Honey Moon (8 page)

4

Eric Dillon was the stuff of female fantasy. Dark, sullen, and gorgeous, he was Heathcliff gone supersonic and blasted through time into the nuclear age.

People stared at him as he followed the two stuntmen through the crowd that jammed the Auto Plant, L.A.'s hot new night spot. The stuntmen were blond, with flashing smiles and party-animal demeanors, while Eric was grim and aloof. He wore a sports coat over a torn black T-shirt and faded jeans. His hair was brushed back from his forehead, and his turquoise eyes narrowly observed the world with a cynicism much too genuine for someone so young.

A hostess wearing a hard hat and short bib overalls that showed both breast and leg led them toward a table. He could tell by the way she looked at him that she recognized him, but she didn't say anything until he was seated.

"
Destiny
's my favorite soap, and I think you're the greatest, Eric."

"Thanks." He wondered why he'd let Scotty and Tom talk him into coming with them tonight. He hated meat markets like this, and he wasn't overly fond of either one of the stuntmen.

"I'm going to UCLA during the day," the hostess said, "and I schedule all my classes so I don't miss it."

"No kidding." His eyes flicked to the dancers on the floor. He'd heard it a dozen times before. Sometimes he wondered why UCLA even bothered to hold classes between one and two in the afternoon.

"I can't believe you're leaving
Destiny,
" she pouted, her face girlish and surprisingly innocent beneath its veneer of professionally applied makeup. "It's going to ruin everything."

"The show's got a great cast. You won't even miss me." The cast was mediocre at best, made up of a bunch of has-beens and wanna-bes most of whom didn't even have enough respect for their profession to learn their lines.

The hostess was looking for an excuse to linger. He turned away from her and made a meaningless remark to Tom. Despite the girl's revealing outfit, there was a dewy freshness about her that attracted him, but as he lit a cigarette, he knew he wouldn't do anything about it. He never got involved with the innocents. Although he was only twenty-three himself, he had learned long ago that he hurt defenseless creatures with eager eyes and soft hearts, and so he stayed away from them.

As the hostess left, a waitress popped up at his elbow. "Hey, Mr. Dillon. I can't believe I got you at my table. I had Sylvester Stallone last week."

"How 'bout that."

"So how was he?" Scotty asked. The stuntmen collected movie-star gossip like other people collected stamps. He'd been trying to get work on a Stallone picture for months.

"Oh, he was real nice. And he left me a fifty-dollar tip."

Scotty laughed and shook his big blond head in admiration. "He can afford it, I guess. That Sly is some guy." Eric ordered a beer. He cared too much about his body to abuse it, and he never had more than two drinks when he went out. He didn't do drugs, either. He refused to turn into a burned-out zombie like so many other people in the business. Cigarettes were his only vice, and he was going to kick that habit as soon as things settled down.

For the next couple of hours, he tried to have a good time. Most of the girls in the place wanted to meet him, but he put up his invisible No Trespassing sign so that only the most aggressive bothered him. A guy with blow-dried hair offered him some coke that he guaranteed was pure, but Eric told him to fuck off.

He and Tom were shooting a game of pool in an alcove lined with metal lockers and time clocks when a busty blond in a sparkly blue dress came up to him. He saw right away that she was his kind of woman—stacked and gorgeous, four or five years older than he was, with good makeup and experienced eyes. One of the indestructibles. As she approached the pool table, he remembered why he had let Scotty and Tom talk him into coming along with them tonight. He wanted to get laid.

"Hi." She let her gaze travel from a dark lock of hair that had tumbled over his forehead all the way down to the crotch of his jeans. "My name's Cindy. I'm a big fan of yours."

He stuck his cigarette in the corner of his mouth and squinted at her through the smoke. "Is that so?"

"A
big
fan. My friends dared me to get your autograph."

He chalked his pool cue. "And you're not the kind of girl who's going to turn down a dare, are you?"

"No way."

He set down the pool cue and took the thick black marking pen she held out, then waited for her to pass over a piece of paper for the autograph. Instead, she sauntered closer toward him and slipped down the strap on her blue dress, exposing her shoulder for his signature.

He lightly scraped the clip of the pen over the flesh she had revealed. "If I'm going to autograph skin, how about I autograph something more interesting than a shoulder?"

