by Katee Robert
I’m the sociopath? “I don’t understand—”
“You assumed I was a pathetic, self-conscious wallflower, hoping to get a shred of excitement out of being your assistant, because that’s what I wanted you to think. But you’re wrong. I’m an actress, and a damn good one. Not that I needed to be, in your case. You were so ridiculously easy to fool. A little hair dye, some colored contacts, a crappy wardrobe, and I might as well have been invisible to you. You still don’t recognize me, do you?”
Stacy shook her head. “You’re…Mandy Waltrip, my assistant.”
The manic laugh Mandy let loose chilled her blood. “You really are stupid. I’m Amanda Walters. You and I attended the same acting classes, workshops, we even worked together once on a student film. And you know what? Everybody says I’m the better actress. Everybody.”
Amanda Walters? Stacy searched her memory, trying to put a face to the name. A vague picture of a perky, blond-haired, blue-eyed girl-next-door type formed in her mind. She compared the woman in front of her with the mental image. Yes, they could be the same woman.
“I auditioned for the part of Nichole in Vegas Vixens,” Mandy continued. “I met with the director, the producers…my agent told me the part was mine. There was one more girl they had to audition, as a favor to her agent, but that was just a formality. I’d won the role. I called my parents, my friends, everyone. They were all so happy and proud of me.” A tear trickled down Mandy’s cheek.
“I’m sorry,” Stacy said, cautiously. “I didn’t know.” There was no way they’d ever been in serious contention for the same part. Amanda Walters was Doris Day to her Marilyn Monroe. Except, of course, in this case Doris had a dark side.
“You stole it from me! I’m Nichole. I’m the good girl. You swooped in, seduced somebody who made the decisions, and took my part from me.”
Mandy’s voice pitched wildly as she spouted her accusations. But the good girl’s gun hand remained level and steady.
“I didn’t seduce anyone,” Stacy insisted. “I went in, I read, and I got the part. I didn’t even know who else was up for the role. And I can’t tell you how many times I thought I’d nailed an audition, been promised the part, only to get a call from my agent a few days later and learn it went to someone else. That’s all part of the Hollywood hazing.”
“No. It’s how you operate. You use sex to get what you want, and you don’t care who you hurt in the process.”
“I have a lot of flaws, Mandy, but I’ve never screwed my way into a job, or deliberately tried to screw anybody else out of one. That’s not the kind of woman I am.”
“Don’t make me laugh.” But Mandy wasn’t laughing, or crying anymore, for that matter. She was deadly calm again, her stony-faced, sitting-in-judgment expression all the scarier now that Stacy had glimpsed the freak show going on behind the facade. “You’re the kind of woman who works at a club like Deuces, stripping for money and leading men astray by appealing to their basest desires, so don’t even try to convince me you’re too moral for the casting couch, because we both know better. It’s completely twisted, you, playing the good girl on Vixens. America rooting for Nichole to keep her innocence despite all the sleazy behavior she’s surrounded by. Won’t the viewers be surprised to meet the real Nichole and discover she’s as sleazy as they come?”
No amount of arguing would change Mandy’s mind. She’d only succeed in riling her attacker. She needed a plan of action. Unfortunately, she couldn’t come up with any good options. A head-on assault would be suicide. Might as well put the gun in her mouth and pull the trigger herself. Even if she managed to surprise Mandy and, best-case scenario, knock her off her feet, between the side wound and her adversary’s strength, there was no way she’d succeed in overpowering and disarming her. She’d probably pass out during the struggle and that would be that.
All she could do was try appeasing her captor to buy more time.
“I’ll admit when I want something, I go after it with everything I’ve got, and my boundaries might not have always been where they should have. But I spoke to the press tonight and announced I used to strip here, so you win. Now everyone knows my past, what kind of choices I’ve made. You’ve helped me see the error of my ways. Believe me, Mandy, I’ve learned my lesson. Let’s talk about how to get us both what we deserve.”
