“Lil’ Easy wants you all to hisself tonight,” Flash informed her.
“As long as he knows the rules.” She was not in the mood to be pawed over by a stoned rapper.
“Just give him his money’s worth.” He didn’t understand why a woman would get off work and go fuck some no-good boyfriend for free, but got all prissy just because a paying client wanted to cop a feel.
Charli took a shallow breath and headed over to Lil’ Easy’s table. Though her hips swayed seductively, her eyes were a blank canvas, open to the interpretation of others.
The platinum-selling rapper sat back waiting for his show. Charli eased down the veil that covered her emotions, while focusing on the hot track. She turned, giving him the view they all wanted, letting her body interpret the rhythm and ride the beat. Her sensuous moves and exotic aura were a million times more captivating than any of the nearly naked, breast-enhanced hootchies who normally danced at strip clubs. She represented the difference between graphic and nearly X-rated, and erotic and enticing. From the outside she appeared to be a woman consumed by sexuality and caught up in its glorious rapture, while in truth, the only thing on Charli’s mind were dollar signs.
She was abruptly snapped back into reality by all ten of Lil’ Easy’s fingers as he groped her hips and her ass, clearly violating the “no hands” rule, while plotting the violation of quite a few others. “You do know club rules?” Charlie chastised.
He laughed arrogantly, fully displaying a mouthful of gold. “Rules are for other people.”
“Club rules may be, but my rules are for everybody,” she said, fixing him with a firm gaze.
He found Charli and her comment both interesting and intriguing. It wasn’t often that a woman—especially a stripper!—denied him anything. “So, what are your rules?” he asked, clearly amused.
“First off,” she replied, not missing a beat, “I’m not for sale.”
“And second?” he challenged.
“If I were, it wouldn’t be to you.”
“Ten thousand dollars cash says that you’ll meet me in the private suite.” He stood up. “You’ve got five minutes.” He never looked back as he picked up his drink and his blunt and left for the private room.
Charli stood dumbfounded. Ten thousand dollars! That was a lot of money to turn down, but it was also understood by all of the dancers that you entered the private suite at your own risk. She could feel the eyes of the other dancers as they waited to see if Miss High and Mighty was prepared to get down and dirty.
Chapter 9
The next morning Rowe didn’t look any better after ten full hours of sleep, if anything he appeared even more drained and lethargic than the day before. With mounting concern, Reese spoon-fed him a little chicken broth after he flatly refused to eat his favorite cereal, Trix, which really worried her. Rowe loved Trix! She was considering calling Chris, when the phone rang.
“Madam, the phone’s for you,” Gretchen said, quietly. She, too, was alarmed by his listlessness. Even when he’d had the flu last year, he was the same mischievous little boy trying to hold his cough medicine in his mouth long enough to spit it out unnoticed. The little boy lying in the bed this morning was only a shell of himself.
“Hello?” Reese answered anxiously.
“Hi, Reese. It’s Dr. Young.”
Reese was immediately seized by panic. Under normal circumstances Dr. Young wouldn’t be the one calling with test results. His nurse, Wendy, always took care of that. Plus, she didn’t like the tone of his voice. It had that “I’m bracing myself to deliver bad news” sound. “Hi, Dr. Young.”
“How’s Rowe this morning?”
“He seems to be about the same, if not worse,” Reese answered, as she fought back tears. It broke her heart to see him lying there so lifeless.
“That’s what I thought,” Dr. Young said under his breath.
“What’s wrong with my baby?” Reese demanded.
“I need you to meet me at Cedars-Sinai. We need to get Rowe checked in and figure this all out.”
“What’s going on?” she demanded.
“Rowe’s blood work was not what I expected, and I’d like to admit him right away. I’ll explain it all when you get to Cedars-Sinai.”
In slow motion, buried under a feeling of dread, Reese hung up the phone, took a deep breath, and ordered Gretchen to prepare Rowe for a trip to the hospital. The color drained from Gretchen’s face, but she said nothing and quickly left to pack a bag and get Rowe ready to leave right away.