"Maybe I'm shy."

"Why don't I believe that?"

Without bothering to raise the strap on her dress, she propped one hip up on the edge of the pool table and picked up his glass of 7-Up. She took a sip and then made a face when she realized it wasn't alcoholic.

"This girl I know said she slept with you."

"Could be." He flicked his cigarette to the floor and ground it out.

"You sleep with a lot of girls?"

"It's better than watching TV." He let his gaze drop to her breast. "So, do you want your autograph or not?"

The ice clicked in the tumbler as she set it back down. "Sure. Why not?"

Grinning, she flipped over onto her stomach and offered him her buttocks. "Is this worth your time?"

Scotty and Tom snickered.

Eric hesitated for only a moment before he passed over his pool cue. Hell, if she didn't care, neither did he. "Definitely worth it."

Pushing her skirt up, he revealed a transparent pair of light blue panties. With one hand he slipped them down to the top of her thighs and uncapped the pen.

The pool players at the next table caught sight of what was happening and stopped to watch. In bold script, he autographed her buttocks—"Eric" on the right side, "Dillon" on the left.

"Too bad you don't have a middle name," Scotty said with a leer.

Eric picked up his drink and took a sip. She didn't move, and he continued to gaze down at her. Condensation dripped from the glass onto her skin, trickling down over the rounded slope and into the valley. Her flesh pebbled with the sudden cold, and he could feel himself getting hard.

He slapped her lightly on the rear and hooked her panties with his index finger to pull them back up. "What do you say we get out of here, Cindy?"

Handing his glass over to Tom, he tossed Scotty a couple of twenties and headed toward the exit. It didn't occur to him to turn around and see if she was following. They always did.

"Let me come with you, Eric. Please."

"Get real, runt."

"But, Eric, I want to go with you. It's boring here."

"You'll miss Sesame Street."

"I haven't watched Sesame Street since I was a kid, you jerk."

"When was that, Jose? Two weeks ago?"

"You thinkyou're tough just because you're fifteen and I'm only ten. Come on,
Eric. Please, Eric. Please."

Eric's eyes flew open. His pillow was soaked with sweat and his heart was thudding against his ribs. He gasped for air.

Jason. Oh, God, Jase, I'm sorry.

The sheet was clammy around his chest. At least he'd awakened before the dream got bad, before he heard that awful scream.

He sat up in bed, flicked on the light, and fumbled for his cigarettes. The woman beside him stirred.

"Eric?"

For a moment he couldn't remember who she was. And then it came back to him. The chick with the autographed ass. Dropping his feet over the side of the bed, he lit his cigarette with trembling hands and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. "Get out of here."

"What?"

"I said get out."

"It's three o'clock in the morning."

"You've got a car."

"But, Eric-—"

"Get the fuck out!"

She jumped from the bed and snatched up her clothes. After scrambling into them, she walked over to the door. "You're a real asshole, you know that? And you're not even a good lay."

As the door slammed behind her, he sagged back down into the pillows. Taking another drag on his cigarette, he stared up at the ceiling. If Jase were still alive, he'd be seventeen now. Eric tried to imagine a teenaged version of his half brother, with his chubby short-legged body, round face, and scholar's eyeglasses. Clumsy, nerdy, tenderhearted Jase, who had thought the sun rose and set on his big brother. God, how he'd loved that kid. More than he'd ever loved anybody.

The voices came back to him. The voices that were never far away.

"You're going to take Dad's car, aren't you?"

"Nib out, nerd-face."

"You shouldn 't do it, Eric. If he finds out, he'll never let you get your license."

"He won't find out. Not unless somebody tells him."

"Take me with you and I won't tell. I promise."

"You won't tell anyway. 'Cause if you do, I'll beat the shit out of you."

"Liar. You always say you will, but you never do."

Eric squeezed his eyes shut. He remembered grabbing Jase in a good-natured headlock and giving him a Dutch rub, being careful not to hurt him—always so careful not to really hurt him—just to toughen him up a little. His stepmother, Elaine, who was Jason's mother, protected him too much. It made Eric worry about the little rodent. Jason was the kind of kid other kids automatically picked on, and they didn't know when to stop, not like Eric did. Sometimes Eric wanted to beat the shit out of all of them for picking on Jase, but he never did because he knew he'd only make it worse for his half brother.

