Don't Order Dog (16 page)

“Then again,” he said suddenly, looking at her with sharp, lucid intensity, “I suppose I am a director in a way. Not on film of course, but in a much bigger way. Anybody can make shit up and put it on film, but how many can say they have the power to truly make their dreams a reality?”

“Not many, D,” Christina replied in a tone that bordered on the patronizing. “You’re definitely one in a million.” She quietly commended herself for being supportive of Derrick, even under these circumstances. Her mind drifted for a moment as she contemplated the shopping trip it was going to take to get him out of the doghouse when he sobered up.

Derrick gave her a
thin smile and nodded his head. He drained his second vodka and placed the empty glass on the floor as he stood up unsteadily from the chaise lounge. “Fuck, it. It’s all nothing more than smoke and mirrors in the end.”

Christina rolled her eyes.
“God, you are such a buzz-kill. Was there a reason you asked me down here?”

“Actually there was,” Derrick replied, clumsily tucking in his white tuxedo shirt as he walked towards her. He stopped just inches from her slender figure, his stare moving mischievously up her long tanned legs and past her modest cleavage before slowly focusing on her face. Christina gave him an irritated frown. A twinge of nausea suddenly struck her as he leaned in close, swaying slightly as his warm, alcohol-laced breath washed over her. He pointed at her purse.
“I need some of your little friends.”

Christina instinctively clutched her purse tighter as his hand moved towards
it. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what the fuck I’m talking about,” Derrick replied, his eyes fixed intently on her. “Did you honestly think I didn’t know?”

“Know
what
, Derrick?”

“Jesus Christ, Chrissy – will you stop fucking around? You’ve got a small pharmacy in that tiny fucking purse and we both know it. Now listen… I don’t need coke or “e” or any fancy bullshit, I just want something to help me fucking relax.” He took a step back and smiled. “So are you going to stand there and play fucking stupid, or are you going to pull out one of those little vials from the Lynch treasure chest like a good little girlfriend?”

Christina stared at her boyfriend in shock. This was not normal Derrick. Even in her clouded state, she knew something was seriously off with him. It was strange enough that he was reminiscing about his childhood– a subject that, for as long as she’d known him, had been walled off from her like the safe in the bedroom of his Malibu estate. But the fact that he was now asking for drugs – and drugs from
her
– was beyond comprehension.

“I can’t believe you’re asking me this,” she finally said, glaring at him.

“Come on, stop being so fucking dramatic. I’ve just spent a whole goddamn day down here dealing with a school of sharks in suits, and now I have to go upstairs and act like I actually like these motherfuckers. Alcohol by itself isn’t gonna cut it tonight, so I’m asking you for a little extra help. So please, drop the fucking Mother Teresa act and show me what you got.”

“Fine,” she said, handing him the purse. “Knock yourself out. And I mean that literally.”

Derrick walked over to the bed and dumped the contents of the purse onto the mattress. “Holy shit,” he exclaimed, staring at the bed. “I was just kidding when I said you had a small pharmacy. I didn’t realize you really did.”

“Fuck you, D. Do you have any idea how much I dislike you right now?”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he replied as he leaned down and began rummaging through the collection of small vials and bags that contained an assortment of brightly colored pills and white, sugar-like powder. “So, what should I go with?”

“Why don’t you try them all,” Christina answered dryly, pouring more champagne for herself.

“C’mon, be serious. You’re the expert with this shit.”

She walked over to the bed and brushed his hands away before quickly sorting through the paraphernalia. “No... no… no…” she remarked flatly as she tossed the items one-by-one back into her bag. “Definitely not… no… no–”

“How about these?” Derrick asked, picking up a vial containing two pink, oval-shaped pills.

Christina stared at the vial in his hand, perplexed. Even though the pills were inside one of the handmade, silver-capped glass vials she’d found in Venice a few years ago, she had no idea what they were.

“Let me see those,” she said, reaching out her hand.

Derrick closed his fist around the vial and stepped back.
“Oh, so these must be the good ones.”

“Give me the fucking pills, Derrick.”

He flashed her a boyish smile and walked over to the bar. Christina watched silently as he poured another tall vodka and then popped the pills into his mouth. “Bottoms up, baby,” he said as he swallowed back half of the glass. Christina shook her head disbelievingly.

“Oh for fuck sake
, Chrissy, what’s the problem?” he asked as he finished getting dressed. “Did I just rob you of dessert?”

“I have no idea what you just took, you idiot.” She tossed the last of the vials back into the small bag. “So when you’re experiencing projectile vomiting in five minutes, or having a full-on epileptic seizure in the middle of this trivial little social event, don’t look at me.”

Derrick put on his jacket and quickly studied himself in the mirror. Despite his thinning hair and soft, fleshy build, he held the posture of a man who commanded respect and attention. Watching as he adjusted his tie, Christina realized he was once again transforming back into the rigid, razor-sharp businessman and genius that everyone upstairs was expecting.

Satisfied with his appearance, he turned and gave her a pensive stare.

“If you can handle those little pills, I have no doubt I can too. But don’t worry, if I manage to get myself into some form of socially compromised position, you’ll be the last person I look to for sympathy and comfort. Now let’s go.”
 

∞
 

The top deck of the Achilles II was washed in the
vibrant colors of dance lights and disco balls as Derrick and Christine made their entrance. The same crowd that Christina had earlier avoided now smiled and greeted her excitedly as they appeared, and she surmised from the relaxed stares and the jovial sounds around her that a considerable amount of alcohol had been flowing in the short time she’d been below deck. A waiter immediately approached them with a fresh tray of champagne. Christina grabbed two while Derrick abruptly excused himself and started walking towards a tall, muscularly-built gentleman wearing a perfectly fitted gray suit standing nearby. She shot Derrick a fatal look as he glanced back at her, but he simply shrugged before turning and greeting the man warmly.