Mandy didn’t blink. “I’m not here to teach you a lesson. That time has passed.” She stepped closer, so close Stacy smelled the woman’s Listerine breath. “And you’re going to get exactly what you deserve.”
That sounded bad.
“I’ll resign from the show,” she volunteered, voice desperate to her own ears, “just like you wanted. We’ll go to my place. I’ll write my resignation and e-mail it to my agent. Then I’ll disappear. I’ll never come between you and a role again.”
“No. You certainly won’t,” Mandy agreed, and stretched her lips into a wide, sharklike smile. She pressed the gun to Stacy’s forehead—right between her eyes. “But it’s too late to walk away. That offer came off the table the minute you spoke to the press and forced us into this little one-on-one conversation. Do you think I’m crazy? You’ve seen me. You know who I am. Turn around and climb over the railing.”
Blood rushed out of her head, leaving an echo chamber between her ears. “What?” Her numb lips had a hard time forming the word. The only thing on the other side of the railing was the lighting rig, which hung suspended from the ceiling and extended almost the entire length of the stage. Other than that, nothing but twenty-five feet of free fall stood between the platform and the stage below. “I can’t climb over the railing. I’ll fall.”
“That’s the idea. Everyone will think you jumped to your death.”
“You don’t think they’ll notice someone stabbed me, and figure maybe I had some help?” She gestured to her bloody side.
Mandy smiled and pulled a kitchen knife out of the folds of the habit. “You stabbed yourself, in an overdramatic suicide attempt, but when you realized you lacked the courage to inflict a fatal wound, you jumped instead.” She held the knife up for inspection, and Stacy recognized it as one from her own kitchen.
“I took it tonight on my way to the limo, after I overheard you tell Kylie you planned to talk to the press.” She tossed the weapon behind her on the platform, where it landed with a hollow thud, and then she waved her gloved hand at Stacy. “No prints on the thing, except…hmm…yours.”
“Why go to all this trouble? Why not just hide out in my house and kill me in my sleep?”
“You die at home, under suspicious circumstances, and I’m the first person the cops question. You off yourself at some Halloween sleaze-fest, after…let’s add everything up.” She raised her index finger. “Breaking up with your boyfriend last month”—she raised another finger—“confessing your sinful past to the world tonight”—another finger—“downing several drinks in front of hundreds of eyewitnesses”—and, one last finger—“heading to the VIP room for a cheap hookup with a stranger.” She shook her head sadly. “Nobody questions your suicide. You’re clearly a woman in crisis.”
Ian would. He’d question until his dying day. Because as much as she’d tried to convince them both otherwise, they were so not over, and he knew it. Funny how standing on the wrong end of a gun snapped certain things into perfect focus.
“Party’s over,” Mandy said, and gave Stacy a shove. She stumbled and lost her balance. Her arms windmilled for a suspended moment as she fought for footing. Her heels slid off the platform. She screamed and fell backward into open air.
…
Ian hurried down the passageway toward the stage, hugging the wall and keeping his steps quick and light. He doubted anyone would hear him coming over the noise of the party, but he didn’t plan on leaving it to chance.
The passageway widened at the back of the stage. A retractable metal security gate spanned the stage to prevent anyone from moving the festivities to the backstage area. The blackout curtain hung just beyond the
security gate. He wrapped his hand around a slat and gave the gate a shake, testing it. Fully secure, with very little give. No one had slipped into or out of the backstage area through there. He worked his fingers between the slats, moved the curtain aside and looked out. A sea of zombies, ghouls, princesses, and pirate wenches danced under flashing purple lights. Nothing unusual.
His phone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the screen. A text from Trevor read, At the back door. Wait for me. For a nanosecond he considered waiting, because, procedurally, Trevor was in the right. Smart cops didn’t rush headlong into an unknown situation without someone at their back. But the bloody feathers spelled emergency in big, flashing letters. He couldn’t stand there with his thumb up his ass while time ran out for Stacy.
Another hallway extended from the other side of the stage, and led to the back door of the club. If whoever grabbed Stacy managed to get her out the door…he refused to let his mind go there. They’d have to get through Trevor, and that wouldn’t happen. He hurried across the stage and into the second hallway, moving fast until a realization struck and stopped him in his tracks. No feathers. He looked around. There were absolutely no feathers in the hall.
