by Anna Bloom
She knows this. We've talked about it all night on numerous occasions. The first time I explained my feelings she'd howled with laughter for a clear fifteen minutes. Apparently, all addicts think they aren't one.
I know my life is better with drugs. The parties are more fun, the conversations more sparkling and reality just a little easier to bear, but do I need to be smacked out of my head all the time? No. Do I manage to not get high when I'm at work? Yes.
Did I mean for what happened that night to take place? No. Nobody would.
I flip the subject, submerging my thoughts into the dark recess where I conceal everything. "Are you gonna come to see me?" I don't want to walk away from this girl with the coal coloured hair and eyes and the mischievous laugh. She's a live-wire who makes life achingly real. I'm going to miss her erratic and crazy ways. She's beautiful, caring, and rich with vitality; sharing her own time and empathy, despite what life has thrown at her. It makes my life look like a bed of fucking roses.
But then isn't my life a bed of roses? Aren't I just a sulking impetuous child for begrudging the deal I've been given?
I've received everything. More luck bestowed on me than most people would ever covet. So why… why, have I ended up here? What price have I paid for the good fortune so many would dream of?
My hands seal into tight fists at my side. I know these facts. I can see them for what they are. But then I also know I'll be walking out into the same thing. It will be the same all over again. Because it has to be. I'm Sophia Jennings and I don't know how to become anything else.
I've never known anything else.
"Are you going all psychotic on me?" Sarah nods at my fisted hands.
My chest squeezes with air and I focus on my breath as I release it on a leisurely count of ten, just like I've been taught. Stretching my fingers, I wince as they cramp where I've squeezed them so tight. "No. I'm just wondering what I'm going to do when this final movie is made."
"Make another one, duh," she laughs, "isn't that what you do?"
Isn't this the paradoxical question of my life? 'What did I want to do'. "I might just become a beach bum." I sigh whimsically and try to conjure an image of myself with dreadlocks. At least I might not get noticed so much if my hair is a tangled mess with insects living in it.
Sarah tosses her head and tuts dramatically. "Well they definitely smoke weed, so that's not a good career choice for you. You know Jacked-Up Jimmy," a conspiratorial wink darts across her face, "that's how he started and look at him now." She nods, deliberately wiggling her eyebrows, and I grin, dropping my gaze to the silver sobriety coin I've received in my final session. It's all shiny and new, glinting in the sun, weighing heavy in my hand. I thought it would mean more.
Ninety days is a huge achievement. Many people don't get this far.
"I'll think of something." A brief smile flickers the corners of my mouth as I try to raise some enthusiasm for life outside of the rehabilitation facility—or the Drunk Zoo as Sarah calls it.
Sarah squeezes my hand and startling tears fill my eyes. "Listen, you can be whatever you want. It's simple." She toys with her necklace, running the chain through her fingers like an endless circle as she drags it around her neck. She's never still, always fidgeting and moving, a ball of perpetual motion. "Do you think you will see Johnny when you get home?" Her dark gaze rests on my face, reading my reactions.
I shrug but inside my chest my heart thrums like a caged bird. Johnny Fairweather and I, Hollywood's golden couple—but beneath the shine is a tarnish I'm not sure we can erase.
"I'll call him." I breathe a shuddering breath, stretching my already aching ribs. "I guess filming will start straight away, anyway." At the thought of being on set, my stomach contorts and the demon of nerves rears his ugly head, making himself known in a truly unpleasant way. I've already delayed filming by three months. There are going to be a lot of people extremely pissed at me. "He might be feeling bad if he can't remember anything." I add, but there's a dark question swirling in the recesses of my mind, wondering if he can recall what happened between us, and if he can, just how bad he feels about it. It's a nasty way to feel about someone you've spent most of your adult life with and it plants a bitter acrid taste on the tip of my tongue whenever I think of the situation we've found ourselves in.
