by Maggie Marr
Rush picked up his pace and turned left onto Sunset. The boulevard was empty. He went west in the eastbound lane. His feet slapped against the center white line. His thighs ached with acid and his lungs sucked hard for air. He poured on the speed and forced himself through the burn in his chest and the deep throb of his calf muscles and thighs. He could grit through pain.
Headlights burned through the mist. A car blazed down Sunset. Rush raced faster, harder. His sweatshirt was Bruin blue and decorated around the neck and down each arm with a reflective strip. If the driver was flying high on booze or drugs, Rush’s reflectors wouldn’t matter. In ten seconds more, the driver wouldn’t have time to jerk the wheel, and if his reflexes were impaired, the time for the driver to change his trajectory had already slipped past.
Ten.
Rush’s left foot landed and he pushed faster toward the car.
Nine.
He sped up and his heart hammered hard in his chest.
Eight.
A hard clutch in Rush’s belly urged him to split to the left.
Seven.
He could hear the scream of a Maserati engine.
Six.
The bright lights nearly blinded him as his feet hit the pavement harder and faster.
Five.
Sweat dripped down his neck and he raced faster, head-on toward the car.
Four.
He bit down on his lip and squinted his eyes—he could feel the heat of the lights.
Three.
There, nearly there. If he didn’t break to his right, he’d feel the bone-crushing, life-ending metal running up over him.
Two.
The scream of brakes as the driver tried to stop the jet on wheels.
One.
Rush jumped to his right. Pavement jammed into his shoulder. He rolled, popped onto his feet, and kept running. He glanced back. The car fishtailed and corrected. The driver pressed hard on the accelerator and screamed deep into the night.
Adrenaline, like rocket fuel, coursed in his blood. He bolted down a residential street. He knew her address. The ragged Toyota was parked in front of the town house. Rush ran up the front steps to the door and pushed—just to check, just to be sure.
There was something about Nikki Solange’s eyes, her face, the slope of her mouth and the way she looked so confident in an attempt to hide her fear. They’d never spoken. She didn’t know him. But she would. Soon. Or she would know the Rush he intended her to know—the man he’d created to protect Ted, not the true man, the real man. Rush had shucked that identity when he returned from Afghanistan.
He jogged across the slope of the side yard toward the back of the building. There was a security fence but no bars, no cameras. Not the safest setup. With an aunt like Cici Solange—a woman who didn’t understand the word no—Rush was surprised Nikki didn’t reside in some safer, higher-class digs. He pulled on the security gate and noted the padlock on the other side. A shadow flickered in the periphery.
A tremor slipped down Rush’s spine. He slid his eyes to the left and then to the right. Without turning his head, he searched the dark alley that was scattered with gravel. To his right, a rock scratched across concrete. A cat? A dog? The noise could be a rat. In Beverly Hills the rodents inhabited the palm-tree beards. Rush jogged to his right and ducked around the corner.
He crouched behind a bougainvillea bush—waiting for footsteps. Around the corner, so close that if Rush reached his hand around the bricks, he’d probably touch some sorry son of a bitch’s arm. He made out the scratch of heavy feet on gravel, the soft breaths of someone jogging—not fast, not slow, but coming for him where’d they’d seen Rush make the turn.
Rush reached for the guy’s knees with both hands. The guy going down sounded like a redwood landing on the floor of the forest.
Hummmph!
The wind rushed out of the big man and Rush had the advantage for maybe two seconds.
“Who the fuck are you?” Rush wrapped the guy’s arms into a lock behind his back.
“What the fuck, man?” the guy gasped out. He wore black pants, a black shirt, and a black windbreaker.
Rush yanked the guy to standing and spread him against the wall. “What line of work you in? Peeper? Burglar?”
“Try bodyguard,” the guy hissed. “Why the fuck are you here?”
“Same reason, if your story sticks.”
“ID back pocket.” The guy nodded his head toward his shoulder.
Rush grabbed the guy’s wallet and thumbed through it.
“Name’s Jay Martin. Worldwide Pictures sent me over to check on Miss Solange.”
