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Authors: Evan Marshall

Crushing Crystal (23 page)

BOOK: Crushing Crystal
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Chapter 24
F
lying into Los Angeles was like landing in a vacuum cleaner bag.
I remembered my last airplane flight four months ago when I was returning to Reilly after my weekend in Ann Arbor. Instead of Guilt sitting next to me yammering away through the entire flight, this time I had Jim in the next row as a constant reminder of the husband I just discarded. I reminded myself that, although I should have been honest with Reilly, I didn't just toss him by the wayside either. I tried to recycle.
I wanted to shuffle past Jim as he was getting his bags from the overhead compartment, but he wouldn't let me slip by without one last dig.
“I hope you find what you're looking for here, Prudence,” he said without a trace of sincerity.
“And I hope you learn to drop your self-righteousness some day, Jim,” I said. “I know some things about you, and you're hardly qualified to sit in judgment of me.” I snapped my head around like a model on the catwalk and strutted away, just like Vilma taught us in bitch class. I had no evidence of any skeletons in Jim's closet, but figured it was a safe bet to assume everyone's got some, so I bluffed. The expression on his face let me know that my guess was right. I could see him wondering how I knew. How Reilly even knew.
The last I saw of Jim was when he scurried past Matt, who was holding a sign that read, “Paradise.” I ran into his arms and he twirled me around like a soldier returning from the war. Perhaps it was the
Pearl Harbor
baseball cap he was wearing and the oversized khaki shirt that inspired him. Whatever the reason, being with him was my deliverance.
 
 
“You're a welcome sight, Malone,” he said, standing back to look at me. “Let me tell you what the plan is tonight, okay?” He grabbed my hand and began walking toward the baggage claim area. “My buddy Rick is having a party before we take off for Big Bear tomorrow. I want you to meet him 'cause he's like a brother. You're going to love him. He's really cool.”
I wondered how Matt described me to his friends when he told them he was bringing me to Rick's party that night. Was I “really cool,” a “hot babe,” a “sharp cookie” or something else?
I told him I'd love to meet his friends, but needed a short nap before the party. “I absolutely have to take a cold shower before we go too. I got practically no sleep last night.”
“Why didn't you sleep on the plane, Malone?”
“Um, bumpy ride.”
 
 
I struggled with my seat belt as Matt paid the parking lot attendant and hit the freeway. Matt driving in the bumper-to-bumper traffic was like a gazelle on a leash. He kept revving his engine, bolting forward a few inches before we came to a jerking stop.
“I've never seen a car like this, Matt,” I said of his fire engine red convertible.
He petted the dashboard, then gave it a pat. “This is Tabitha. My baby.”
Not thrilled with the car-naming thing, but I can live with it. At least that's the only thing he's named.
“I got her at an auction last year. Not many of these babies around anymore,” Matt said proudly. “You know what kind of car this is, Malone?”
I shook my head. “Last time I was even in a car without a meter running was in Ann Arbor.”
“A 1968 Pontiac GTO,” he said as if this might mean something to me.
“Oh,” I extended, as if perhaps I'd heard of this model before. “Does it get good mileage?”
Matt laughed. “You're not into cars, are you?”
When we arrived at Matt's house in Santa Monica, I had trouble mustering the energy to get out of the car. “How important is this party to you?” I asked him.
“Very.”
“Okay, let's make an appearance then, but I can't stay late. I have got to get to sleep early tonight, okay?”
Matt jumped to my side of the car and opened the door for me in a grandiose fashion. “Deal, baby.”
