-based garnish containing Black Krim and White Wonder tomatoes. Sure, it cost $42.50—but when else would Lara get another chance?

  Clay had offered to pick her up at her apartment, but Lara didn’t want him to see where she lived. Her Santa Monica neighborhood was a lot nicer than where she’d grown up. But it wasn’t the kind of nice that Clay was used to. Lara lied about having to be in Hollywood at midday, so Clay suggested they meet at Gardain because of its “unpretentious menu and modest ambience.”

  Clay arrived at 2:01, just as the waitress brought the shrimp cocktail to the table.

  “Ah, the Black and White Tiger,” Clay said without missing a beat. “Very good choice.”

  The sound of his voice and the sight of those eyes radiating gold in the midday sun made that tingling sensation return. Maybe this would be a good day to take things to a new level.

  “So, what is this errand?”

  “You’re just going to have to wait for it. But, feel free to let your imagination run wild until the time comes.”

  If you say…

  Lara speared a shrimp and popped it into her mouth.

  5

  When they were done eating, Clay led Lara to a parking lot tucked into the hillside behind the restaurant. It featured all the usual vehicular suspects—Mercedes, Audis, a Fisker Karma, more than a few politically incorrect SUVs—but Clay charged past them all to a little ’57 Austin Healey “Frogeye” Sprite that was dwarfed by a Bentley on one side and an Escalade on the other.

  “This is your car?”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “It’s just that it’s so cute.”

  “Not something Clay Creighton would drive?”

  Lara smiled and shrugged.

  “The Fast Lane philosophy isn’t just about power and speed,” Clay gently explained. “It’s also about what’s unique and deserving.”

  “This car did set land speed records.”

  “Wow.”

  “What? A girl can’t know something like that?”

  “No, no—I approve. It’s kind of sexy.” Clay gazed into Lara’s eyes as he opened the diminutive passenger-side door for her.
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  “That’s good,” Lara said as she settled into the seat, “because I also know this was the first Austin-Healey with a six-cylinder engine, and that it ran at Le Mans.”

  Clay stepped over the driver’s side door to get in. “That’s what makes this car cool.” He tapped the ignition key to his temple. “It’s tiny, but it thinks it’s big.”

  * * *

  Lara loved feeling the breeze in her hair as Clay drove them into Bel Air. She felt like a puppy with its head hanging out the window, its tongue lolling in the wind—except for the tongue part. She never got that feeling in her dowdy Taurus—even with all the windows rolled down. Having gusts smack your head from the sides was a poor imitation of the rush from a breeze slapping you square in the face over the top of a low-slung windshield like the Frogeye’s.

  Clay pulled the car into a Lexus dealership that looked more luxurious than a three-star Palm Springs hotel. Lara had never been in a three-star Palm Springs hotel, but she’d heard stories and seen pictures.

  Oddly, not a single vehicle sat outside. “Where are all the cars?” Lara asked.

  “Inside,” Clay said. “Nothing’s harder on a car’s finish than the sun.”

  A man impeccably dressed in a Brioni suit exited the steel-gray building through a glass door made nearly opaque by UV-protective film.

  “Mr. Creighton,” the man said. “Your vehicle is waiting.”

  “This is the surprise?” Lara asked. “You’re picking up a car?”

  “Not just ‘a’ car, madam,” the gentleman said. “Mr. Creighton is picking up his certified Lexus LFA.”

  Clay smiled. “Silvio, this is Lara.”

  “How do you do?” Silvio said, opting to bow instead of extending his hand. “As the owner of this establishment, I welcome you as a dear friend.” He turned to Clay. “Are you ready?”

  “Lead the way.”

  Silvio held the door for Lara and Clay. Lara had never heard of the car Clay was there to get, but it was easy to spot once they were inside. Parked on the slate of the showroom floor, the white two-seater gleamed as though bathed in the light of a hundred suns. Its triangular headlamps and air scoops behind each door made it look like a raptor.