CoverBoys & Curses (2 page)

Chapter Four

The
Welcome Mat

PHOTOGRAPHER
SUKIE FIELDS was getting up there in age. I was lucky she didn’t retire.
Instead, she gifted me with her skills and exuberance behind them. As
CoverBoy’s
new
head photographer, Sukie sat with me at the O’Hare gate awaiting departure
to Los Angeles. We finally boarded the last flight of the day—one that should
have never left Chicago. Despite a late hour snowstorm gathering strength
across the Rockies, the plane landed in Denver to wait out an even more
dangerous rainstorm that had LAX shut down. I white-knuckled both legs of the
trip.

Sukie
slept through most of it. She’d just returned home from Antigua, her last
assignment for
Earthly Wheres
, my
first magazine I was turning over to good hands. While I had been planning the
move for months, Sukie’s schedule gave her about four days to pack in between
travels. I admired the gentle smile she wore while sleeping. Sukie welcomed the
change. “I’m too damn old for the travel business,” she told me. When I worried
she might retire, she quickly added that she became bored easily. That’s
exactly what she was when photographing more landscapes, villages, and exotic
dishes of glow-in-the-dark scorpion soup and rattlesnake pasta. What she wanted
was a challenge. The opportunity to jump into portrait photography, she said,
would complete her life’s mission. I promised her carte blanche to create and
produce, including choosing her own models.

Also
making the journey was Geoff Hayes, our IT guy. I heard plenty of whispers
after I made that announcement to our team at
Earthly Wheres
.

“I don’t
get it,” someone at my Chicago-based
Earthly
Wheres
offices said. “Geoff’s a good guy but why would Lauren take on the
expense of moving him?”

“Something’s
up,” another had answered. “Techies are a dime a dozen in California.”

My
former staff was unaware I assigned my IT guy the role of top model before I
even got his consent. Correctly pronounced with two syllables and lovingly
coined Queen Geoff, he was everything fabulous about the letter G. Geek. Guru.
Genius. Gentleman. Gorgeous. Everything G was Geoff except going for any
G-spot. G was also for gay. Geoff wore gay pride the way a Tiffany lamp wears its
fine stained glass. It was a damned shame, though. Geoff was a captivating
African American male specimen. Women constantly tried to be the lucky girl to
change his sexual orientation, if only for a night.

God, did
he have fun playing it straight. He held my hand throughout much of our long
flight, well aware he had captured the heart of every female flight attendant.
Queen Geoff confided in me, as he always did whether I liked it or not, that he
could almost feel himself growing hard. Not for the women pining for him, of
course, but for the infusion of misplaced attention he received while
harmlessly playing the game. My new magazine would launch with him gracing the
cover and he’d devour the spotlight. Los Angeles would suit him well.

Our
plane landed in turbulence, two and a half hours late. As we entered the
terminal I said my goodbyes to both Sukie and Geoff.

“Not
nice of you to leave us at the airport, sweetie.” Geoff looked at me with mock
despair.

“I
hardly call a limo and reservations at a five-star hotel grounds for
grievance,” I answered.

“Who is
this guy picking you up, anyway?” he quizzed.

“I’ve
already told you. His name is Brock Townsend. I’ve known him since I was a kid.
Now he’s a famous sports star.”

“There
you go again, attacking my lack of macho sports trivia knowledge,” Geoff
whined. “I just worry about you, Laurs.”

“Seems
to me you’re the one that told me I needed to loosen up and find some sexy
thing. You said something about me finding rock candy, if I remember
correctly.”

Sukie
trailed behind saying nothing, which is not atypical for her. We made our way
to the baggage claim, where the limo driver I’d hired would be holding up a
placard with her name on it. It was clear she wanted nothing more than the
sight of the limousine and the key to her suite, and I didn’t blame her one
bit.

Spotting
Brock two carousels over, I pecked both Geoff and Sukie on the cheek, promising
to meet them for breakfast at their hotel first thing in the morning.