Her eyes flicker towards the dinner hall where the residents are gathering for lunch and she shrugs. "I've gotta dash, there won't be any delicious lasagne left." A smile lifts her lips. We both know the lasagne is disgusting, but she won't meet my gaze. "So, stay in touch, right?" She jams her hands into the jeans hanging off her hips. I knew she wouldn't do a proper goodbye. She's all about the hello's.
My throat tightens as she turns to move away. Sarah has kept me sane through my dark ninety days. I'm sure I wouldn't have survived without her, with only demons to talk to me and keep me company. Where would that have led?
She strolls away, her slender arms swinging at her side and I watch with an alien hollow sensation expanding across my chest. "Hey, Superstar," she hollers when I'm finally turning away—my heart thudding—for where my two cases are stood ready for my release. "Remember. Stay clean and be mean."
I snicker as her high-pitched cackle fades into the dinner hall where it's drowned by the clang of cutlery against china.
Stay clean and be mean.
I can do that. I've got to. Because I don't have anything else.
I don't know if my friends still want to know me. My staff...? I left them without a backwards glance as I ran for rehab behind sunglasses and dark tinted windows. In truth, I have no idea what my mother has been up to during my three months absence.
I haven't seen a paper, looked at the internet or anything.
Nothing for three months.
In Hollywood, three months is a lifetime.
Chapter Two
Blake
"Sloane, it’s me." I tune into the late-night grumbling down the other end of the line. The scorching midday sun beats down, warming my hair and making the neckline of my shirt itch as my skin produces its ‘I hate L.A’ sweat. "Yeah, sorry, Bud. I know it's late."
The suit is a mistake. I flex my arms against the tight, restrictive material.
Sloane moans some more. The world is at fault, but then so is every fucker's mother as well. Sloane’s sharp tongue used to keep recruits in line for the London Met police. These days he keeps an army of oversized muscle available for personal hire. I’m not one of his usual conscripts but he always sees me right when I need it. In turn, I take the jobs not many others would want. "I’m back in hell," I tell him. Sloane gave me the out I needed five years before and in all honesty, I never planned to come back. Not until the bundle of letters landed in my hand. Then, I knew I had no choice.
He chuckles down the line. "You’re a glutton for punishment, Henderson. Are you even getting paid?"
I ignore his probe and dart my own question. "Did you get the sample I sent?" I ask, my focus drawn from the conversation by a driver in a navy suit who has my name scrawled across a card held against his vast chest. Giving him a curt wave I allow him to lift my leather holdall out of my grip. I never pack more than the roomy carry-on can hold. Less belongings mean less attachment. It makes it easier to walk away. I learned that five years ago when I’d escaped this place the last time.
"Yeah, it’s not the same as the original threat." Sloane keeps his answer tight. This isn’t the time for verbose discussions on the ins and outs of the investigation. I need hard facts.
My feet stall a fraction and I shake my head, dislodging my disappointment. A knot of anxiety encamps itself in my chest cavity. I loathe being blind. "I knew it wouldn’t be, but it was worth a check."
The packet of foul letters burns in my jacket pocket. I daren’t put them anywhere else, their contents are too sensitive. I wonder if she knows? Wonder if they’ve told her? Does she even care?
Sophia Jennings. Once the brightest star in Hollywood, now gossip fodder and party
girl.
Sophia Jennings. My mark. My client.
Sophia Jennings. Blackmail victim.
Sloane carries on. "We knew it would be a long shot, the original perp was never caught, of course, but I’d be surprised if his level of obsession was still so intense after a decade."
It’s always remained a mystery how the perverted letters threatening the safety of a then twelve-year-old Sophia Jennings had disappeared after I’d only been in my post as personal security guard for a few months. I’d stayed though. I’d grown soft and stagnant, my role confused and muddled as the little girl I’d once known had transformed into an unfathomable star.
"Yeah, I guess. It would have made it nice and easy though." I sigh a blast of air down the line and with it echoes my disappointment. Personal security prefer things easy, clean cut, organised. Anything less than that makes for longer hours and more headaches.
Sophia Jennings is the headache of my life.
I have a bad feeling the headache is going to upgrade to migraine levels.
"Does she know you’re coming back?"