Joe pulled out a Cali driver’s license, a Worldwide Pictures ID, and an old worn military ID.
“Last guy got canned,” Jay said.
After tonight at Schmaltzer’s, Rush understood why.
“You want, check it out with Briggs Montgomery. He’s in charge of security for the studio.”
Rush knew Briggs. The hinky feeling in the tips of his toes died away. Rush suspected Jay was legit but he made the call. Everything confirmed—Jay was good. Briggs asked to speak to Jay and Rush handed him the phone. With two swift nods and a “yes, sir,” Jay pressed the Off button and handed the phone to Rush.
“You’re a shadow man,” Jay said and his mouth spread into a smile. “According to Briggs, I never saw you, I don’t know you, and you weren’t here.”
Rush slipped his phone into the case on his arm. His eyes flicked over to Jay.
He jerked his head toward the town house. “She know you’re here?”
Jay shook his head. “No, man, she doesn’t know. Her aunt and the aunt’s husband, Ted Robinoff, do. They’re the ones that sent me.”
Rush nodded.
Jay ran his hand over his jaw. “Man, you brought me down hard.” Jay grinned into the night. “Lineman?”
“Right tackle, University of Michigan,” Rush said.
Jay nodded. “Wide receiver, USC.”
Rush’s eyebrow flicked upward. That was too bad about the USC. For a minute there, Rush had thought he and Jay Martin might actually become friends.
Chapter 8
Holed Up and Hiding Out
An incessant pounding shattered the early morning silence. Nikki bolted to a seated position. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, but the air held a hint of chill. She flopped back onto her pillow and flipped over her phone. Her nerves tingled with the copper-penny feel of fatigue. She’d gotten four hours of sleep.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Her eyelids flew open again. Nikki heaved herself from her bed and bumbled down the town house stairs, then pulled open the door. Bright flashes, a dour face, and a small dog greeted Nikki. Mrs. Kasmat, Nikki’s neighbor, peered over the top of her wire-rimmed glasses, and her pet lhasapoo, Bernie, named after Mrs. Kasmat’s late husband, quivered in Mrs. Kasmat’s arms. The paps on the curb yelled Nikki’s name. She backed away from the open door but could not escape Mrs. Kasmat.
“These people are here for you,” Mrs. Kasmat said. “And they’ve been here four days.” Her brows pulled into a deep V and her lips pursed. Bernie whined. “This was a nice street, Ms. Solange.”
Nikki peeked out around the door. In response there were shouts and flashes.
“Yo, Nikki! This way!”
“You angry your aunt stole your boyfriend?”
“Police been by?”
With each question Ms. Kasmat’s lips puckered tighter as if she’d sucked on lemons. “I told the HOA when Christina purchased her town house that I did not want entertainment people in the building.” Her nostrils flared when she said the word “entertainment” as though she’d gotten a whiff of something bad. “They wouldn’t listen. And I admit Christina has been a lovely neighbor, but you…” Mrs. Kasmat glanced over her shoulder at the black SUVs and the news wagon and the paps going wild beyond the front steps. “You have created this.” Bernie licked Mrs. Kasmat’s chin.
Irritation burst in Nikki’s chest. She
had not created the mess on the front lawn. Aunt Cici’s fame was not Nikki’s fault, nor was she responsible for the bloodsuckers that stood on the cement.
“I will make no comment on your private life and that of your aunt,” Mrs. Kasmat said, “but I will not be held hostage in my own home due to your choices. The HOA will discuss this, Ms. Solange. Please keep in mind you are a guest within Christina Darmides home, not an owner.”
Bitter-tasting words curled around Nikki’s tongue, but before she could let loose, Mrs. Kasmat turned and clipped across the walk toward the entrance of her own town house. Shouts from the gadflies with their cameras and microphones erupted. The sharp words meant to be directed at Mrs. Kasmat still hovered in Nikki’s mind. She stuck up both middle fingers toward the cameras and then slammed the door closed.
“Not sure Celeste will enjoy that photo,” Christina said.