Once more abandoned by Derrick and surrounded by strangers, Christina wandered towards a quiet corner of the railing to drink and sulk in peace. Dusk had deepened into a clear, moonless night, and the ship hummed peacefully as it moved across the calm, ink-black waters of the Caribbean. Christina stared out at the horizon, trying to determine exactly where the tapestry of diamond-baguette stars ended and the lights of the town along the shore began. The warm wind that had teased her dress earlier now rushed around her in short, angry gusts. She drank her champagne and breathed deeply, trying to forget the drama with Derrick downstairs. As much as she tried to focus on the enjoyment of her buzz, a heavy knot of frustration and anger twisted like a dull blade in her stomach.

She stared out over the water, thinking about their relationship, and realized Derrick had grown more and more detached from her in the last several months. Not that it surprised her. Derrick had made it entirely clear from their first casual drink together that his business and his “ideas” came first. But what did surprise Christina, as she looked into the dark emptiness in front of her, was that she cared.

Until now, she’d been content to enjoy Derrick’s company when he was in a good mood, and even more content to enjoy the benefits of epic, worldwide shopping sprees as atonement for when he wasn’t. Not that the relationship was one-sided. She wouldn’t have even looked at Derrick a few years earlier when she was an up-and-coming model for the Brooks & Hanna agency in Los Angeles. Back then, she was up to her twenty-two-inch waist in coveted advertising deals, flying from LA to New York or London almost weekly to fling attitude at the camera or the catwalk.

But the on-camera stress had begun to fuel an off-camera drug addiction, and the only person who’d failed to see the destructive effects was Christina herself. Rumors of being an “impossible, drugged-up bitch” were just reaching full circulation around the modeling agencies when a leaked security cam video of Christina having sex with a respected Agency Executive went viral on the web and turned her ridiculously lucrative modeling career into vapor practically overnight. A year later, unemployed and semi-sober, Christina had found herself with limited options and an empty bank account. By the time she’d met Derrick, the playing ground was level. He saw the opportunity to date the hottest girl he could ever imagine, and she saw the opportunity to keep paying her mortgage.

And now here she w
as, she thought contemptuously, half-drunk and half-high and staring into a dark night on a beautiful boat full of rich strangers and a boyfriend who couldn’t give a shit about her.
If only things had gone differently
she thought to herself. If only she were still a model. If only the drugs didn’t feel so goddamn good.

If only everything she touched didn’t end up so fucking
ruined
.

Christina was so deep in thought that she barely noticed the needle-thin trail of white that was moving across the water where she was staring. Even with a full sky of stars shining brilliantly overhead, without the moon it was too dark to see what it was, and she quickly dismissed it as the wake of a small fishing boat heading out to sea.

Feeling slightly dizzy, she drained the flute of champagne in her hand before impulsively tossing it overboard, leaning her head over the stainless steel rail to watch it plummet three stories into the dark water below. “Oops,” she whispered shamelessly, giggling to herself. Still armed with a glass of champagne in her other hand, Christina turned and scanned the lively crowd. The band was playing a familiar Rolling Stones cover, and she watched with mild amusement as a group of senior-aged men lurched and strutted around the dance floor as their younger, doll-like wives laughed and clapped with encouragement. Just beyond the dance floor she noticed Derrick talking with his large friend, his head nodding slowly as the other man spoke intently.

“Fuck this,” Christina mumbled to herself with a sudden sense of conviction. She drained the second flute of champagne and tossed it into the water below before straightening her dress and striding purposefully towards Derrick. She was halfway to him when a thin, forty-something blonde woman dressed in a floral-patterned Shibori ruffle, most likely Oscar de la Renta, stepped in front of her.

“Oh my
God
,” the woman said, drawing out the words with a reverential southern accent. “That green looks absolutely
amazing
on you.” She dramatically held out her arms and arched her back to reveal a recent breast augmentation. “You simply
must
tell me where you got it.”

Christina blinked at the woman quizzically, wondering where the cosmetically-altered cliché for annoying trophy wives had come from. “Excuse me?” she
said.

“Where did you get that sublime dress, darling?”

“I don’t remember,” she replied impatiently. Christina knew in fact that she’d bought the dress at a boutique in Monaco two months ago, but at the moment she had no desire to discuss such details. 

“Well
, it is almost as gorgeous as you are,” the woman replied, flashing a perfect smile as her significant cleavage cantilevered unnaturally over her slim frame.

“Thanks. And where did you get those?” Christina asked, pointing at the woman’s chest as her eyes darted to find Derrick.  

“Get what, dear?”

Christina gave her a sardonic smile.

“Oh these?” the woman gasped with mock surprise, sweeping a hand gently across her bosom. “Well, let’s just say my third husband – god rest his soul – was good for something.” She laughed at her own joke before looking at Christina earnestly. “Though I must say, Dr. Drennon did a remarkable job. Are you in the market, dear?”

“No,” Christina replied, “I just wanted to confirm they’re as fake as the rest of you. But thank you,” she said, grasping the hand of the woman affectionately
. “At least now I know who to swim to if this fucking boat happens to sink tonight. Would you excuse me for a moment?”

The stunned woman stared silently at Christina’s lithe figure as she walked away. Christina grabbed another full flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, sipping it with a menacing smirk as she walked towards her
unsuspecting boyfriend. As she approached, the large gentleman Derrick was talking with locked his eyes on her and noticeably stiffened.

“Hi there
, fellas,” she said, resting her hand on Derrick’s shoulder and giving him an affectionate squeeze. She could feel him recoil in surprise under his Armani tuxedo. “Am I interrupting anything important?”