“I’ve got to go,” she said, abruptly getting up. “I’m late for a meeting.”
“We’re not finished,” Sam said, reaching for her hand. “I need more inside info.”
“I’ll call you,” she said quickly.
“No you won’t.”
“Yes, I will,” she said, withdrawing her hand from his.
“Promise?”
“Yes,” she said, although she was not sure it was a promise she would keep.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Slowly, Bobby opened his eyes, only to find that he was stuck in a thick swirling fog. The fog was in his ears, his nose, his mouth. The fog was suffocating him.
Fuck! What was happening?
It seemed the fog was all around, pulling him down, making him sick to his stomach. He controlled an urge to throw up.
Where the fuck was he?
Certainly not in his bed. Certainly not in a bed at all. He was slumped over the wheel of his rental car feeling as if he’d been hit over the head with a hammer.
Jesus Christ! How had this happened? What the hell …
He pulled himself to a sitting position and glanced out the window. The car was parked on a residential street. A kid was riding his bike; a stooped old man was walking his dog. The dog stopped and took a crap, while two joggers in matching spandex outfits pounded the sidewalk next to him.
All was normal.
All was not.
Swallowing hard, he choked up a cough. The fog was slowly lifting. It was being replaced with aching limbs, more nausea, a dry throat, and a raging thirst.
Still coughing, he groped for his phone, only to discover that it was turned off. He quickly activated it and checked his messages, noting that it was eight A.M.
He had three voice mails.
Message one. Denver. I thought you were calling me back. Don’t bother now. I’m going to sleep.
Message two. Lucky. I just wanted to wish you luck for tonight. I’m sure it’ll be a great success. Love you.
Message three. M.J. Thanks a lot. I hope she was worth it.
M.J. and Denver both sounded pissed.
Bobby attempted to recall what had happened. The opening of their club, everything running smoothly. Then enter the seductive Latina woman in the clingy red dress.
He’d driven her back to her hotel, accompanied her upstairs.
Had he gone to her room?
He couldn’t remember.
He did remember her telling him a security guard had attacked her and could he look around, and then … yes … he had taken her to her room.
No, not a room, a suite. She’d asked him to check out the closets and bathrooms. He’d done so, and when he was finished, she’d handed him a drink. After that it was all a total blank.
Had she drugged him? Slipped him a roofie or two?
Why would she do that?
His burning mission was to find out.
* * *
The doorman at the hotel stared at Bobby blankly.
“Were you on duty last night?” Bobby asked, hot to discover exactly what had taken place.
The man shook his head and started to turn away.
“Maybe you can tell me who was?” Bobby said, his tone aggressive although he still felt like crap.
“If you have a complaint, sir, I suggest you talk to management,” the doorman said, waving down a cab for a hotel guest.
Yes. Talk to management. That was an excellent idea. Or even better, talk to Nadia and find out what kind of sick game she was playing.
Entering the hotel, he headed straight for the men’s room, where he relieved himself and splashed his face with ice-cold water. He stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. His eyes were bloodshot and kind of spacey. He was sweating, and his clothes were rumpled. Jesus Christ! What had happened to him? And why?
He must’ve spent the night in his rental car, so how come he couldn’t remember getting there?
Once again—what the fuck was going on?
A quick inspection of his wallet showed that his money and credit cards were all intact, and his gold Rolex was still on his wrist.
After leaving the men’s room, he felt weak, so he stopped by the hotel restaurant. A disinterested skinny waitress took his order of juice and scrambled eggs. She poured him a cup of coffee and he gulped it down. When he was finished eating, he felt slightly better and ready to approach the front desk.
A middle-aged black woman sat behind the reception desk, her dyed red hair in an intricate bun on top of her head. She was on the phone and did not seem inclined to get off.
Bobby tapped his fingers impatiently on the counter. The woman glanced up and saw handsome. She quickly hung up.
“How can I help you, sir?” she asked with a practiced smile.
