Chapter 3
THREE
Rikki
I force myself to go into my office at the Valley Voice the next Monday.
I must steel myself against the flowers on my desk—flowers so fragrant that their scent will forever remind me of tragedy.
The department secretary does this each time an employee takes off a day or more for a grievance leave.
I remind myself it’s not personal. I need to move past the flowers, past the funeral, past matters too dark to conjure just yet.
Move into facts and what I can do next. I am a reporter, and this is what I do. I only hope I can remember how.
Dennis Hamilton’s door is open, our tacit signal that he’s had the requisite caffeine and nicotine to enable him to communicate with his staff.
A little early for his door to be open; for my benefit, no doubt.
He’s like that. I step through the door, trying to push away the too-vivid memories of Hamilton and me.
He turns from the computer to face me, his expression even more grim, more flooded than usual with the flushed evidence of his excesses.
“I was there,” he says, and I know the there of which he speaks could be only one place. “You probably didn’t see me.”
“I felt you.” Aware of the embarrassment heating my face, I try to backtrack. “I mean, I kind of saw you. It was frenzied.”
He stands, and for that moment, I want to run into his arms, where everything will be safe, secure and handled, but that’s a lie.
He’s my boss now, only that. His appearance at the funeral means no more than the flowers on my desk.
I can never run into his arms. And nothing in my life will ever again be safe.
Rotten tears. Just when you think you have them under control, they rush to the surface like embarrassing relatives, claiming you as one of their own.
“Sorry.” I wipe my wet cheeks, try to stop the flood.
“It’s okay.” Something close to dignity shows through the harsh light of Hamilton’s eyes. “Take as much time as you need.”
“I’m not trying to get out of work,” I say. “I want an assignment.”
He turns toward the door. “Maybe later, after you’ve had time.”
“No, you don’t get what I’m trying to tell you, Den. Let me say it in two words. Julie Larimore.”
Hamilton nails me with that damned intense gaze of his. “What about her?”
“She disappeared.”
“No shit, Sherlock. Sure, she disappeared. But what could you know about that?”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Okay, then. What do you think?”
“I think,” I say, “you need me to cover this story.”
“Why?”
“Because there could be bad stuff going on at Killer Body, Inc.”
Hamilton’s coffee cup stops on the way to his lips. “Bad, how?”
“Someone telling women they can be stars, that they can be the next Julie Larimore.”
Hamilton’s coffee cup settles on the desk, forgotten. “They’re doing that?”
“So I’ve heard.” I force myself to look into his eyes and just speak the truth. “I know of only one time it happened, Den, but it’s a starting place. Please let me cover this.”
“It’s not going to bring your cousin back.” He speaks softly, but his pale eyes don’t give an inch.
“I know that, but it might help another woman, lots of other women.”
“And if I don’t give you the assignment?”
I don’t answer. No need to mention that I’ve already tried contacting Bobby Warren.
“No response?”
I feel my lip quiver, try to fight it. “Nothing, I guess.”
“You ever visit the Killer Body place here?”
“No. You?”
He pats the coarse fabric of his shirt. “Are you suggesting that I should?”
“Of course not. You know how I feel about those places, that one in particular.”
“Want to take a run out there?”
That easily? He is giving me what I want this easily? I stand straighter, trying to look taller, and not too surprised. “Right now?”
“Why not?”
Damned Hamilton. Just when I think I can forget our short history, write him off as my only one-night stand, he does something nice, and then, I don’t know what I want. But he’s my boss now. He pretends that the night—that we—never happened, so I pretend, too.
“Den?”
“Yeah?”
My throat tightens, but the pain is farther down, deeper. What is wrong with me?
“Thank you.” I turn toward the door before my tears can further embarrass either of us.
“You owe me lunch,” he calls as I rush out of the office.
That’s what I’d told him that one night we shared—that the next time, I’d buy lunch. Then he got a promotion, and our lunch never happened.
Because I can’t deal with his comment, I pretend I didn’t hear it.
“Bye,” I shout, and let the door swoosh shut behind me.
Rochelle
Dr. Hauschka was one of her very best friends. It was a secret affair, of course. Sometimes, but not always, the secret ones were the best. This one was.
She carried him in the cell phone compartment of her bag for days like this, when she’d been doubting herself, feeling old and fat, and she love, love, loved him.
She parked before the Santa Barbara condo she and Jesse had rented, and before she even checked her face in the mirror, she pulled out Dr. Hauschka’s translucent makeup and began applying it to the backs of her hands.
