Gods and Mortals: Fourteen Free Urban Fantasy & Paranormal Novels Featuring Thor, Loki, Greek Gods, Native American Spirits, Vampires, Werewolves, & More (67 page)

M
icaela called
me late Sunday afternoon to ask if I’d given Danny her number. When I told her I had, I got a long pause as a reply. Then she said, “I wasn’t sure you were really going to go through with it.”

I replied, “I told you I would.”

She hesitated again, then said, “Yeah, but after you and Luke…anyway, I wasn’t sure whether you’d be having second thoughts about breaking up with Danny.”

“That’s the only thing I’m not having second thoughts about,” I told her, with a bitter little laugh. “So he called you?”

“Yeah, earlier today. We’re going to meet tomorrow evening for coffee. I figured I’d better start out easy. Anyway, I’ll be back on set after that, and I probably won’t have time even for coffee for a while.”

I said, “I hope it goes well,” and discovered I was actually telling Micaela the truth. Just because my love life had been torpedoed into shrapnel didn’t mean she shouldn’t give it a try. At first glance the two of them seemed like sort of an odd couple, but they were both really into film, which helped, and at least Micaela wouldn’t care if Danny pulled a disappearing act from time to time. Then there was the whole Catholic thing. Danny’s parents were very old-school Polish (his father had actually been born in Poland), and I thought they would have fewer issues with Micaela being Mexican than they had with me being a complete heathen. The relationship might not make it past coffee, but if it did they wouldn’t have that particular complication to deal with.

Micaela, being the practical sort, just said, “We’ll see,” and we left it at that. It felt a little weird, setting up a friend with my ex-boyfriend, but we all knew there was a shortage of decent guys in L.A., and sometimes you just had to be open-minded about those things.

Not too long after that my father called as well, offering belated congratulations on the promotion and an offer to take me out to dinner some time during the next week or so.

“Sorry it took me so long to get back to you,” he said, “but I haven’t gotten much of a chance to check my email lately. Traci has been running me ragged.”

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he replied with a laugh. “I just hired an LVN to come in and help, and now I’m trying to schedule as many appointments as I can. It’ll keep me out of the house at least. And Traci can’t complain, because more clients means more goodies for her and the baby.”

He sounded so casual about Traci’s materialistic behavior. Maybe, though, he sort of enjoyed it. After all, my mother had never really cared all that much about my father’s earning power as long as there was enough to make the mortgage and keep food on the table. He’d always been much more interested in the finer things in life, starting with the cars and going on from there. I still remembered the argument they had when I was in high school and he’d gone out and bought a Porsche. The cost had nothing to do with it — by that time my father’s practice was flourishing, and he could definitely afford the car. It was more that my mother thought it was completely impractical, and worse, extravagant. What was the point in having a two-seat roadster when you had three children?

At any rate, it had been just more proof of the widening gap between my parents. I’d often wondered exactly what my father saw in Traci (except the obvious), but maybe part of it was simply being appreciated as the superlative bread-winner that he really was.

“I’m glad everything seems to be working out,” I said. “And Traci is doing okay?”

“So far so good. Of course it’s a long time to the end of June, but the doctors say she’s holding her own.”

“Good,” I replied.

“And how are you doing?” he asked. “How’s this new man of yours?”

My throat seemed to close up. “Um…fine,” I replied, in a tight little voice that didn’t sound very much like mine.

A significant silence followed that statement. It’s sort of hard to lie to a psychologist, especially when that psychologist happens to be your father. Then he said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

If there was anything more excruciating than having your father ask if you wanted to discuss your love life, I had yet to find out what it was. I cleared my throat and replied, “Um…not really. We just hit a rough patch. Either it will work out or it won’t.”

Another hesitation. “Okay,” my father said. “but if he keeps giving you trouble, just let me know. I’ll send someone over to break his kneecaps.”

I managed to laugh at that, albeit a little weakly, and we went on to talk some more about Traci and the remodeling for the baby’s suite. Just before I hung up, I said, “I love you, Dad.” I rarely told him that, but right then it seemed important that I did.