Matt's house was a dusty blue craftsman-style home three blocks from the beach. There was a wrap-around porch with more trees and hanging plants than a rain forest. His oak door had an oval piece of beveled glass with an imprint of a rose at the center. Inside, the home looked like a single man lived there. A heterosexual single man. In the living room was a gorgeous brick fireplace and dark wood mantel that matched the hardwood floors almost perfectly. Unfortunately, Matt used the mantel as a storage area for old mail, magazines and a half-burnt vanilla candle. His couch was covered by a Mexican blanket, and sat directly in front of a coffee table of some sort. I could not tell if it was glass or wood since it was entirely covered with paper. Inside Matt's bedroom was one thing—a queen-size bed covered with an exquisite quilt he bought at an antique store. It was too small for the bed, and was frankly way too stunning to be hidden in the bedroom. The brightly colored pentagon pattern would have looked great mounted and hung in the living room. The second bedroom was Matt's office, which was a desk with a fully equipped neon orange iMac and piles of paper scattered everywhere. There were a few stacks on the floor that grew so tall, Matt could have used them as tables. One actually had a coffee mug on it. The kitchen, well, let's just say it was messy.
“So, this is home?” he asked. “What do you think?”
“There is so much you could do with this place,” I said, feigning enthusiasm.
“Could you call it home?”
There are other words that come to mind first.
“I thought you loved New York,” I said.
“I did,” he smiled. “It was a great visit. We may just have to flip a coin in the end. Heads, L.A. Tails, New York. Come on now, we've got a few minutes before you need to hop into the shower. What do you say I show you my etchings?” he winked.
 
 
“You're going to dig Rick,” Matt said on the drive to his friend's home in Laurel Canyon. “Let me tell you about him first so you're not totally blown away because he's intense. He takes a little getting used to, but once you get used to his intensity, he's the best.”
Matt told me that Rick was one of the producers of
Sour Milk,
but his primary income came from being a “life coach” for celebrities.
“A what?”
“You know? Someone who helps you get in good mental condition, make a game plan and run the ball down the field,” Matt explained.
“What ball?” I asked.
Matt laughed. “Keep an open mind, baby. I'm not asking you to make Rick your life coach, just don't knock it, that's all. Not in front of him at least.”
“So people pay him to
coach
them through life?” I asked. Matt nodded. “Do
you
use him as a—”
I can't believe I have to say these words
—“life coach?”
Matt gave me a look as if I was crazy. “You know I'm not into that kind of shit,” he said.
Thank you, God!
“I'm just telling you so you know what he's like before you meet him. Rick's cool. He's a total bud, but he's also into this fruity New Age scene too. You just take the rest with the good. Kind of like with you,” Matt winked. “Wait till you hear the name of his company.”
“Okay. I'm waiting.”
“Get Off Your Ass,” Matt commanded.
“Get off my ass?” I asked, lifting one butt cheek at a time to see if I was sitting on his tie or something.
Matt laughed hysterically. “Get Off Your Ass! is the name of Rick's business. Isn't that wild?”
“He gets clients with a name like
Get Off Your Ass!?
”
“Not only does he get clients, he's the hottest coach in the entertainment industry. I can't say who uses Rick, but believe me they're names you've heard of. Names of people who've made serious comebacks,” Matt's voice urged me to guess.
“Who?” I begged.
“I can't say, but did you see
Titanic
?”
“Hello? Do I live on Planet Earth?”
“There was someone on the boat who
didn't
die?”
“Kate Winslet? Your friend tells Kate Winslet to get off her ass?”
“Well, not Kate, but there was another major actress that didn't go down with the Titanic.”
“Kate? Do you
know
Kate Winslet?!” I asked. “I love her!”
Matt didn't say anything.
“Matt, do you know Kate Winslet?”
“It's a small town. Everyone pretty much knows everyone in the industry. I wouldn't say we were best friends or anything. Why so goofy over Kate anyway?”
“I don't know, I just think she's brilliant. Why so goofy over Rick?” I laughed, now oddly drawn into this drill sergeant who commands top dollar from celebrities simply by telling them to get off their asses. “He just tells these people to get off their asses, and they do?”
“Well, there's a bit more to it,” Matt told me. “Rick has systems and technologies that he tailors to the specific needs of each client. But his core philosophy is that people need to get up off their asses and grab life's opportunities instead of doing what most people do, which is to sit back on their butts and wait for life to hand them a free ride. People make a lot of excuses for not going for what they really want out of life. Rick just calls them on their bullshit, shows them how they're using excuses to stand in their way, and helps them break out of their comfort zone.”