The smile drops from my face, wiped clean with his question. "No idea." My insides contract into a hernia inducing knot. "No idea and don't care either way."
There’s a click of a lighter down the line followed by a rustle of papers. Sloane’s chair squeaks as he sits and I know he’s in his study. "So, I’ve done some digging…"
"Sloane," I groan and palm my hair with a frustrated hand. "I told you I didn’t need you to dig about. Whatever I find when I get there is just what it is. Another paying job."
A lengthy pause meets my words until Sloane cracks up into a throaty chuckle. "You talk such a crock of shit."
"Yeah, yeah." The driver’s waiting to speak to me, so I give him a nod and try to hurry this up. "So, if you dug the dirt, what did you find?"
"She hasn’t had a security detail last longer than a couple of months."
"Really?" I make a point to never read the press about my old charge, but even I haven’t been able to miss the headlines of the last few months.
"Yep, not one." Another chuckle. "You must have been something special to make the cut for so many years." The uneasy tightening in my stomach double knots with his words.
"Yeah whatever. I’ll call you in a few days when I’ve settled in. I still need to feed back on Wallis." The last three months had been a ball-aching bore, guarding the CEO of Wallis Industries, an Oil tycoon renowned for producing the greatest eyesores of the world. For valid reasons Greenpeace had been after his arse.
"Sure thing, Blake. Listen." He pauses. "She’s going to be pretty mad at you."
I groan but my guts clench. Underneath the heat and clamminess of my skin a chill twists within me. "Of that, I have no doubt." I laugh it off. It isn’t convincing, like bad acting on some lame daytime soap. "Catch ya, Sloane, and I’m sorry for dropping you on the next job."
"Yeah, yeah."
"Hey, Sloane, cut down on those cigarettes, hey."
He curses me out, hanging up the phone, and I turn my attention to the driver.
"Where’s Samuels?" It’s a long shot but I ask the question anyway.
The big guy folds his thick arms across his chest. His white shirt matching his teeth, offset against dark skin. "Who’s Samuels."
I shake my head. "No one, doesn’t matter. I wonder what other staffing changes there have been? Where to, anyway? Where is Sophia?"
This is the first time I’ve said her name out loud in five years. I expected drums to boom, or birds to take to flight, but nothing happens. Nothing. The driver continues to lounge against the limo and nod at me, a broad smile splitting his face—clearly this situation is amusing.
"She’s at a party."
She’s at a what?
I gawk, waiting for him to tell me he’s cracking a wide one. He doesn’t. "A party?"
Straightening from the car he shakes his head. "It’s a post recovery party, everyone is going to be there."
"A post recover…" I can’t even finish the sentence; the idea is so preposterous. What is going on? No one left rehab and went straight to a party.
"Shall I take you to the house, so you can get cleaned up?"
"No, no. I need to get to the party." My spine tenses.
"I’m Jacobs." He gives my shoulder a squeeze and rumbles a thunderous chuckle from the base of his chest. "My friend, believe me; you need a shower, and there’s no rush."
The letters burn hotter in my pocket. As if he can sense my thoughts he gives a small shake of his head. "You haven’t been here for five years, is that right?"
Someone must have told staff I’m coming back. Did they tell her though?
"Yeah." I nod my agreement.
"A lot has changed in five years, my man." He pulls on the car door. "A lot."
The changes become apparent straight away. I’m slumped on the back on the leather seats, the letters spread across my lap as I analyse them for clues, but I sit up, sliding across the leather upholstery when he pulls up at a smallish condo—midtown. "What’s this?" I stare through the window. Have I been placed here? There’s no point living off site. I mean, I’m not overexcited to be near the woman who tested every moral reserve I have, but I can’t guard her, can’t do my job properly if I’m not there.
"This is Sophia’s place," he says. There is no affliction in his tone hinting at what he thinks of Sophia’s place, or why there is a Sophia’s place at all.
I continue to gape open mouthed through the wire fence, nothing more than chicken wire, which couldn’t prevent the invasion of racoons let alone trespassers and at the tatty dried lawn and misshapen bushes. "Really? What happened to the mansion?" Before, I’d lived in the pool house there. The place in the Hills was palatial.