“I love you, too, Christa,” he said. “I’m proud of you. And if this guy can’t figure out how great you are, then he doesn’t deserve you.”

“That’s what Nina said,” I replied.

“Wise girl, Nina. You can keep her around.”

I laughed again, and then we said our good-byes and hung up. The conversation left me feeling a little bit better about life. Not much, but at that point I was ready for any improvement, however infinitesimal.

Before the Lone Gunmen indulged in their industrial espionage, I probably would have tried to work through my problems by writing in my blog — my online “dear diary.” However, the bloom was off that rose. Of course I’d changed all the passwords, but the blog still felt…defiled. Dramatic word, maybe, although I couldn’t think of any other way to think of it. At any rate, it didn’t feel secure to me anymore, and so, after logging in one time and then spending five minutes staring at the blank field where I was supposed to be spilling my guts, I logged out and never went back to the site.

An even longer week followed that very long weekend. Work kept me busy, between juggling my copyeditor duties and starting to take over some of Brian’s backlogged assignments. I planned to attend the Women in Film festival on Thursday, and Nina had agreed to be my “date” for the evening. Back before the shit had hit the fan I’d thought about asking Luke, but of course that wasn’t going to happen. But Nina was more than happy to go along; it would give her a chance to get out and have fun, which she considered the paramount reason for existing in the first place, and it would also provide some fun celebrity-watching as well. Roger warned me that it was a small festival and probably not many A-list stars would be there. I didn’t mind; even a D-lister would be worthy of a mention.

I tried to ignore the fact that Valentine’s Day hit smack-dab in the middle of the week. It was hard, just because I knew that if Luke and I had still been together he probably would have planned something extravagant — that was just his way. Or at least the way he wanted to appear to me. Sometimes it was hard to know how much of what I loved about him was the true being underneath or just the public veneer he had presented to me.

The fact that I felt I was on the moral high ground in this particular conflict didn’t help much, either. Sure, you can tell yourself that you did the right thing, but that’s cold comfort when you’re sitting home alone on Valentine’s Day and eating Godiva truffles until you make yourself sick. At that point I didn’t even care whether or not I’d be able to squeeze myself into my True Religion jeans for the film festival the following night. Who cares if the reporter is fat, after all?

But either my metabolism hadn’t processed the chocolates in time, or the two days prior to that when I’d hardly eaten anything worked to my benefit. The jeans slid on with no protest, and I went through the process of glamming myself up for the night out half-heartedly at best. Who was I going to impress, after all? Of course there would be tons of better-looking women than I in attendance, starting with Nina and going on from there.

Sure enough, she showed up looking drop-dead in a pair of skinny jeans tucked into tight boots and an extravagant chocolate-colored suede jacket with a fur collar.

“Nice,” I commented, when I opened the door and saw her ensemble. “Very JLo. I hope that’s
faux
.”

“Of course it’s
faux
,” she replied, sailing on past me. “I know better than to wear real fur in this town.”

I didn’t bother to reply, but just gathered up my bag, clipped the press photo ID to my lapel, and then gave her the extra pass. Her gaze fell on the half-empty box of Godiva chocolates that still sat on the coffee table. I’d forgotten to put it back in the kitchen after my binge of the night before.

“Self-medicating, I see,” she remarked.

“Well, it’s cheaper than crack,” I said.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Nina said. “But whatever. If that’s the worst thing you’ve done since the two of you fought, I suppose you’re doing okay.” Her expression sobered. “I’m guessing you still haven’t heard from him.”

“No.”
And I don’t think I’m going to, either
, I thought. Surely he would have called me or come to see me by now if he were going to at all. That hurt now just as much as it did the first time I had thought it, but I knew I couldn’t dissolve into a mess right then. I had a job to do.