She’d called Jesse from the road to tell him about Julie Larimore, but he’d already heard.
Like magic, the bluish lines and smatterings of age freckles blended into a monochromatic study in beige.
If your hands are young, you are young. That’s what Jesse always said.
Truth: hands were the first to go. One day you look down, and there’s your mom, the sad fingers, all those spots.
Depending on your genes, the face follows, and then the butt. Or was it the other way around?
Jesse sat at a table in their room, his laptop flipped open, the television across from him playing without sound.
She stopped even before she closed the door to admire him, his face tilted up from his task, the sun off the water reflected in his gray-black hair pulled back in a short ponytail.
He was a man of extremes—hot looks, cold heart, easygoing outside, tough inner core—a man she had once loved with her life.
And now? She couldn’t bear to think about now.
“You talk to him?” That was the extent of his greeting.
“And then some.”
A smile lit his eyes, then lingered, almost decadent. “Oh?”
“What do you want me to say? That one hand job later, I’m his spokesmodel?”
“Turn off the drama and trauma, okay? And close the door, if you don’t mind.”
She did as he instructed, then pulled up a chair on the other side of the table. “Bobbo did come up with an idea, Jesse. It might be good.”
“Good how?”
“He can’t just hand over Julie Larimore’s job to me, especially now that she’s—that she might be—”
“Dead?”
“Yeah. Dead.”
He frowned at the screen of his laptop, keyed in a few more commands. “And so,” he said, still clicking the keyboard, “since she might be dead, the old man’s afraid to give you the job?”
“Not afraid, exactly. He cares about Julie. Her safety is his first priority.”
“His profit margin is his first priority, and you know it.”
“Don’t take Bobbo for granted. He’s not that easy to figure out. And he can be cagey.”
“But he does have the hots for you. Even after all these years.”
“That would bother most men.”
He snapped off the computer and directed his gaze at her. “I trust you. Although when I think back, I don’t know why I should.”
“That was a long time ago, Jesse, before I ever knew you. Damn. It’s bad enough that you try to control my present. Don’t try to control my past, too.”
He repeated the frown, this time directing it at her. “You seeing that shrink again? You always talk like this when you’re seeing a shrink.”
“I’ll see anyone I fucking please.”
“Little girl, talking big.”
“Try me.”
He stood, unzipped his pants. Oh, no. Not now. Not with what was going on, not with this battle in her mind. “I said he can’t just hand the job to me. He has a better idea.”
Jesse’s hand stopped at his zipper. “Such as?”
“He thinks he should announce an open competition for spokesmodel for Killer Body, Inc. Invite pros and nonpros to enter. Then, after top media exposure, pick the new Killer Body.”
“You?” Jesse shook his head as if trying to clear it of a dream that had suddenly become real.
“I hope me,” she said.
“Of course it will be you. He’s setting it up so that it will be you. You’re going to be the next Julie Larimore, babe.”
“I could be, yes. Not that I wish her any harm.”
“You hate her guts, and you know it.”
Hate? No, that wasn’t the right emotion. She said it the way she hoped Julie would. “Whatever our personal differences, I hope she’s okay. But I want this job. It’s my chance to reinvent myself.”
“You’ll get it.” He crooked his finger and rubbed the bulge in his pants. “Now, come to Papa.”
Something stopped her. No, more than that, chilled her. She couldn’t do this, not one more time.
“I might need a little space, honey.”
He rolled his eyes. “The space cadet needs space.”
“I am not a space cadet. I’m not stupid, Jesse.”
“Whatever you say.”
“I mean it.”
“You too smart to get naked?”
“I’ll get naked. Will you?”
“Fucking A.” He began unbuttoning his shirt. “We can do it right here, on this great table.”
She went to him, let him slide her down on the table. He stood, running his fingers beneath her. “You’re skin and bones, but you still have a great ass,” he said, beginning to knead it. “Maybe just a little on the fleshy side.”
She jerked away from him. “My ass is perfect, and there’s not a damn thing about me that’s fleshy.”
“Take it easy. I was just kidding. Hey, what are you doing?”
She pushed him away and swung off the table in one smooth gesture. “I’m out of the mood.” Damn, she wanted a cigarette, but she couldn’t do that. She could already detect tiny vertical lip lines when she pursed her mouth in the mirror.
“Baby, come here,” Jesse called in a singsong voice.
“I need some exercise. I’m going to take a run on the beach.” She dug through the open suitcase and pulled out a pair of white shorts.