Red (36 page)

She began to shake, to tremble so badly, she knew he
could feel it. In her mind's eye, she could see him sitting beside their father on that battered, filthy couch, could see the moment he had looked up at her in shame and guilt.

He had known what Ricky and Tommy intended to do to her.

“Don't you lump us together,” she said, her voice quivering with fury, with outrage. “Don't you stand there and act like we have anything to say to each other.” She looked him straight in the eye. “And don't you dare try to act like you're my brother. A brother would never have done what you did.”

She pushed past him, crossing to the valet station to await her car. He followed.

“Becky Lynn, please.” He stopped beside her and touched her arm lightly. “Talk to me.”

She swung to face him, not caring now if he saw everything she felt. “We have nothing to say to each other. Ten years ago, you made your choice. Live with it.”

He caught her hands, his expression twisted with despair. “I have lived with it. Every day, every minute of these last years. Not one moment has passed that I haven't loathed myself for my cowardice, that I haven't wished, prayed, that I could turn the clock back. I let you down, I know that—”

“You let me down?” she repeated, incredulous, tugging her hands from his, unable to bear his touch. “Letting someone down is forgetting their birthday. Letting them down is breaking some small promise.” She lowered her voice. “You tried to destroy me. You allowed three boys to knock me down and drag me behind some bushes. You allowed them to shove a paper bag over my head, you allowed them to force my legs apart and shove their penises into me. I thought I was going to die, it hurt so much.”

His face contorted with misery. “I didn't know they were going to…do it. They'd talked, but I didn't—”

“You did nothing.” She curved her arms tightly around herself.

“And when I came home, when you saw me…you lied for them. You covered for them.”

“I'm sorry. So sorry, Becky Lynn. I know this doesn't excuse me, but I was scared. And so…alone. At the time, it seemed like those boys were all I had. I was so afraid that if I stood up to them—”

“So you sacrificed me?” Tears flooded her eyes. “You weren't alone, none of us were. We had each other, you had me.” Her throat closed over the words and she struggled to clear it. “I was your sister. Your own flesh and blood. To betray me that way…to allow Ricky and Tommy—”

Her throat closed over the words once more, and she turned away from him. Ahead, she saw her car swing out of the parking lot across the street.
Kenny. Thank God.

“Please, Becky Lynn. Forgive me. I have paid, you can't imagine how I've paid.”

She lowered her gaze to her feet, then glanced over her shoulder at him. “Talk is cheap, Randy. Your actions all those years ago told me everything I need to know forever.”

“Mama forgave me,” he said quietly. “She understood. She—”

“Don't you say her name!” Becky Lynn whirled to face him, his words twisting inside her like a dull blade, sawing and tearing. “Don't you mention her to me.”

“She died. Did you know that? Before she did, she talked about you. She said you were better off. She said—”

“Leave me alone!” Becky Lynn covered her ears. “You're dead to me. The past is dead to me.”

Kenny roared up and hopped out of the car, his expression murderous. “Miss Valentine, are you okay?”

“This man's bothering me,” she said, her voice shaking. She hurried toward the valet, and Kenny put himself between her and Randy, even though he was a third her brother's size.

“Get lost,” Kenny said, sounding nervous but determined. “Before I call the cops.”

Becky Lynn swung into her 450 SLC, shaking so badly, she wondered how she was going to be able to drive. She could hardly hold on to the steering wheel.

“Ricky and Tommy went to jail,” Randy called as she started to close the door. “For raping Sue Anne Parker.”

She stopped, her heart thundering.
Sue Anne Parker. Oh, God… Poor Sue Anne…
She squeezed her eyes shut, Randy's words echoing through her, touching every part of her.
Ricky and Tommy had gone to jail. They'd gone to jail.

Dear Lord, it was the answer to a prayer.

“I testified, Becky Lynn. So did Buddy. They bragged about it and…and I couldn't let them get away with it again. I did it for you.”