Jacobs nods. "Oh, we still have the mansion. Erica lives there, and it’s used for press and social meets."
He reaches over the seat and passes me a key. I turn it in my hand. "The guest room has been made up."
My face freezes into an astounded mask. I can’t stay in the guest room. Pool house, sure. Purpose built garage, even better. But there needs to be some serious cubic square feet between me and her.
Jacobs chuckles, another deep rumble. "You know the last bodyguard lasted two weeks?"
"What happened to him?"
"Miss Jennings doesn’t like following rules," he says and I snort in response. Now that doesn’t surprise me. I go to clamber out the car before pausing.
"Jacobs?"
"Yeah, Mr. Henderson?"
"How many of these keys are there?" I hold the bronze nondescript house key out in the palm of my hand and Jacobs shrugs. Which is answer enough in itself.
Chapter Three
Sophia
The noise is too much. Too many voices, too many fractured snippets of conversation spinning through the air, like smoke from too many cigarettes. I struggle to focus on one strand of conversation. A dull thud echoes around my brain and I blink, struggling to take everything in.
This is all too much; my heart wants to boom out of my chest, and my legs want to carry me to the darkest corner and crouch down low someplace so I can hide. "Charlie, it’s too noisy in here." I grip Charlotte Zane’s hand. It’s perfectly smooth, a bit like how I would expect baby skin to feel. She grins at me and her teeth mirror a kaleidoscope of colours as they reflect the lighting.
"Babe, you’ve just got to throw yourself back in. Your mum spent ages organising this." Charlotte leans into my ear and I flinch away at the tang of sharp champagne on her breath.
Throw myself back in? But how? It’s all I can do to stand on trembling legs and not puke. The limited make-up I smeared on with minimal effort, sweats and slides off my face; the sheen of sweat settling on my skin as dew settles on dawn grass.
The party itself isn’t a shocker. Mum—Erica—loves a party. She can mix in conversation the way vodka mingles in orange juice to create the perfect Harvey Wallbanger. It would never cross her mind throwing a
party for a recovering addict is highly ironic, and frankly dangerous.
I’m just expected to smile and get on with it.
I could have said no. I should have said no… but nobody says no to Erica Jennings.
The roof of my mouth dries, my tongue tingling with dehydration and cravings, and I try to summon some saliva. Glasses of champagne float past on silver trays but I don’t reach for one despite Charlie necking hers and snatching another for herself which follows the route of the first in record time. My pulse quickens as I study her throat gulp down the bubbles but somehow I manage to stamp it down.
I have to manage at least five hours out of rehab clean.
I’m useless at most things, but surely even I can achieve that?
"Smile for the camera?" Charlie wheels me round, nearly tugging me off balance as she yanks on my elbow and reels me towards the cameras. Blinking, I attempt to pull away. Fucking hell. My eyes sting with the blinding flashes of light and I glare at Charlie—is she for real? She leans toward my ear, her smile frozen in place as she talks through clenched teeth. "Babe, you’ve gotta relax, you’re like a frigging statue. Everyone is watching to see how you're coping. Show them you’re fine."
I pull out of her grasp. "Fine?" A waiter walks past with what I hope are crystal glasses of iced water. I grab one and chug on it for my life. "Am I supposed to be fine?"
Does she really think I’m supposed to be fine? I don’t feel fine. I feel like shattered glass just waiting to be swept away.
Charlie raises a perfectly formed eyebrow and even though I’ve known her for years, I have a sudden intense longing for the erratic crazy calm of Sarah. At least Sarah is honest about who she is.
"Babe," she drawls, her hand gliding through the air in a flamboyant loop, "it’s just an act. Do the circuit, tell everyone you can’t wait to start filming, how you’ve missed it and are fired for the next chapter of your life after a rest, yada yada yada. It’s not hard. Listen, I’m your best friend and I love you, you know that, but you’ve got some serious grovelling to do to get back on track."