“I thought you weren't into that kind of shit,” I teased. “You sound like his infomercial or something.”
“I'm not,” he defended. “I just have a lot of respect for the guy and what he's trying to do, that's all.”
“But you're not into it, right?”
“Right.”
 
 
When we pulled into the driveway of Rick's house, I was duly impressed with its plantation-style grandeur. We had to announce ourselves at an iron gate, get buzzed in, then drive at least thirty yards into the driveway where the parking lot looked like a Mercedes showroom. I may not know about classic muscle cars, but I can certainly spot a Mercedes. I could tell that, once inside, the Georgian mansion would be Californized with high ceilings and large windows that extended to heaven. The red door was almost absurdly tall. I'd never seen a twenty-foot door, but Matt said it made the statement that people who pass through the doors of Rick Osbourne are people of stature. On the brass door knocker, the words “Opportunity Knocks” were engraved. On the doormat was a picture of a perfectly round female butt with a red circle and slash around it.
Suddenly I felt a great deal of pressure to impress Rick as someone who did not sit on her ass. This man was important to Matt, therefore it was critical that he liked me. I decided I would head straight for the coffee, down two cups for a quick buzz, then show Rick how completely and utterly off my ass I am.
Chapter 25
T
he inside of Rick's home looked just as I imagined it would. The entryway had a cloudy gray marble floor, and a wide horseshoe-style staircase with two separate sets of steps descending from the second floor. The crystal chandelier was just smaller than my kitchen and sparkled so much that I imagined a team of maids dusted it every day. The great room was carpeted in spotless white, and the walls alternated between textured white paint, light wood and glass. The ceilings were so high that a UFO could've landed in this room and one might mistake it for one of Rick's coasters.
The combination of traditional and modern opulence was interesting, but the absence of chairs or couches was downright weird. Instead, Rick provided his guests with leaning posts that were contoured to fit the human form. At first, I thought they were modern sculptures until I saw one of the guests rest his body into one. Some were flat and had remote control so people could adjust their angle. Others were so swerved, a person could feel almost halfway seated.
Rick's guests were the who's who of celebrity “support,” as Rick called them. A euphemism for servants. Claire was Bruce Willis' dog groomer. Maya was Julia Roberts' chef. Several were masseuses for the Hollywood A-List; and Quad did feng shui for the rich and famous. Not a recognizable face in sight.
“I want you to meet Rick,” Matt said, leading me over to the bar. There was no question who the host of this party was. Rick positioned himself at the bar and oscillated like a fan as he spoke so everyone could hear him. Rick had leathery tan skin and white hair, which he tied back in a ponytail. His eyes were so black I could not see where the pupils began. He wore a red satin loose-fitting blouse that was tied at the bottom, and psychedelic seventies pants.
“You didn't tell me Rick is gay,” I said to Matt.
“He's not.”
“Come on, Matt. What straight guy dresses like that?!”
“Rick does,” Matt assured. “He's married. Look, there's his wife, Kyara.” He pointed to a thirtysomething Barbie doll who was running her fingers through her blond hair as she spoke to a guy who gave Brad Pitt colonics.
“His wife?” I asked.
“His wife.”
Get off your denial, Rick!
“You must be Prudence,” Rick said before hugging me as though we'd known each other our whole lives. “I have heard so many wonderful things about you from Matt, and I can see he didn't exaggerate when he told me how beautiful you are.”
Oh he's good.
“Thank you, Rick. Matt speaks so highly of you. Your home is beautiful,” I said.
“My life is beautiful, Prudence. Do you know why?”
Um, you've gotten off your ass?
“Tell me, Rick.”
“I've got a great deal of money,” he said.
I burst into laughter. “That's funny. Really, though, why is your life so beautiful?”
Rick's smile melted like a burning candle filmed at high speed. “Anyway, I'm looking forward to getting to know you better this weekend. Before the night is over, make sure Kyara shows you some of her snowsuits.”