Brock’s
big eyes fixed on me and he started to run. In seconds I found myself wrapped
in my old friend’s arms.

Brock
Townsend relished life as a baseball legend. The New York Yankees reluctantly
traded the pitcher to the Dodgers for a reported twenty-something-million
dollar contract, not including the signing bonus, deferred payments and
incentive clauses. Brock wasn’t indifferent to the money. He respected it. He
welcomed his achievements but not so much the notoriety that accompanied it.
That was probably why he dressed as he did. I could get the trench coat and the
wide-brimmed hat, given the rain, but sunglasses? At midnight?

“I’m
sorry you had to wait for my flight,” I whispered, still engulfed in his hug.
“I could have caught a— ”

“I wouldn’t
miss the opportunity to welcome you to your new home, sweetie. Besides, the
sight of you is worth any wait.”

I felt
myself blush. Not a Visconti thing to do.

Brock
grabbed my luggage, all but my smallest bag, and led the way to the parking
lot.

“Son of
a bitch!” he yelled.

Three
young thugs were hovering over his car. Two peered into the darkened windows
while another stood guard. Brock dropped my bags at my feet, giving full chase
to them. I stood in horror, thinking only about .357 Magnums.

Chapter Five

Ecstasy

THE
SIGHT OF THE MUSCULAR six-foot-plus pitcher charging after them sent all three
boys racing off in the opposite direction only after one final attempt to
detach the Jaguar’s vintage hood ornament. The screeching car alarm blared throughout
the parking level although in Los Angeles no one seemed to take notice.

As I
struggled to schlep luggage toward the car, Brock sprinted back to help me.

“So, is
this the infamous Los Angeles Welcome Wagon?” I asked.

Brock
was fumbling through his jeans pockets for the key remote to silence the alarm.
“Are you telling me they don’t have car thieves in Chicago?”

I was
the first to notice the three nylon gym bags the would-be car thieves must have
left by the passenger side of the car. “What the hell is all this?” My voice
quaked.

“Well,
I’ll be. Guess those boys really were the Welcome Wagon,” Brock said, tossing
the gym bags into the trunk on top of my luggage. “Little shit bastards. I
swear, if they had a dad around to teach them baseball they’d never hit the
streets like vermin. They’d be out at a ballpark.”

“Brock,
should you take those bags? Don’t you think we should call the police?”

Brock
only laughed. “If there’s something in the bags that can identify them as
thieves, maybe then. But they didn’t exactly steal anything, did they?”

“In
other words, I guess you don’t think it’s an airport bomb. And we’re the ones
stealing.”

“Let’s get
you to your hotel,” Brock said.

“You’re
right,” I acquiesced. “No harm done. And yes, they do have car thieves in Chicago.”

THE
JAG ROLLED DOWN Sunset Boulevard and glided to a smooth stop in front of the
hotel. Brock instructed the bellhop to deliver the luggage to my bungalow,
escorting me into the lobby lounge after I picked up my room key.

Spotting
the waiter approaching our table, Brock asked, “What will it be, sweet Lauren?
Chardonnay, or maybe some Dom?”

“I’ll
have a
Tanqueray
.
Number Ten. Dry. Two olives.”

Brock
scowled at me in disbelief.

“Oh,
hell, Brock. Don’t look at me that way. Payton went and killed herself. I’ve
just spent six hours on a damn airplane—something I swore I’d never do again,
and traveled half way across the country no less in nothing but rain, hail,
sleet and snow.”

The
hysteria in my voice turned to a whine. “Now I’m in a strange city and I’m
presumptuous enough to think I’m going to take it by a storm with a new
publishing venture while the entire magazine industry is on its ass.”

Brock
looked up at the waiter who was patiently waiting for my outburst to clear.
“Better bring me one, too,” Brock said.

