An Accidental Affair (44 page)

I ran to the Bentley, removed the Mac, and rushed it to my office. For an hour I looked at Bobby Holland’s archives, watched homemade videos that he had saved of my wife.

Something was always left behind.

Something wrong was always done.

In minutes I could upload the scandalous and career-ending videos he had of Regina Baptiste and show the world the superstar at her finest. I could upload everything that Bobby Holland had archived and send it from his e-mail accounts. He had been connected to a dozen social networking sites and his password had been stored on them all. Posthumous retribution was still vengeance. I could finish what Bobby Holland had started. I should. I really should.

I clicked an icon on the screen and the video of my wife with Johnny Handsome played.

I went to my file cabinet and opened the bottom drawer. Stored inside of that bottom drawer, beneath a pile of unsold scripts, was a wooden box. Inside that box was a bottle of 1978 Balvenie vintage cask single malt Scotch whiskey and a handwritten note from Bobby Holland.

I opened the whiskey and poured three fingers worth inside of a Universal Studios coffee cup. When that was finished I wiped the powder away from the top of my desk with my dank finger, knew that it had stuck to my flesh as I stared at my wife’s obsession.

Love was a beast that fueled anger. Only the pang in someone’s heart could do him or her in. It was love, not its envoy, not a man and not a woman, that we fought and lost the battle with. Those had been the words of Isabel. The wisdom that had come from Sweet Isabel
stayed with me for a moment. Then the echo from her words faded like a wisp of smoke in the wind.

I ran my finger over my gums, removed the residual blow that had been on my dank flesh, and then I backed away from Underwood. I vacated the well-decorated cottage that I used as my office, left the same furniture and artistic trappings that had decorated the life of Veum, the effects from the whiskey and the blow enlightening me, and moved across Spanish tile. I took a deep breath, and faced the pool. I’d drowned a man. I’d killed men. As the cool night air blew, I marched deeper into my lavish backyard and glowered toward the iconic
HOLLYWOOD
sign.

Filled with rage, each word seethed, “One text message, Hazel. One phone call.”

I picked up my .38. Made sure it was loaded.

Once again it was time for us to make headlines.

When I stepped inside, it was silent. She was there. My wife was standing at the opposite end of the long hallway, all of the lights dimmed, waiting on me, her body language harsh, her pose as if she were in search of aggression. She was ready for violence. She wore a long housecoat, her feet bare, faced me with her hands in both pockets.

She said, “I was waiting for you.”

“I knew you would be.”

We stared for a long moment before she said, “You look angry, James. Very angry.”

“You look diabolical.”

“I’m hurt.”

“You fucked Johnny Handsome and now you’re going to fuck me over.”

She kept her eyes on mine. “What do you want me to do?”

“We are where we are. You got us here. Decide. This is your fork in the road.”

She let a few seconds go by. “I wanted to be able to trust you.”

“I wanted a wife who slept only with me.”

She came to me and paused, her expression harsh, her hands moving inside of her pockets, her face telling me that she was making a life-changing decision. She swallowed, licked her lips, then she took out her left hand and gave me the iPhone that we had argued over.

With both hands, she wiped tears from her eyes and said, “Delete everything.”

As she stood in front of me, I made sure it was the right iPhone and that she wasn’t trying to pull a trick. It was the same iPhone. I deleted the videos of me murdering Bobby Holland, deleted the videos of me killing the Bergs. Then I reset the iPhone, wiped out everything.

She said, “Delete the photos on your Nikon too. I looked at them all. I saw them all.”

“Okay.”

“Naked women. I saw the photos of the girl on your bed. Photos of all those strangers. And the skinny girl with the dreadlocks. It was as if you ran off and had another life.”

“You abandoned me. For a while, I did. I made friends. And I made enemies.”

Her arrogance had waned, but she was still angry. “Will you go back to that life?”

I hesitated. “Will you give me a reason to?”

She took a deep breath. “I guess we’d better pack. It’s going to be a long trip.”

“Where are we going?”

“Only a couple of places I can go from here.”

“Which are?”

“Antigua or Australia, or an early grave.”

“That’s three places.”

“Yeah. That was three. I’m buzzed, so let’s just forget that I mentioned the third.”

“So it’s Crossroads Center or The Sanctuary.”

“You can pick the facility. I won’t argue. I won’t fight. I want to be clean again.”

“You could stay here and go to Promises. Or I could drive you to Passages.”

“I want to be out of the country, away from lights, cameras, and
the business. Away from all of the news about Bobby Holland and Johnny Bergs. I need to be away. Or if you want to visit England for a month, I can slip into The Priory in Roehampton. Doesn’t matter. Just take me away from Hollywood and fix me. Fix me again. Can’t let him win. Can’t let Bobby Holland win.”

I asked, “Why the sudden change? An hour ago, I was your worst enemy.”

“I was watching the video again, just now. As angry as I was, as evil as I felt, one part got to me. It reminded me of something. That’s why I was coming back out there to you.”

“Which video?”

“Me. Bobby Holland. Johnny Bergs. In his trailer. Before all of this happened.”

“Okay.”