“Uh … I’m trying to locate one of your guests. Her name’s Nadia.”
“Nadia?” she said, taking in his somewhat disheveled appearance.
“That’s right.”
The woman managed a faintly amused smirk. “Does the lady have a surname?”
“I’m sure she does,” he said abruptly. “Unfortunately, I don’t recall it. She’s a guest here at the hotel. She has a suite. I think it’s on the seventh floor.”
“What number suite, sir?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
“I’m afraid if you can’t supply me with more information, I’m unable to help you.”
“If I had the information, I’d give it to you,” Bobby said, aggravated, his head throbbing.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, pursing her lips. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“Then what you can do is get me the manager.”
“I doubt if he can be of assistance, sir,” she said, managing to make the sir sound like a dirty word.
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Bobby said.
She threw him a dirty look. He might be handsome, but he was turning out to be a pain in her ass. The manager did not appreciate being called to the front desk unless there was a movie or sports star in the lobby. Mr. Goodsun would complain that she should’ve dealt with it, and she’d be the one to get in trouble.
She buzzed Mr. Goodsun anyway. This handsome guy didn’t look as if he was going away anytime soon.
A few minutes later, Mr. Goodsun appeared. He was English and uptight. The hotel group he worked for had placed him in this Chicago hotel when his one desire was to return to his native England. His dream was to manage the Savoy Hotel in London.
He approached Bobby with attitude. “Are you a guest here?” he asked, looking down his long thin nose.
“No,” Bobby replied. “I’m trying to locate one of your guests.”
“And that would be?”
“A woman called Nadia.”
“Nadia?”
“Jesus Christ!” Bobby said sharply. “How many times do I have to tell you people?”
“And that would be Mrs. Nadia?”
“No,” Bobby said, beginning to lose it. “Nadia’s her first name. She’s a very attractive Latina woman. Last night she had on a red dress. Someone must know who I’m talking about.”
Mr. Goodsun gave a discreet cough. He understood the situation. Obviously a call girl had lured this young man up to her room and stiffed him in some way. Not that Mr. Goodsun allowed call girls to operate in his hotel—that was a definite no-no. However, loose women had a way of pretending to be legitimate guests, so what could he do?
“I’m sorry, sir,” Mr. Goodsun said, repeating the words of his desk clerk with a little too much relish. “Unless you can give us more details, we are unable to help you.”
Realizing that he was getting nowhere fast, Bobby decided he’d better come back later when his head wasn’t on fire and his stomach wasn’t doing cartwheels. The scrambled eggs had obviously been a big mistake.
Writing down his cell number and name, he thrust it at the manager, then said, “Call me when you find out who this hotel guest is. It’s urgent.
”
Mr. Goodsun managed a fake smirk. “Certainly, sir,” he said. As if he was going to spend his time chasing down an anonymous call girl. He had other, more important matters to take care of.
Bobby left the hotel. He’d been taken for some fucking ride, and he was determined to find out why.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Alejandro shot up in bed after a night of vivid dreams. He was wide awake and not even hungover. Reaching for a bottle of water, he downed a couple of hefty swigs.
Willow lay asleep in bed beside him, snoring daintily. She didn’t usually spend the night, but he was glad that she had.
He studied her for a moment. Willow Price. Legitimate movie star. A troubled girl, whose troubles only got her more headlines. Long, pale red hair draped across his black silk sheets; a perfect heart-shaped face; endless tanned legs; perky breasts—although he would’ve preferred them to be larger.
Alejandro was sleeping with a star, and she was a beauty. A notorious beauty whose career needed a hefty boost. Recalling the previous night’s conversation, it occurred to him that he was the man to give it to her.