He retraced his steps, back down the hall, across the stage. Still nothing. When he reached the other side of the stage, he stood by the last feathers in the trail and peered down the hall the way he’d originally come. Had Stacy and her abductor doubled back toward the club while he’d charged off down the other hall? Impossible. He’d been on high freaking alert for any signs of movement, and any hidey-holes. There was no place for them to have stayed concealed while he’d walked past. Was there? Could he have missed a trapdoor in the stage floor or…?
He sprinted back to the stage and quickly paced off the entire floor, all the way to the concrete-block wall at the back. Nothing. He’d missed nothing. So where the hell was she and why did the trail of feathers stop at the end of the first hallway?
Another few seconds brought him back to that spot. He looked to his right and saw nothing but a solid, blank wall. He turned and looked to his left. The rungs of a narrow metal ladder extended from the wall. Dread gripped him. Stacy didn’t like heights. She’d never attempt a climb like that by choice. He started to look up when somebody screamed.
Chapter Ten
Stacy’s scream ended in a grunt of pain as she hit the lighting rig. One hard bounce, and then gravity immediately sent her sliding ground-ward again. She reached up, scrambling for a hold somewhere along the steel frame of the rig. Her right hand touched a smooth steel bar, but she couldn’t keep her grip. The metal might as well have been coated in oil. She caught a bar with her left hand, but her grasp couldn’t withstand the downward momentum of her body. She slipped off. Like a cartoon character running off a cliff, she pumped her legs, stretched her arm, and snagged the last bar with the tips of her fingers. She locked her left hand around the metal, gritted her teeth, and hung on for dear life while she waited for the full weight of her body to test her hold.
When it did, she screamed again, this time in agony. Her side burned like she’d been stabbed with a red-hot poker. Every molecule in her body wept, but somehow, she held on. The one-handed grip wouldn’t last forever though. She needed both hands, and she needed them now.
Come on. You’ve danced through pain. You can do this. She swung her right arm up, but only brushed the bar before the strain on her left arm had her lowering it again. Her fingers slipped a few millimeters. If she didn’t get her hand on the bar with the next attempt, she’d have to hope her angel wings worked.
This time she scissored her legs for an extra boost when she grabbed for the bar. She caught it, slipped, tightened her grip and, yes! Held. With her right hand locked on, she finally adjusted her left hand and secured her grasp. Good. Her weight felt evenly distributed, which took some pressure off her side. Now, if she could just… She swung her legs back, then forward. On the next upswing, she lifted her right foot, snagged the bar parallel to the one she held on to, and looped her leg through. She followed suit with the left leg and hung there for a moment, sucking in oxygen and letting her arms recover from the strain of clinging to the rig while her body had dangled.
Movement to her right drew her attention back to the platform. Mandy stepped gingerly onto the metal framework and made her way toward Stacy.
“Jesus, you’re like a spider.”
Stacy scooted her legs farther onto the bar, flexed her arms, and struggled to pull herself upright. Too late. Mandy crouched down and lifted the gun over her head, butt end out like a hammer. Stacy held her breath and watched, helplessly, as Mandy brought the gun down on her right ankle. She cried out as the impact reverberated through her body. When Mandy raised the gun again, Stacy’s pain-avoidance instincts kicked in. She shimmied her leg free of the frame and let it hang in the air.
Her strappy, thousand-dollar shoe slipped off her foot. She watched as it fell like a stone into the darkness below.
…
The scream from above jerked Ian’s head up, and his heart stopped. He watched helplessly as Stacy fell from the platform into the lighting rig, caught herself, and dangled from the stage light housing, at least two stories off the ground. He stood below, paralyzed with horror, as she struggled to pull herself up onto the rig while a black-cloaked figure closed in on her. The sight mobilized him. He leaped onto the ladder. At the same time, something whizzed by his head and crashed down on the stage directly behind him. He glanced back and saw Stacy’s shoe lying on the floor. If she took her shoe’s path down, she wouldn’t survive.