She stood beside the front window with her face uncreased by emotion and her black hair a full waterfall to her shoulders. Her almond-shaped brown eyes studied the paps on the curb with a practiced placidity. Christina didn’t anger, she didn’t cry. For the last four months that Nikki had been her roommate, Christina had maintained a constant neutrality to her facial features that was only, on occasion, interrupted by a smile.
“I wish some star would run into a tree,” Christina said. “Nothing fatal, just enough to get those guys out of our yard.” She turned away from the window. Her fingers swept through her hair and twisted it upward into a quick chignon. “Unfortunately, they’ll stay until a better piece of chum floats by.”
Nikki scrubbed her fisted hands over her face. A growl tightened in her throat. For three days she had avoided the mess of Jeb, Aunt Cici, Boundless Bound, and the paps that hovered like flies to stink.
“You can’t stay in here forever,” Christina said.
“I know,” Nikki said. “I’ve just… I mean, you’ve seen the news.”
“And the magazine covers.”
Nikki pressed her fingers to her temples. “How did this happen?”
Christina shrugged. “The niece of one of the biggest stars in the world is involved in the strange killing of a 1984 D-lister and there are pictures of Celeste going in and out of Jeb’s home the night of the murder.”
Nikki closed her eyes. She didn’t need the rehash. She knew the details. She understood the repercussions.
“What do the police say?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m shocked your Aunt hasn’t posted a guard at our door.” Christina grabbed her car keys and Birkin bag. “Look, come out later this week. I’m having drinks with Striker at Dresden1. Meet us.”
Christina was right. Nikki needed to leave the house. She needed to make her life normal again—or as normal as it would ever be with Aunt Cici in it.
“Maybe,” Nikki said. “Early for you to leave, isn’t it?”
Uncertainty raced through Christina’s eyes and her full lips tensed. “Coffee with an actor.” Her voice was tight. While Christina maintained control of her emotions, she was usually free with information. Nikki waited for a name, but instead, Christina pulled open the door. “I’ll text you the deets for drinks.”
Chapter 9
The Walking Dead
Christina understood crazy. She’d spent her childhood on a Greek isle with a frustrated actress for a mother and a director father who spent six months of the year on a film set. Her life now appeared a success to the outside world: VP of production for her stepmother, Lydia Albright, the second biggest film producer on the planet; a great town house; a fab car; impeccable industry connections; and an excellent salary. All the perks that came with making films—not pretending to make films, but actually making them. The best clubs, the best parties, Scarlett, Zoey, Jennifer—all on speed dial. Yes, her life had the decided appearance of being quite good.
But she understood crazy, and crazy had no bounds. Crazy had recently breached the fortress Christina had attempted to build with boundaries and her own space. She’d endured one lapse the summer before she graduated Oxford. The summer she’d worked on Lydia Albright’s film, Seven Minutes Past Midnight, and slept with the leading man. That swim in the crazy pool, Christina had vowed, would be her last. And she’d taken no further laps until recently—now it appeared that crazy had breached every boundary she’d built.
She currently roomed with Nikki Solange, the niece of Cici Solange—both were wound tight. One was swamped by the crazy that occurred from celebrity, the other from an odd, tumultuous, and violent childhood that had ended in guns and jail. Christina knew she’d barely scratched the surface of Nikki’s tightly bound ball of psychosis. But the appearances, the façade, seemed to be intact, and Christina had learned from living with her mother, the frustrated actress, that even if you were surrounded by the whirlwind of crazy you could float through life appearing unscathed. So life appeared to be good. Or had. Until she got his text.
Bradford Madison.
Bradford Madison was a great fuck but a notoriously bad boyfriend. Christina had discovered how bad of a boyfriend the summer before she graduated Oxford and moved to LA. She blamed herself, really. She’d known better than to get involved with a bad-boy movie star while her dad directed Seven Minutes Past Midnight for Lydia Albright years before.