He contemplated how he would tell Rafael that he was about to become a Hollywood producer. Rafael wouldn’t like it; he was always whining about keeping a low profile. Too bad, because Alejandro was sick of the low-profile shit. He desired recognition in the film industry. He should be a player, and there was absolutely no reason why he couldn’t be. He knew plenty of guys who were major players. They made multimillion-dollar movies backed by big studios, and for kicks they hung out at Club Luna, snorting coke, popping pills, receiving head in the men’s room, picking up random girls, and getting shit-faced whenever they felt like it. It didn’t matter whether they were married or not; they went for it big-time. They did whatever they wanted.
Alejandro had the hots to be part of the tribe, not just the man who owned a club and was known for giving outrageous parties and supplying primo drugs. Willow had planted the idea firmly in his head, and now he was primed for action. He wished that Frankie Romano were around so he could run shit by him. Frankie knew plenty about the inner workings of Hollywood. Too bad he’d gotten his skinny ass arrested and thrown in jail.
When Willow finally awoke, sex was not on Alejandro’s mind, getting things started was.
Willow yawned and stretched like a jungle cat. She was in no way a morning person—and although it was almost noon, she wasn’t pleased when Alejandro opened the heavy drapes and she discovered him standing over her like a hawk about to pounce on its prey.
“For crap’s sake, no morning sex,” she groaned, shielding her eyes from the light, reaching for a cigarette, lighting up, and inhaling deeply. “Y’know it’s not my scene.”
“No sex,” Alejandro said. “We talk.”
“About what?” she asked suspiciously, blowing a stream of smoke in his direction.
“Our movie.”
Those two words acted like a shot of adrenaline. Willow stubbed out her cigarette and sat up in bed, covering her breasts with the black satin sheet, her long hair tumbling around her shoulders.
“Coffee. I need coffee,” she gasped, surprised and yet thrilled that he’d remembered their conversation.
Alejandro buzzed for his maid, a surly Colombian woman who hated him almost as much as she hated her job. Unfortunately, her son worked for Pablo Fernandez Diego in Colombia, and Pablo wanted someone in his son’s apartment he could trust, so she was stuck with the job.
“How much?” Alejandro asked Willow after he’d instructed his maid to bring them coffee.
Willow shook her head, desperately attempting to get her thoughts in synch. “How much what?” she asked, thinking that maybe she should snort a line of coke to start the day.
“How much to make our own fucking movie?” Alejandro said, pacing up and down.
“Oh, finances,” she murmured vaguely. “We’re gonna have to hire a production manager to tell us that. Although I’ve heard one can make a decent independent movie for maybe fifteen mill.”
Alejandro nodded. The fifteen million figure didn’t faze him—in fact, it was less than he’d expected.
“What would be our first move?” he asked. “I’d like to see a big announcement in the Hollywood Reporter. Front page.”
“We gotta get a property first,” Willow said, realizing that he was serious. This must be her lucky day, so she’d better get it together fast.
“‘Property’?” Alejandro questioned.
“A book. A script. Something tangible.”
“Where do we get that?”
Her mind began working overtime. “There’s this screenwriter I met on one of my movies,” she said. “He’s kind of sweet and I know he likes me. When I met him he was a nonentity, but now he’s hot. I kinda remember him telling me about a script he’s got stashed away we could use. And he wants to direct, so what could be more perfect?”
“Who is this guy?” Alejandro asked suspiciously.
“I didn’t fuck him,” Willow offered.
“I don’t care,” Alejandro said.
“His name’s Sam. I’ll call him, see if he’s interested. I got a hunch he will be.”
“You do that. Let’s get this thing going,” Alejandro said, already imagining himself standing on a podium at the Academy Awards in front of a thousand cameras accepting an Oscar.
Yes, anything was possible.
And the winner is Alejandro Diego for his critically acclaimed movie …
It all sounded like he was on the road to mega-fame and success.
* * *
There was a time when Willow would disguise her voice and call the paparazzi pretending to be a shopkeeper or a waiter alerting the paps to where they could find Willow Price. Now she didn’t have to do that anymore. The paparazzi automatically followed her everywhere, waiting impatiently for her next bad move. It was annoying, for now she always had to try to look her best, otherwise the haters on the Internet and the TMZ watchers would pull her to pieces with their vile comments.