Chapter Eleven
Mandy squinted into the darkness, following the progress of the shoe, and then cursed and looked back at Stacy. “How sweet, your boyfriend’s here to save the day. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.” She scuttled off the light rig.
No fucking way. Fear for Ian gave her new strength. She swung her dangling leg back up onto the lighting rig, and then pulled herself through the bars until she sat on top of the metal framework. The world tilted and threatened to topple, but she put her clumsy limbs into motion and scooted back to the platform.
Mandy squatted beside the access ladder, with her back to the rig, taking aim at Ian. She’s so certain she’s got you beat. Figures you’re too weak to pose a threat. Her eyes landed on the kitchen knife, lying on the platform where Mandy had tossed it. Think again, bitch.
She lunged for the knife at the same time Mandy pumped off a shot. Stacy’s heart stalled. Return fire from below relieved and galvanized her. She grabbed the knife. Mandy edged closer to the ladder and prepared to take another shot.
“No!” Stacy charged forward and brought the knife down with all the strength she could muster. She aimed for a lung or a kidney, but Mandy sensed the attack and straightened at the last second, and the blade ended up planted between her shoulders.
Mandy screamed and turned on her, eyes wild, teeth bared. “Bitch,” she muttered.
Stacy would have liked to reply, “Takes one to know one,” but there was no more spit in her mouth.
“And now you die.” Mandy raised the gun and pointed it at her head.
She stared down the barrel and swallowed bitter regret. This was it. She’d missed her chance to tell Ian, “I love you.”
…
Ian climbed the last few feet like a monkey on crack. He hauled himself onto the platform, pulled his gun from the waist of his jeans, and yelled, “Drop it!”
The nun didn’t drop it, and he didn’t waste time on a second warning. He fired.
The slug he put in her leg knocked it right out from under her. Her gun flew out of her hand. Stacy dove after it, snagged the airborne weapon, and landed on her knees.
He raced toward her. From somewhere behind him he heard Trevor say, “I’ve got the nun,” and then, thank God, he had Stacy in his arms.
“Ian,” she looked up at him with big, pain-hazed eyes, held out the gun, and gave him a weak smile.
&nb
sp; “Good catch,” he replied, hoping to make the smile linger, but it was too late. She’d already passed out.
Chapter Twelve
The light hum of female voices registered first, followed by the smell of roses and lilies. Stacy lay still for a moment, kept her eyes closed, and did a quick physical inventory. Toes? Check. Fingers? Check. Head still attached to shoulders? Check.
Best she could tell, all parts were present and accounted for. She felt stiff and groggy, like she’d been asleep for a week, but nothing too alarming. A vague impression of Ian holding her hand and telling her not to worry about anything danced through her mind, but she couldn’t say for sure whether that was memory or wishful thinking. She racked her brain for something more. Other images formed—a nurse with a short brunette bob offering her water. Kylie smiling through tears while helping brush her teeth and hair—but no Ian.
Deciding to chance a look around, she opened her eyes, and blinked a few times to adjust to the sudden brightness. Sunlight streamed through an unfamiliar window, below which sat a metal cabinet holding a farmers’ market worth of flowers. “Holy crap. Am I dead?”
“What a question, Snowflake.”
She turned her head and realized the flowers were not the wildest, most colorful things in the room. Ginger sat in a chair beside her bed, wearing short, eye-popping red spandex. Lee Ann perched on the arm of her chair, in Daisy Dukes and a pink plaid shirt knotted under her breasts. Ari stepped to Ginger’s other side and adjusted the thin shoulder strap of a slinky purple dress.
“Oh, my God. I am dead. I’ve died and gone to hell.”
Ari raised one perfectly plucked brow. “No. The devil did not want you.”
“That’s right, sugar. Instead, you’re stuck in the hospital for a few days. But don’t fret one little bit.” Lee Ann smiled her big, beaming, Southern belle smile. “We’re here to help you pass the time.”