Bradford had crushed Christina’s heart. Crushed it, stepped on it, and pulverized it before she graduated from Oxford and moved to LA. There’d been a summer fling while he was in the midst of shooting Seven Minutes Past Midnight. Christina had forgotten two important rules: never date an actor and film sets are like summer camp. She’d forgotten and paid the price by witnessing Bradford’s backside pumping above the starlet Brie Ellison. But that had been years ago. And while she’d sometimes seen Bradford at Industry events and even said hello and smiled, there’d been no direct contact. No reaching out. No e-mails, calls, or texts, especially after her father, the director Zymar, had busted Bradford’s face for ripping his daughter’s heart in two.
But this morning she had to go and meet Bradford. His star burned with less heat than it once had, but he was still a player. His agent still received incoming calls and offers for Bradford to play roles. As VP of production for Albright Film, Christina didn’t have the luxury of saying no to Bradford’s request for a sit-down.
Christina glanced east down Sunset Boulevard, toward La Cienega, where long ago Spago had stood. The normal bright blue of an LA sky hadn’t yet broken through the gray clouds. A slight chill hovered in the air, and Christina pulled her suit coat tighter around her body.
“Hi, Christina.”
His voice caused her stomach to clench and a slim shiver of heat to roll through her body. She looked up from her phone and into Bradford’s eyes.
He was thinner. His cheekbones cut a sharp skeletal edge and shadows haunted his face. She hadn’t bumped into him much since the last indie film he’d starred in. His performance had gotten great reviews but the film made too little at the box office. He’d fallen from the LA club scene and she’d heard rumors.
Bradford leaned forward and kissed each of her cheeks. His hand cupped her elbow and heat rushed up her arm. There was an innate satisfaction when meeting an old lover by whom you’d been jilted and looking much better than they did. She tried not to gloat. Bradford’s wan look was the result of something far deeper than simply letting himself go. His eyes were haunted with a deep need.
Christina plastered her producer’s smile to her face. The last time she’d been alone with Bradford was years before when they met at a club. Bradford had asked for another chance. She hoped this wasn’t the same type of conversation. She couldn’t be with Bradford. She couldn’t be with any actor. They were ephemeral and childlike and wonderful as friends, but she didn’t have the patience to nurse a relationship with one. Especially an actor who needed so much female attention.
Bradford set his coffee on the table and folded himself into the chair across from her. A tiny tremble shuddered through his hands
. Where had he been the last six months? What had he been doing?
“It’s good to see you,” Bradford said.
The bravado Christina remembered wafting off Bradford like too-heavy cologne was absent. Life had knocked him around a bit.
“It’s been a long time,” Christina said. She sipped her coffee. Bradford’s fingers were thin. The tips seemed withered.
There was a slight nod and Bradford’s eyes drifted past her. His lips were soft, and a thought crinkled his brow. This wasn’t a look she remembered from a younger Bradford. This was a look that held sensitivity, thoughtfulness, even pain.
“I was surprised when you called,” Christina said.
Bradford’s eyes darted back to her. A fishhook smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Were you?”
Christina placed both hands around the warmth of her coffee cup. She looked at Bradford and waited. Waited for him to tell her if he had a script he wanted Lydia to produce, or if there was a role in one of Lydia’s films he was after, or if he simply wanted to bend her ear.
He took a deep breath and what had once been a well-muscled chest appeared thick-ribbed and emaciated under his gray T-shirt. He licked his lips and leaned forward. He settled his elbows onto the table.
“I need help,” Bradford said. A tightness that was witness to the difficulty of him saying those words thinned his lips.
Christina’s heart bumped faster in her chest. She fought the urge to pull herself backward into her seat. His gaze was intense, and his need vibrated between them like a live wire. This was LA; one of the primary rules of the Industry was to never let on that you “needed” anything. Need was a dangerous thing. Need could be leveraged against you. Need could make you appear desperate. Need could cause you to lose your spot on the Hollywood field.
“What kind of help?” Christina asked.
Bradford’s eyes held her. They would not release her. They were big and blue and somber. A world-weight of pain swam through them.
“There is no one else I trust,” Bradford said. “Nowhere else I can turn.” He ran a hand through his scruffy blond hair. He glanced to his left and his right, a quick Hollywood head-check to ensure there were no nearby ears. He paused as he looked across Sunset. Christina didn’t turn. They were in public—perhaps a pap or someone he knew had grabbed his attention.