Reese picked up the phone and called Chris.
“Hi, what’s up?” he asked.
Reese could tell that he was probably in the middle of working out, which he did daily during basketball season. One thing she had to credit him for, as a father, no matter what he was doing, when she or Rowe called, unless he was in the middle of a game-winning slam-dunk, he always picked up the phone. He had always been there for his son emotionally, as well as financially.
“It’s about Rowe,” she answered quietly.
“Is everything okay?” Urgency replaced distraction in his voice.
“I’m not sure. We’re on the way to Cedars-Sinai now to meet Dr. Young.”
“Cedars? Dr. Young? What the hell is going on?”
Reese explained the events of the last two days and promised to call him as soon as she knew more.
An hour later, a listless Rowe was checked into Cedars-Sinai, and his anxious mother was seated across the desk from a very worried-looking Dr. Young.
“I’d hoped that Rowe had a mild infection or some type of virus, but I’m sorry to have to tell you that the test results reveal a much more serious problem.”
Reese prepared herself for the body blow that she saw coming. “What’s wrong with my son?” she asked, even though a part of her did not want to hear the answer.
“I’m afraid that Rowe has an advanced and severe form of acute lymphoblastic leukemia.”
Instead of the body blow she’d braced for, Dr. Young’s words were like deep stab wounds right to her heart. She suddenly felt clammy all over, and her breath came in short rapid spurts, propelling Dr. Young to her side. Hugging her, he said in a soothing voice, “We are going to do everything that we can for Rowe, know that.”
“What does that mean? Is it curable? Is he going to die?” Just saying those words released a dam of tears.
Dr. Young signaled for a nurse to bring Reese a glass of water and held her hand until she’d calmed down enough to comprehend the challenge they faced. “Though Rowe’s leukemia is very aggressive, it can be cured, with an equally aggressive medical regimen.”
“What do we have to do?” Some of the fight in Reese was coming back. She was prepared to do whatever was necessary to save her child.
“I’m recommending a course of chemotherapy, followed by a bone marrow transplant.”
“Why both?”
“Frankly, given the severity of his case, I don’t expect the chemo to cure it, though it could slow it down.”
“Just tell me what I need to do.”
“I’ll need you and Rowe’s father to be screened as donor matches, in preparation for the bone marrow transplant.”
“Why does he have to be screened? I’ll be the donor. I’ll do anything for my son.”
“I know that, Reese, but donor matching is a very complicated process. Typically, siblings offer the best chance of a good match, with parents offering secondary potential. Since Rowe has no siblings—does he?” Dr. Young verified.
“No.” Reese shook her head.
“Then you and your ex-husband—whom I assume is Rowe’s father?” he paused for affirmation.
Reese hesitated slightly before saying, “Yes, of course.”
“Well, you two offer the next best options. You see, matches are determined based upon what we call human leukocyte antigen typing, or HLA. These HLA markers are found on most cells in your body. Your immune system uses them to recognize which cells belong and which one
s do not, which is why it is critical that Rowe has the best match to avoid rejection. Then they will be able to boost his immune system and fight off the leukemia cells.”
“Since I’m his mother, why can’t he just use my marrow for the transplant?” she pleaded, not really comprehending the medical nuances.
“It’s possible that he can, but I have to warn you that just because you are his mother, that doesn’t mean that you’ll have enough marker matches to be a suitable donor, which is why we need to test Chris as well.”
“How much time do we have?”
“Not a lot,” Dr. Young answered honestly. Concern was etched across his face. “If Rowe’s condition worsens, it could be hard to reverse it.”
“I understand.”
“I’ll get a round of chemo ordered up right away and you make arrangements to set up the tissue and DNA typing for you and Chris.”