We
slugged down the first martinis and tried to order one more round while being
told we’d barely made the last call with our first drinks. It was late. I
should have been exhausted, but neither of us wanted to say goodnight. It
seemed innocent enough when Brock requested a bottle of champagne be sent over
to my bungalow. All night room service, after all.

YOU
KNOW, BROCK,” I’m sure I slurred slightly as I eased out of my dress and fell
back onto the four-poster bed, “I don’t think friends are supposed to fuck one
another. And I’m still grieving the loss of Payton, and I’m in the middle of a
major move. I’m trying to make a new start and I’m just too—”

“That’s
the best thing about friends with benefits. Only with you it’s more like
rapture. Besides, my friend needs a jumpstart into her new world.”

“And by
jumpstart you mean jumping my bones?”

Despite
my feeble verbal protests, Brock Townsend rightfully understood he was the one
being seduced. I lay naked as he uncorked the champagne. I reached for the
bottle to pour, skillfully filling the flutes with one hand while working open
the metal buttons of his 501 jeans with the other. Multi-tasking.

Three
years had passed since the two of us had been together in bed. Or in the back
seat of a limo. Or on the bleachers in the deserted baseball stadium. I felt
the old familiar feeling. I knew I was wet with desire long before my mouth was
wet with the vintage champagne.

His soft
denim jeans fell to the floor and Brock lifted off his cashmere sweater to
reveal rippling rows of muscular abs. I wanted him inside of me and I’d learned
a long time ago how to get exactly what I wanted, especially when it came to
Brock Townsend.

I became
a tease in need. I bit his nipples and sucked at his neck. I pulled at him and guided
his movements, slowing him down or pushing him faster and faster, depending on
my pleasure. I flung myself on top of him and rode him. My words were nasty and
my breasts swayed wildly above his body, rocking and taking what I needed. I
collapsed upon his chest and moaned in satisfaction.

“We
never did it, you know,” I whispered.

“Yes,
Lauren. We did it. We’re doing it. And we’ve done it before.”

“Off the
record. I have to protect my reputation. Keep my name off your list of
conquests.”

He
pulled away from me, faking a frown. We started bantering; we always seemed to
get along best when teasing each other. My cell interrupted what might have
been left of any lucid conversation after all the booze. An unidentified caller.

“Lauren
Visconti?”

“Yes.
Who’s calling?”

“Sorry I
missed you. It wasn’t a suicide. Remember Mike? You’re messing with trouble,
Missy.”

“Trouble?
Missed me where?”

It was
too late. The caller hung up. I turned to Brock. He was sound asleep.

Chapter Six

The
Dream

MY
WEDDING DRESS IS understated elegance. Low cut in the back and with braided
silk pulled tight across my waist, the gown cascades to the floor in layers of
scalloped edging. The chiffon sways and billows with every step I take.

I can’t
make out who is walking me down the aisle. My father is dead. It can’t be him.
Who is it?

The
music is too loud. The first notes don’t end as yet others begin. Fierce sounds
of chanting begin to clash with an incendiary noise. It was the sound of
warriors igniting blood.

The man
that leads me by my arm stops in the middle of the aisle. He’s staring at my
gown with pity drawn across his eyes. The exquisite fabric is fraying,
metastasizing into paper. My wedding dress is made of paper!

Gusts of
wind roar down the center of the church. The paper scallops of my gown ripple
and begin to tear, shredding into sheets. The tang of smoke fills my lungs. The
funneled wind fuels the flames. My escort drops my arm and screams as he falls
away from me, engulfed in a bonfire of human flesh, bones and hair. The screams
of my loved ones lining the pews overpower any other sounds except for the
spitting and crackling of bodies. And the ear-piercing clash of musical notes.

I glance
down at the remains of my dress. I am all but naked. Why am I not burning? Why
am I not melting in pain with the others? Dear God, take me! While everyone
else falls into clumps of pugilistic attitude I remain standing.

I’m not
even singed. I am left, alone.