“I’m married to the best man in the world. Even if I never reach number one at the box office again, even if I never reach number three or five or seven, I’m number one in his heart and he is number one in mine. I know, that sounds corny. But being in love is corny. I’m from Montana. I was raised on corny. And hopefully I’ll be corny until the day I die.”

“You’re quoting yourself.”

She whispered, “In the end, we are all victims, not of each other, but of nature.”

“Somebody should put that in a screenplay.”

She put her arms around me and whispered, “Australia. I want to go back to Australia.”

“Australia it is.”

“Then I’ll have my office call Spielberg and everyone else. I’ll delay everything.”

“Up to you. I’m your husband. But I’m not the boss of your career.”

“I have to listen to you. You’re the only person in Hollywood who hasn’t done me wrong.”

“Hire your personal assistant back. And give her a raise.”

She paused. “Can I think about it?”

“If you don’t hire her, I’ll hire her and let her work for me.”

She pressed her lips against mine. “We should make a baby.”

“For headlines.”

“No. Because I love you. Because I really, really love you. I want to have your baby.”

“We could get you well, practice, then practice some more, and see what happens over the next ten years or so.”

The loaded .38 that was in the small of my back would remain unused.

So would the .22 that she had hidden inside the right pocket of her housecoat.

She was prepared to gun me down when I walked inside my house. She had calculated it all. She had read thousands of scripts and knew how to make this one end in her favor. She had the tape of me killing Bobby Holland. I was a jealous man, a murderer, a villian who had recorded his own wrongdoings. She could’ve shot me and as I lay dying, sipped wine, and dialed 9-1-1. All she had to do was show that to the police, then say that I came after her, and she was terrified, in fear of her life. She would’ve gotten away with it. Especially since I had my .38 in the small of my back. But she didn’t gun me down. I don’t know how close she was to becoming a widow.

I had been two seconds from being a widower.

Two seconds from having paparazzi and grieving fans outside my gates. Bloodlust lived.

I exhaled, swallowed, trembled, closed my eyes, happy that I didn’t set my anger free and gun her down as she stood in the hallway.

Nobody would die tonight.

The mean streets of Tinseltown were filled with enough blood to last it for a while.

Being married was like a stagecoach ride in the old West.

When you started, you hoped for an enjoyable trip.

Before you reached the halfway point, you just hoped to live to tell the tale.

Tonight there would be no fireworks.

Tonight there would be no more headlines.

Tonight, in her eyes, I was more important than Hollywood.

Tonight she would be willing to drop the film for the guy.

I couldn’t speak for tomorrow.

After all, tomorrow is another day.

O ye faithful reader, thanks for stepping inside the bookshop or mega-store or downloading or stopping by the library to pick up this copy of
An Accidental Affair
. I hope that you enjoyed the read from top to bottom. Pardon me for talking so fast. I just got off the phone with Gideon. There was a lot of noise and he yelled that he was in Uruguay, and then he shouted something about Midnight and The Four Horsemen before gunfire erupted and the call dropped. Now homie has me stressed out. He called me from an iPhone. Roaming charges are no joke. I hope his bill won’t be as high as mine was.

The saga shall continue. In the meantime…

Thanks to all of the hardworking people at Dutton, the best publishing company from coast to coast. Brian Tart, once again, thanks a zillion for supporting my work and keeping me on the payroll. Denise Roy, my new editor, welcome aboard. Thanks for reading this when it was about 100,000 pages long. I brought the scissors and did a little redecorating. To Ava Kavyani and everyone working overtime in publicity, thanks. I’ve spent two seasons on the road and I’ll do my best to stay home a while. Maybe. But I doubt it. Sara Camilli and everyone working at the Sara Camilli Agency, thanks for everything. I think I have eighty books to go. So, yeah, I better tell Ava that I’ll need to return to the road. New places, new faces, new locations. Keeps it exciting para mí.

To Karl and Tammy at the Planer Group in Los Angeles, thanks for all of the hard work.

John Paine, de nuevo, thanks for all of your wonderful input.

Toni Goodwin, thanks for your assistance desde Inglaterra. Blimey! Brilliant!

Denea Marcel in Los Angeles. Muchas gracias, también!

George and Gladys, mis profesores de español en las Bahamas, Sonia Brown and Brown Entertainment, Dr. Myles Poitier, mi médico at Cable Beach, Robert and Carla Whitingham, many thanks for all of the support on the island of New Providence.

Now, as usual, if I have omitted anyone, here’s your chance to shine.

Saving the best for last, I want to thank _____________________ for all of their help while I was working on this novel. Ask ’em what they did. For many months I cracked a mean whip and they worked hard lifting these vowels and toting those verbs while trying not to dangle their participles. They will tell you what else they did to help. Wait. They signed a confidentiality agreement. They’ll get sued if they tell.
LOL!

Tuesday, July 26, 2011. 12:22 A.M.

33.65. 84.42 75°F Humidity: 94%

Current: Cloudy with scattered showers Wind: W at 2 mph

Cargo pants, polo, hair too long, y tengo mucho hambre. Voy a comer algo.

Feel free to stop by
www.ericjeromedickey.com
. From there you can link to other sites, Facebook and Twitter. Oh, yeah. Stop by and join the fan page on Facebook.