Reese nodded her head in resignation. As much as she loved her son, there was one request from Dr. Young, which could save Rowe’s life that she’d rather not fulfill. Screening Chris as a donor match could be the kiss of death for her, since there was a good possibility that he wasn’t Rowe’s father.
Chapter 10
The publicity campaign leading up to the Academy Awards was nonstop and grueling. Not only was there a grinding schedule of interviews and appearances scheduled by the studio, but Brandon also had Lydia and her agency on overdrive. He intended for Gillian to bring home that little golden statute at whatever cost.
Meanwhile Gillian was discovering that those costs could be quite substantial. The heightened press meant that her every move and utterance was documented, dissected by the media and immediately transmitted around the globe with the help of weeklies, dailies, entertainment and cable talk shows, and, of course, the ever-important Internet.
This lesson was learned the hard way the day she was headed down Rodeo Drive with an array of shopping bags from Michael Kors, Narciso Rodriguez, Anna Sui, and Nanette Lepore, when her cell phone rang. While trying to retrieve it from her purse and manage the smorgasbord of designer goodies at the same time, she stumbled and nearly took a nasty fall. If not for a particularly handsome Italian, she and her shopping bags would have been spread out along the ritzy boulevard. Instead Michael, Narciso, Anna, and Nanette all tumbled to the sidewalk, just as Mr. Olive Complexion reached for Gillian’s arm, catching her just before her fall. As he did, she looked into the deepest set of blue eyes she’d ever seen. The color seemed Photoshopped.
“Are you okay?” he asked. His sexy Italian accent was like a warm sponge bath the way it gently caressed her.
“I’m, I’m fine,” she stammered. “Thank you.”
They both stooped to pick up the wayward bags, rising at the same time and coming eye-to-eye, nearly nose-to-nose.
“Excuse me,” Gillian said, stumbling in her haste to stand up and escape.
“I’d excuse you for anything,” Mr. Blue Eyes said, never batting one of them.
For seconds that felt like an eternity, Gillian was transfixed by him.
“Thank you, Mr.…, I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m Sebastian.” He flashed that damned smile again. “And you are?”
“Gillian,” she said. She suddenly remembered who she was, and where she was. “Thank you, again,” she said, taking the bags from his hand. She turned abruptly and quickly dashed into the garage where her car was parked.
By the time Gillian had a quick bite to eat at the Ivy, and stopped off at Barney’s on Wilshire Boulevard, the media’s scintillating take on her shopping mishap had been captured digitally, washed thoroughly, spun out of control, then hung up to dry. She could feel the cool breeze when she joined Brandon in his study, where they had their predinner cocktail each evening.
“What the fuck is this?” he demanded. His well-cultivated veneer of sophistication was missing in action.
Gillian caught the paper that he tossed at her. Still ignorant, she asked, “What is it?” She was really taken aback by his anger. Since they met and married, Brandon had never even so much as raised his voice to her, let alone cursed. He’d always been in total control, keeping his darker side well under wraps.
“You tell me,” he answered with a sneer.
Gillian focused on the wrinkled pages long enough to see a photograph of herself gazing into Sebastian’s azure blue eyes. Anyone looking at the photo would understand on a visceral level that the two people pictured were very attracted to each other. Pictures didn’t lie, so Gillian attempted to. “This was nothing,” she said, “I was walking down Rodeo, tripped, and this guy—I don’t even know his name—was nice enough to stop and help me.”
Not very deep underneath his expensive, custom-tailored suit, Brandon was a street thug who was raised to live and die by his instincts, and right now they told him there was a serious problem at hand. “Don’t bullshit me, Gillian,” he snapped.
She’d never heard this nasty tone from her husband before, nor had she ever seen him look so menacing. Though, if she were completely honest with herself, she’d have to admit knowing that he was capable of it. Wasn’t the evidence proving that he’d laundered money from drug dealers enough? Gillian had chosen to keep her head buried in the sand and well away from the compelling evidence that her husband was a drug-dealing thug who’d bought his way into the inner sanctums of Hollywood with bloodstained money. But she’d made her deal with the devil, and now she had too much at stake to undo it, and renegotiating was not an option.