Snowsuits? Shit, that's right. I agreed to go skiing this weekend. Just what I need from my West Coast winter getaway—snow.
Matt was talking to someone else when he motioned for me to come over to them. “Penny, I want you to meet my fiancée, Prudence Malone,” he said.
“Nice to meet you, Penny. All we need is Eleanor Rigby and we could be a Beatles album,” I said.
Thankfully, she laughed. Penny had a flawless face with professionally smudged eyeliner and perfectly accented cheekbones. She had short auburn hair and striking green eyes. As Vilma the bitch noticed about me, Penny also was not a naturally beautiful woman, but she made the most of her appearance through her hip wardrobe, stylish hair and rigorous exercise. I suspected there might be a dead guy beneath the surface of her lips too, but couldn't be sure. And it's certainly not the sort of thing you ask someone you just met.
“Penny is a makeup artist,” Matt said.
“For celebrities, I assume?”
“Who else?” Penny shrugged. “Hey listen, Prudence. Do you want to do some coke? I hate doing lines alone.” It wasn't my first choice of activities, but sleep was not an option and I didn't want to seem aloof with Matt's friends.
Kyara caught us walking up the staircase and immediately asked Penny if she could join us. “Hey, are you Prudence?” she asked me. “I'm supposed to lend you some of my ski shit for this weekend. I'll show you my closet.”
It had been at least ten years since I'd snorted cocaine, but as soon as Penny began breaking up the little white rocks on the mirror laying flat on Kyara's vanity table, it all came back to me. My heart began to race just at the sight of the powder being lined up for us. “Prudence,” said Penny, handing me a silver straw. “You're the guest.”
As I snorted the maiden line, I tasted the familiar tang of Ajax cleanser in the back of my throat. I felt as fresh as a new deck of cards being snapped and shuffled by a dealer at Vegas. I was wide awake, cleanly reborn and ready to bond with my new sisters.
Next it was Kyara's turn. Then Penny's.
“Penny, this is some good blow. Let's do another, then I gotta show Prudence my ski shit.”
Before we moved to the closet, we did another line of cocaine. Then another. Then a few more before we got into a heart-to-heart about how we met the loves of our lives. Kyara met Rick in rehab two years ago, obviously an unsuccessful endeavor. “No, it did work,” she corrected. “I was in for booze. On the first day I saw him sitting there in group, talking about all the shit he went through, and I thought in my head, Jesus, this guy is so real. We spent every second together, and I moved in the day we got sprung. I didn't even know he lived like a fucking king or anything. It was just all about him and the shit he wanted to do with his life. All this was a bonus,” Kyara gestured to her surroundings. “It was like fate brought us together.”
Penny's boyfriend was an accountant, which I found somewhat disappointing. I pictured her living with a drug lord, hosting orgies and jamming with rock stars in her private recording studio.
I told them about how I ran into Matt at the stadium before I realized that I hadn't yet shared the whole story with him. As far as Matt knew, I just happened to be at the same concession stand as him. “You mean you just sensed him there in the stadium?” Penny asked.
I nodded.
“That is so creepy romantic,” she said before lowering her head for another line.
“Can I do your makeup for the wedding?” she asked.
“Of course. But it's going to be in New York,” I told her.
“Really? Matt said it was going to be here.”
Kyara lifted her head from the mirror and shook her head like a dog fresh out of the bath. “I just want to say that I am so happy Matt met you. The trash he used to date before,” she said, pointing her finger toward the back of her throat. “Lynna the aerobics instructor,” she said, holding her hands out to indicate big boobs. “Pia the Snap-On Tools model and Michelle, who was a propelling guide.”
“Propelling guide?” I asked.
“You know? It's where people lower themselves down a cliff by propelling themselves from a rope tied to the top,” Kyara explained.
“That's repelling you dipshit,” Penny corrected.