"All right, runt. But if I take you with me tonight, you've got to promise me you
won't bug me for the next two months."

"I promise. Promise, Eric."

And so he'd taken him. He'd let Jason climb into the passenger seat of his dad's Porsche 911, the car that was forbidden to him because he was only fifteen. The car that was too powerful for an inexperienced driver to handle.

He'd peeled from the driveway of their fashionable home in the Philadelphia suburbs, a fifteen-year-old without a care in the world out for a joyride. His father was in Manhattan for the night on business and his stepmother was playing bridge with her friends. He hadn't worried about either of them finding out. He hadn't worried about the sleet that was beginning to fall. He hadn't worried about dying. At fifteen he was immortal.

But a nerdy pest of a little brother proved to be far more fragile.

Eric lost control of the car on a curve in a road that ran alongside the Schuylkill River. The Porsche spun like a top as it was tossed against a concrete abutment.

Eric—too cool to wear a seat belt—was thrown free at the moment of impact, but law-abiding Jason had been trapped. He had died quickly, but not quickly enough. Not before Eric had heard him scream.

Tears trickled from the corners of Eric's eyes and slid down into his ears.
Jase,
I'm sorry. I wish it had been me, Jase. I wish it had been me instead of you.

* * *

Liz Castleberry's wardrobe fitting had taken longer than she'd planned. As a result, she was glancing down at her watch as she stepped into the hallway outside the studio's costume shop instead of watching where she was going.

Just as she cleared the doorway, she found herself bumping against something solid.

She let out a soft exclamation. "Oh, excuse me. I'm sorry. I—" Her apology faded as she lifted her eyes and saw the man standing before her.

"Lizzie?"

His slow, deep drawl wrapped around her, drawing her back into the past.

Hollywood wasn't as small a town as outsiders thought, and it had been over seventeen years since they had spoken. As she lifted her eyes, she experienced the dizzying sensation of being shot back through time to 1962 when she had arrived in Hollywood with a beautiful face and a spanking new degree from Vassar. Because she had been caught with her guard down, the words that slipped from her mouth were unexpected.

"Hello, Randy."

He chuckled. "It's been a long time since anybody in Hollywood has called me that. Nobody else remembers."

Each of them took a moment to study the other. Little was left of the Randolph Dashwell Coogan of those days, the wild young rodeo rider from Oklahoma who had been working as a stuntman when they met and had been so dangerously attractive to a well-bred young woman from Connecticut. His wiry blond-brown hair was shorter than it had been then. Although his body was still tall and spare, the passage of time had engraved unforgiving lines on the hard planes of his face.

His eyes weren't as critical as hers and they warmed with admiration. "You look beautiful, Liz. Those green eyes are as pretty as ever. I was real happy when Ross told me you were going to play Eleanor. It'll be great working together after all these years."

She lifted one dramatically curved eyebrow. "Did you read the same script I read?"

"Piece of crap, isn't it? But something interesting happened yesterday. We may see a few changes."

"I'm not going to hold my breath."

"Why did you take the job?"

"Tactless question, darling. I'm of a certain age, as they say. Work isn't as easy to find as it used to be, and my tastes are as expensive as ever."

"As I remember you're just about the same age I am."

"Just about the same age as Jimmy Caan and Nick Nolte, too. But while all of you forty-year-old? can

still make screen whoopie with cute little ingenues, I'm reduced to playing a mother."

She said the last word with such distaste that Dash laughed. "You don't look much like any mother I

ever saw."

Liz smiled. Despite her grumbling about her age and the career problems it was causing, she wasn't entirely displeased with being forty. Her long hair was the same rich shade of mahogany it had always been, and the green eyes that had first made her famous were still luminous. She hadn't put on weight, and her skin was only beginning to crease gently at the corners of her eyes. Being forty had its advantages. She was old enough to know exactly what she wanted out of life—enough money to maintain her Malibu beach house, buy the beautiful clothes she loved, and contribute generously to her favorite charity, the Humane Society. Her golden retriever, Mitzi, provided daytime fellowship and an assortment of discreet attractive men offered nighttime thrills. She truly enjoyed her life, which was more than many of her friends could say.