CoverBoys & Curses (26 page)

Chapter
Seventy-Seven

Forgiveness,
Firepits & Farming

WE
DROVE FOR fifteen minutes in quiet. It suited me well.

           
“Okay,” Brock finally said. “You’re
driving me crazy. Let’s start by you telling me exactly why you didn’t mention
those pervert photos to Detective Wray.”

           
“Because maybe I’m wrong about that
statue,” I defended myself. “We already know Coal blows hot air, so why not
tell me it’s an original? It’s just one more little prevarication on his part.
So where does that leave us?”

           
“I give up. I’m driving. What the
fuck?”

           
“It leaves us with no evidence.
Nothing. Everything in my life is a big nothing.”

“Tell me
what you’re really thinking.”

           
I didn’t pause for thought. “I’m
thinking that
CoverBoy
is evil. Or at
least creating evil. I’m thinking my dream to incorporate serious investigative
reporting into the folds of a fun magazine with all the glitz and glamour of
glossy pages and gorgeous specimens of men has failed. I wanted people to learn
something about what is going on in their backyards. Instead it’s inciting
hatred.”

           
“Did you kill any of those people?”
Brock asked.

           
“Of course not.”

           
“Did any of your staff kill those
people?”

           
“No.”

           
“Then it’s beyond your control. You
write the truth in order to cause awareness with hopes that these evil truths
have a chance to be righted.”

           
“I’m all mixed up right now, Brock.
The magazine is one thing. That meeting in there with the detective and the
fancy agent didn’t even begin to explain to me what happened to Carly, and why.
And I still don’t know what happened to Payton.”

           
“I’m going to get you home and I
want you to make yourself a cup of tea or pour yourself a couple shots of
tequila, and go stare at that ocean. That’s your backyard and you’re damn lucky
so enjoy it. Go back and wish upon a star with the belief and full expectation
that your dreams will come true.”

           
“It’s daylight. No stars,” I said.

           
“A good point that makes my point
all the stronger. They’re there, all right. You just can’t see them for the sun.
Go back to that child that tossed a knotted tennis shoe lace into her mother’s
lap, then went out to play. That little girl knew. She trusted that the knot
would disappear when she came back for it. And it did. And it will.”

           
“Who would have taken you for some
sage old soul?” I said.

           
“Not my mother. She was too busy
unknotting shoelaces.”

           
“By the way,” I added, “Sterling is
researching that damn elephant statue as we speak. If anyone can figure it out,
she can. We’ll know if it’s an original.”

MOON
BLADE CIRCLED around the blazing
firepit
, stomping
out ashes and scattering others while concentrating on the unfathomable task at
hand. Out of control. The situation was out of control. Time for action.

THE
FARM NEEDED Coal’s attention, but he didn’t even remember it until four kids
brought in the weekly truckload of vegetables and home baked pies. Key on his
mind was that he held the key. Or keys, as it were. He had the only other set
of keys to the cells on the farm. The little bad ants would be getting food and
water, but they hadn’t been outside the cells for—a very long time.

           
Something else bothered him but he
refused to entertain the insult of thought. Armand had the original set of
keys. And like any prison cell, those keys were quite unique. Where were they?

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Nailed

AFTER
A MOST DISMAL but mandatory meeting at
CoverBoy
I headed straight for the beach
.
Brock was right, after all. I needed to enjoy my own backyard.

I drove
down the street in front of my house and stomped on the brakes. Fear shackled
my hands and feet. I froze in place.

           
My garage door was open. Not all the
way. Maybe twelve inches.

           
I could call the police. Sure.
Detective Wray or the locals in Malibu. Either way, what? I’d say, “Hey, I have
an emergency. My garage door is open. Well, no,
ummm
,
not exactly open. But it’s a whole foot off the floor.” They’d come running.
Sure.

           
It would be impossible for me to
peek inside my garage before whatever, if anything, would see me approaching. I
drove past my home, then parked two doors away. Grabbing my cell phone and my
keys, I also retrieved the trusty can of mace I carried with me in spite of the
fact it was at least five years old.

           
I scampered between homes to make my
way to the beach, an activity my neighbors would abhor if they saw me. Let them
be the ones to call the police!

           
Once on the beach, I yanked off my
heels, leaping past the two homes until I approached mine, and I came to an
abrupt stop. What the hell was I doing?
 
I should have opened up the garage door and checked it out from the
safety of my locked car.

           
Now what? I looked around. A couple
of guys on the beach, possibly within ear shot, if things didn’t go well. A
rabid looking dog, too. Not the wolf-dog I had encountered at my front door,
but mean looking, nonetheless.

           
I steadied my keys and unlocked the
sliding patio door. I tried to remove the keys from my lock. They stuck.
Sliding the door open on its track, I left the unyielding keys behind.

           
Not hearing or seeing anything
unusual, I slinked through the door into my own home.

           
I’m being ridiculous. This is my
sanctuary. My safe haven.

           
My heart pounded.

           
This is my old paranoia, stemming
out of nowhere but mindless threats.

           
Geoff had asked me to hire security.
That seemed like a really good idea right now.

           
It’s nothing.

           
It’s something!

           
I stepped into the room, bringing up
the can of mace.

           
It was
nothing
. Why didn’t it feel like nothing?

           
I neared the kitchen, looking at my
cell phone and wondering if I should make a fool out of myself and call for the
police. Or the guys on the beach. Or the rabid dog.