“I’m not bullshitting you! I slipped. He caught me. End of story,” she insisted.
“Not according to Gossip247.com.” He jabbed at the print.
The headline read, “Oscar Nominee, Gillian Tillman-Russell, Finds Love on a Two-Way Street.” The next few sentences told the reader how she and the “Italian Stallion” bumped into each other and, after lustfully staring into each other’s eyes, had a private conversation then both left via an enclosed parking garage. Gillian couldn’t believe what she was reading! They made it sound as if they fucked in the street, then left together for an encore. “I don’t care what this says,” Gillian spat back, “it is not what happened. You of all people should know what the press is capable of!”
“I’m not married to the press. I’m married to you, and I don’t ever want to be humiliated like this again.” He turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Gillian was left shaken and stirred, as well of in need of a very strong cocktail.
Before she could regain her composure, in walked Imelda. “What is going on?” she asked, covered in concern, along with a deep-hydration mask. Early evening was her beauty time, when she’d have aestheticians, manicurists, and a masseuse come to the house to help get her back into fighting shape before their big night.
“Nothing for you to be concerned about,” Gillian said.
Not to be put off, Imelda took the paper from Gillian’s hand, read it, and began pacing. “Gillian, what were you thinking? You’re going to ruin everything!” By everything, she meant the nice, comfy and cozy life she enjoyed at her son-in-law’s considerable expense.
“Nothing happened! I almost tripped. He caught me. My bags spilled. We both picked them up. End of story!” This refrain was already getting exhausting.
“I’m sure that’s what you told Brandon,” Imelda whispered. “But it’s me you’re talking to now.” She gave her daughter a knowing look.
Gillian sighed and shook her head in disbelief.
Imelda continued, “I could have written the book on sexual attraction, and it’s clear to me that something was going on here, even if it also ended here. Remember, Brandon is no fool, so I’d suggest that you stay well away from the opposite sex, unless of course the man’s richer and more powerful than your husband.” Imelda was the ultimate gold digger, never shy about sourcing a richer vein.
Before Gillian could respond, Imelda went on. “We’ve got to do damage control with the press. If you don’t win that
Oscar, Brandon’s going to be very disappointed.”
What about me, Gillian thought, but said aloud, “Maybe I should call Lydia.”
“That hack? Please!” Imelda huffed. “If she weren’t so inept this wouldn’t have happened. Any decent publicist controls the press. If she had any relationships, she would have had a head’s up on this and been able to negotiate her way out of it, and we wouldn’t be in this position.”
Just then the butler walked in. “Mrs. Russell, you have a phone call. A Miss Lydia.”
Imelda snatched the phone from him, put one hand on her hip and barked, “Lydia? You’re fired!” She’d been waiting to say that ever since Lydia kept her off the red carpet at Gillian’s party. Firing her was the only way to make sure that it never happened again, especially on what could be the most important night of her life: the Academy Awards.
Chapter 11
Though Charli was ten thousand dollars richer, after an hour in the private suite with Lil’ Sleazy, she felt degraded, dirty, and cheaper than a two-dollar whore. He, though, was on top of the world! Homeboy was laid back on a chaise with his pants still gathered around his ashy ankles, sucking on a blunt; he was clearly pleased with his purchase. A used condom lay strewn on the floor.
“Yo, shawty yo shit is tight!” he drawled.
Surely he didn’t expect a thank you for that crass compliment, so Charli ignored him and continued to dress, barely managing not to throw up the fast food she’d inhaled before darkening these doors. The image of him grunting above her certainly was bad enough, but the memory of actually kissing his acidic, gold-laden mouth totally turned her stomach. As it rumbled irritably, she quickly grabbed her cover. She was so anxious to leave the gutter that she had forgotten the hard-earned money that had lured her there.
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