Nina gave me a hard look, and nodded slightly. I knew then that she wouldn’t bring the subject up again. If I wanted to talk about Luke, fine, she’d be there for me, but she’d known me long enough to understand that I tended to keep things inside. I’d never had much patience for the long angst-fests some of my friends indulged in every time they went through a breakup, even though some of those relationships had lasted only a few weeks. My one indulgence had been after Brad and I split up; in my defense, I had really thought I’d found the person I could spend a significant amount of time with, if not the rest of my life. Most of the time, though, the endless discussions and second-guessing that followed a breakup just seemed like an invasion of privacy to me, and my attitude hadn’t changed much over the years. Did I really want someone else, even my closest friend, to know all the details of the thousand and one ways I’d died inside since last Friday night?

In silence I let the two of us out. Nina had offered to drive, and I’d accepted, since that would be one less thing for me to worry about. Twice during the preceding several days I’d almost rear-ended someone in the lurching traffic on Wilshire just because I’d been brooding over Luke and not paying attention. The last thing I needed tonight was to get in an accident while I was technically on the company clock. That would open up a whole legal can of worms I didn’t think I had the energy to deal with at the moment.

The festival was being held in Hollywood at the Arclight complex, which was a large theater and restaurant built around what used to be a dome-style movie palace. The dome still existed, although completely refurbished and updated, but around it had been constructed a high-end multiplex that was sometimes put to use as a venue for premieres and festivals. The girls and I loved the Arclight because it had this great institution known as “21+ Screenings,” which we referred to as “alcoholic cinema.” Basically, if you were twenty-one or over, you could buy a drink in the bar and take it into the theater with you. More than one craptastic movie had been made bearable by this wonderful innovation. We kept wondering when it was going to catch on with other theater chains.

However, there wouldn’t be any alcoholic cinema for me tonight. Roger wasn’t expecting a huge piece on the festival — an opening spread, with a couple of partial pages to follow — but I still had to keep an eye out for any possible interview subjects, as well as generally observing the ebb and flow of the crowd and paying attention to which films had buzz and which didn’t. I briefly hooked up with Lee Chiang, our photographer, and he informed me that Sofia Coppola was definitely there — he’d already gotten a few shots of her, and said that I should try to snag her for a few choice quotes whenever she reappeared. I nodded, then went back to circling the venue and hoping I didn’t look as awkward as I felt.

Nina proved to be a great resource. She was a lot more sociable than I, and I watched her work the crowd and gather up some valuable intel while I was studiously taking notes on the films being shown and who had attended (and who hadn’t).

The glaring lights of a TV crew off to one side caught my attention. I turned to see who they were interviewing, and it turned out to be Emma Stone. She looked amazing — and a lot smaller in person. I jotted some more notes in my little book, including several all-important details of her outfit, such as the impossibly skinny jeans, jeweled sandals, and beaded camisole, all of which wouldn’t have been very appropriate for Los Angeles in mid-February if it weren’t for the enormous turquoise shawl she had flung over one shoulder.

Then Nina came bounding up and said she had a possible Eva Longoria sighting down one hallway. “I’ll come back with a full report,” she added, then took off again, eyes glowing and hair bouncing. She reminded me of a kid on an Easter-egg hunt.

“You know that girl?” came a voice at my ear, and I turned to see an unfamiliar man, the sort of slick, attractive, well-dressed type that L.A. churns out in droves, staring thoughtfully after Nina.

“She’s one of my best friends,” I responded.

“Is she a model? Or an actress?”

“No,” I replied. “She’s the manager of a gallery in Santa Monica.”

“Amazing,” he said. “She has the sort of face that should be on camera.”

True, but I knew that Nina couldn’t care less about modeling or acting. She’d done some modeling back in high school, just local shows and a bit of print work, but she’d told me frankly that she hated it. “I never knew something could be so hard and so boring at the same time,” she’d grumbled once to me, when the ten-thousandth person had asked why she wasn’t a professional model.

“I don’t think she’s really interested in that sort of thing,” I added. I figured it was nothing more than the truth.

“That’s just because she’s never had the proper representation,” he replied. He fished in the pocket of his Italian dress shirt for a card case and pulled it out, then retrieved a business card and handed it to me.

The card identified him as one Allan D’Alessandro. He didn’t look very Italian to me, but whatever. However, I did recognize the agency — it was one of the biggest in L.A. It appeared that Nina had pulled someone of importance into her slipstream.