           
I looked across to my front door.
Intact. The alarm system flashed green; I must have forgotten to arm it. But my
silver coffee service sat undisturbed on the buffet in my dining room. Nothing
had been touched. Nothing was out of order.

           
I’m a paranoid idiot.

           
Relieved, I tossed my phone onto the
kitchen counter just as I heard the clamor of steel from the garage. The door
to the garage stood slightly ajar.

           
I fingered the release on the mace
and brought it up to my chest when the door flew open and a crowbar met me in
the eyes.

           
“Jesus, fucking A-Bubba, girl!”

           
I was still trying to spray the mace
into his eyes, but rather a stream of the aged chemical dribbled down my
fingers.

           
“What the hell are you doing here?”
He yelled.

           
“I think that should be my question
since it’s my house.”

           
Brock dropped the crowbar onto the
floor and took the spewing can of mace from my hands. “You best wash that stuff
off of you. Anyway, I asked first. You were supposed be to meeting Sterling for
lunch and a movie.”

           
“She’s too busy. I’m too busy. And I
can use the sabbatical on the beach you told me to take.”

           
Brock fired me a look, well aware
that was now certain I was the Angel of Death.

           
“What are you doing in my house?”

           
“I’ll show you,” Brock led me to the
garage. “This, Ms. Visconti, is a garage. A real garage.”

           
“Wow. Look at all these gadgets and gizmos,”
I said.

           
“They’re called tools. And I hope
this takes me off the hook for breaking and entering with the key you gave me.”

           
New pegboard lined two walls with
hammers, tape, wire, and screwdrivers—even a staple gun, all hanging from red
clips. Admittedly, some objects were unidentifiable by me.

           
“Why all this?”

           
“Because you think you have to be so
damn independent, Laurs, but real men don’t hold a car hood up with a golf
club,” he teased. “Besides, I figured you needed your nails now. I’ve got a game
coming up and it will be too late for my help.”

           
“I thought you were benched to rest
up your shoulder?”

           
“Back in the game next week. All
patched up.”

           
“Where’s your car?”

           
“That’s my bad timing. My car’s
being detailed. The kid should be bringing it back in an hour or so. Meanwhile,
you’re sort of stuck with me.”

           
“Okay. Come on, real man of real
garages. I’ll cut you some slack,” I said, leading him back inside my house. “Can
you drink?”

           
“Got any beer?”

           
“White wine.”

           
“Close enough. But watch me. Don’t
try and get me drunk when I’m this close to getting back in the park.”

           
I pulled a bottle of
Far
Niente
chardonnay out of refrigerator. Brock had already located two wine stems and
moved fast. I obliged.

 
He led me by my hand to the bedroom. The short
distance down the hall took us twenty minutes to negotiate. My silk blouse bellowed
to the hickory wood floor like a white cloud of angels. Next my shoes. His
shoes. His jeans. My hosiery. My skirt. Somewhere along the way Brock’s denim
shirt surrounded me as he nailed me to the hall wall.

           
I wanted to caress and kiss each
dimple, then move to his bounty of carved out abs. I wanted to lick the sweet
salty taste in the hallows of his muscled thighs. And I wanted all of him.
Inside of me. I wanted all of Brock Townsend.

           
His smooth hands stroked my cheeks,
my ears, and then my chin. They moved down to cup my bare breasts, and then
drew teasing circles around my navel.

           
Downward, Brocks fingers traced my
inner thighs, teasing me until he saw me quiver under his touch.

           
We made it to the recamier in my bedroom.
Brock retrieved our wine glasses. I raised mine to meet his. Neither of us
spoke. The glasses clinked with the sound of a crystal symphony—instruments in
harmony for the first time.
 
We both took
just one sip and returned the glasses to the nearby table.

           
With still no words spoken Brock
took me into his strong arms. He held me close to him, looking into my eyes and
pressing closer and closer against my naked flesh.

           
This kiss was different. The passion
ran deep and intoxicating. Unbridled.

           
He didn’t stop with my lips. He
kissed my fingers, my hands, my arms, and moving my long red hair to one side,
he then kissed and sucked at my neck. He twirled me around and kissed my back,
starting at the nape of my neck and slowly nibbling down the length of my back
and toward the curves of my hips.

           
My body ached and throbbed.
Accepting his hand, we both fell onto the floor. I pressed against him as he
pressed even closer to me, both our bodies now singing in symphony with mutual
desire.

           
He moved slowly, teasingly,
lovingly, then fervently and madly, and then lovingly again. When he finally
entered my inner sanctum I felt a ripple through my entire body, surging ever
upward where I felt a titillating sensation in the back of my throat.

           
He rode my body rhythmically. Soft
and hard. Passionate and patient.

           
I finally succumbed to the ecstasy,
my body trembling. I threw back my head and cried out a final surrender into
total fulfillment.

           
Lauren Visconti is alive and well, I
told myself.

           
My knees were still weak when my
mind finally became engaged and I thought I should rise up from the floor.
Brock sprung to his feet and crossed to my mahogany armoire where he knew I had
two Turkish bathrobes. His gaze never left mine but to retrieve our wine.

           
He offered me his hand and I
accepted it as he lifted me to my feet. He embraced me for a small eternity.

           
We did make it to the bed, finally,
but only as a collapsed tangle of human flesh.

           
I can remember falling off to sleep
and thinking,
oh to be human. To
experience life. To experience great love.

           
In the pre-dawn glow of promised
sunlight, I felt only fire. I awakened to my dream of imminent danger.

           
My paper wedding dress was burning.