She knew full well that she’d screwed up an extremely promising career, and that it was nobody’s fault but her own. Surrounding herself with the wrong people had not helped. Enablers were everywhere.
Want some coke?
Done.
Pills?
Of course.
Smack? Heroin? Speedballs? Molly?
Why not?
Oh God, there wasn’t a drug she hadn’t tried, and all it got her was nowhere. She’d lost jobs, money, friends. Spent too much time in rehab fucking the wrong male or female. Yet she still looked amazing, with a little help from the right dermatologist. She was only twenty-five, and maybe this movie thing with Alejandro would be her salvation, would put her back on top where she belonged. She was talented, of that there was no doubt.
She had to get a script, and she had to get it fast. Alejandro was full of enthusiasm now, but how long would that last? He was mercurial. He could change his mind, or someone could change it for him.
Oh yes, it was imperative that she act immediately.
She hurried home from Alejandro’s to her less luxurious abode—a small house off Fountain that she rented from a gay interior designer who doubled as a drag queen by night. The paparazzi were hanging around outside, as usual. She knew some of them by name, and there were times when she would arrange a setup shot and split the money with the photographer—that’s how far she had fallen.
“Hard night out?” one of them yelled. “Same outfit as last night.”
Ignoring the pesky pap, she hurried inside her house, took a quick shower, changed clothes, sat at her kitchen counter, and called Sam Slade.
“Sam,” she exclaimed, relieved he’d kept the same number. “It’s Willow—Willow Price.”
“Hey,” Sam said slowly. “Willow. Long time no hear from.”
She gave a girlish laugh. “I know. Time goes fast when you’re having a blast.”
They’d worked together on a low-budget movie
he’d written. Sam was originally from New York and kind of geeky in a weirdly attractive way. He’d definitely liked her. She hadn’t reciprocated; underpaid screenwriters were not her thing. They hadn’t spoken in over a year, and now he was a big deal and her star had fallen. It was time to reconnect.
“I have a work proposition I’d like to discuss with you,” she said briskly. She could almost hear him groan on the other end of the phone.
“Sorry, Willow. My work card’s all jammed up,” he said, sounding pleasant, although not exactly ecstatic to hear from her.
“I’m sure.” She paused, then said, “Only this is something different and really exciting, Sam.” She paused again for effect. “Remember that script you told me about, the one you’d written on spec and said that one day you wanted to direct? Well, I might have exactly the deal you’re looking for.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“You’ve got to call Denver for me,” Bobby informed M.J., confronting him in his hotel room.
“Jeez—don’t you look like dog shit,” M.J. exclaimed, adding a succinct, “Oh yeah, an’ thanks for comin’ back last night. I coulda really used your help. Like I said on the phone, I hope she was worth it.”
“Hey,” Bobby said, confused and angry. “Nothing happened.”
“Sure,” M.J. sneered.
“I think I was drugged,” Bobby said, flopping down in a chair, still feeling like shit.
“Jesus!” M.J. said, shaking his head disbelievingly. “I’ve heard excuses in my time, only you, my man, are takin’ it way too far.”
“I’m dead serious,” Bobby said, realizing how crazy he must sound.
“No, what you are is full of crap,” M.J. said sharply.
“I want you to listen to me,” Bobby said, attempting to keep his cool. “I drove that girl to the hotel, and the next thing I know I’m waking up in my car blocks away, and it’s morning.”
“I see you’ve still got your watch,” M.J. pointed out. “Your wallet too?”
“It wasn’t a robbery,” Bobby said flatly. “I don’t know what the fuck it was.”
“C’mon, man, whyn’t you just admit it—you got laid,” M.J. said. “An’ I’m not the one who’s gonna be runnin’ to Denver, so chill.”