“Anyway, you're the first girl he's been into for longer than a week. Except for Sandreen the belly dancer. He was into her for a while. But Prudence, you're the first one he's wanted to marry.”
“Does he ever say why?” I asked.
They laughed, but I wasn't at all sure why. Maybe I should just give up on why altogether.
 
 
Kyara's closet was an entire room that was attached to the master suite. A wall of gowns lined the cedar shrine to Glamour Don'ts. Everything sparkled in some way. Sequins, metallic thread, beads. One holiday number even had small lightbulbs sewn into it. Shoes so horrible-looking, just the sight of them kicked you in the eye.
“Okay, snow shit,” she said as she located her winter gear. Kyara pointed to a baby pink goose-down jumper with a huge rim of white fluffy fur around the hood. “This shit is sacred,” Kyara said. “Brand new and Rick has never seen me in it. So I'm sorry, Prudence, but this one is off limits.”
“Oh well,” I said. “I can see why you'd want to keep that one to yourself.”
“You like it? I'm such a bitch. Come here, Prudence,” she said, looking through her clothes. “We're going to be spending a lot of time together, so I ought to start sharing with you now.” She pulled the identical ski suit in lavender out of the back of the closet. “Forgive me for being so selfish.”
This looks like Barney's slutty albino cousin.
“You know, lavender has always made me look kind of washed out, Kyara. Do you have anything in black or brown?”
Penny laughed. “Kyara doesn't do understated. Just look at these,” she said, pulling out a red leather jumpsuit. “Satan's bitch,” Penny laughed. “And this one we call the Easter Playboy Bunny,” she said, lifting a micro minidress with pastel spirals all over it.
“You know what color would look great with your black hair, Prudence?” Kyara asked.
Black! Or perhaps brown!
“Orange,” she said. “Let me see if I can find that cute little orange number I wore a few years ago.”
Oh God no!
“Oh good, here it is,” Kyara said pulling out an outfit so bright it looked nuclear. All over it were little silver bells. “Shit, I forgot about the matching hat,” she said, pulling an orange beret out of the coat pocket. “If you get a little bounce going as you ski,” Kyara said, bending her knees and holding imaginary poles, then bobbing her body, “you can get the bells to jingle.” Wistfully, she looked at her loaner. “You know, this outfit really says something when you wear it.”
Merry Halloween Chernobyl.
Then by the grace of God, Kyara pulled a white fluffy snowsuit from the back. “This one makes a statement too. I'm dull. Leave it to my mother to buy me this shit.” This ski suit had a definite Michelin Tire Man look to it, but compared to the rest of Kyara's wardrobe, it was elegant.
“You need skis too, right?” Kyara asked me. “You can borrow my old Rossis.”
Your what?!
Matt popped his head into the bedroom and asked if he was interrupting anything.
“Just doing some coke and playing fairy godmother to your Cinderella,” Kyara said. I wondered what she meant by that. I certainly wasn't wearing rags and even if I was, I'd rather show up at the prince's ball in them instead of one of her high-voltage gowns.
“Okay, then. I've got to discuss a few things on the Pasteur film with Rick so you girls take your time,” Matt said.
“Has everyone gone home already?” I asked Matt.
“Prudence, honey, it's four o'clock in the morning,” Kyara giggled.
“What?! Oh Kyara, I've got to get to sleep. Why don't I borrow the white suit so if anything happens to it, you won't be too upset with me?”
“Let's just finish this gram and then we'll call it a night,” Penny said.
The last few lines of cocaine took me from a sense of awake confidence and joy to crazed and paranoid. I could feel my heart beating in every part of my body. I felt like the house in that Edgar Allan Poe story about the heartbeat buried beneath the floorboards. I told Kyara and Penny that I needed to walk around outside for a while, but they both declined the invitation.
“I need my beauty rest,” said Kyara.
Penny said she had to be on a movie set at six and had to get going home. “Home is where the coke is,” she said, grabbing her jacket. “Good to meet you though, Prudence. We'll have to do this again soon.”
BOOK: Crushing Crystal
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