She sucked in a deep breath, and met his gaze through the open car door. From the corner of her eye, she saw Kenny's confusion and concern. “You should have done it because it was the right thing to do.” She shook her head. “It's too late for us.”

“Becky Lynn!”

The pain in his voice tore at her, but she hardened her heart against it. Randy had betrayed her—first by allowing Ricky and Tommy to hurt her, then later for lying about it, for letting them get away with it.

Her brother was dead to her. She would never forgive him. Never.

B
ecky Lynn sat bolt upright in bed, breathing hard, wet with the sweat of fear. She looked wildly around her, confused, expecting to see the shanties of Sunset, waiting for the smell of fecund earth and poverty to fill her head. Instead, she caught a whiff of the sandalwood potpourri she kept in a crystal bowl on her nightstand, and her gaze lighted on one after another of her things—the Chagall print above her dresser, the Victorian rocking chair draped with a cashmere shawl, the bottle of Chloe on her vanity, the silver music box Carlo had picked up for her in Spain.

She was home, in her own bed. She was far away from Bend, Mississippi; she was safe.

She breathed deeply through her nose and worked to dispel the lingering effects of her dream. In it, they had all been there—Ricky and Tommy, Randy and her father, all the good people of Bend, Mississippi. They had formed a circle around her, trapping her, pointing and laughing.

At first, their teasing had been good-natured, even if cruel and humiliating. But as she had tried to escape their circle, they had closed it on her, tighter and tighter. The closer they got to her, the uglier their taunting had become.

Becky Lynn brought her trembling hands to her face. They had begun to rip at her, tearing at her clothes and hair
and skin, clawing off the illusion of beauty Carlo had created for her. She had cried for them to stop; she had tried to act like Valentine but when she had, they had heckled and jeered at her.

She wasn't Valentine, they had chanted. She was ugly Becky Lynn Lee, poor white trash.

Breathing deeply once more, Becky Lynn dragged her hands through her hair. What was she going to do? Tonight hadn't been the first time she'd had the dream. It had plagued her ever since she'd run into Randy at the agency party.

It had gotten so bad, she feared going to sleep at night. Hysterical laughter bubbled to her lips. Now she had two things to worry about—not being able to sleep, and when she could sleep, having nightmares.

She threw off the covers and crawled out of bed, going to the bathroom for a drink of water. She filled a glass and drank, then sank to the tile floor. Her thin gown served as no protection from the cold floor and her teeth began to chatter. She drew her knees to her chest and rested her forehead on them. She blamed Randy for the nightmares. He hadn't taken no for an answer, had ferreted out her address through the agency and had begun sending her letters. In the two weeks since that night, he had sent a dozen letters and cards. On the envelope of the last one, he had scrawled a plea to please talk to him. She had added her own to it—if he cared for her, please leave her be.

Other than that brief message, she had refused to communicate with him. And although she had sent back each letter unopened, each had served as a reminder of her past, each had torn a small hole in her veil of security.

She feared one day she would open the door and find him camped on her doorstep, or come home and find her answering machine filled with his voice.

Or worse, that she would find her father on her doorstep, his gravelly, evil voice on her machine.

Becky Lynn shivered, suddenly icy cold. She rubbed her arms in an attempt to ward off the chill. If only Carlo were home. Since St. John, he had been from New York to London, now back to New York. He had spent a total of four days in Los Angeles, and those he had spent in his studio, processing film. She hadn't told him about Randy; she had thought she could handle it.

She couldn't, she realized, standing. She needed him to comfort her, to assure her everything would be all right. He would probably be able to tell her how she could end this situation, quickly and efficiently. He was her husband, after all. He should know what was happening to her.

She was falling apart.

Pushing that thought away, Becky Lynn flipped on her bedside light, checked the clock.
Just after midnight.
Three hours later in New York, it was the middle of the night there. She hesitated a moment, then dug the number of Carlo's hotel out of her nightstand drawer.

A man answered the phone, a man whose voice she didn't recognize, although she had obviously awakened him from a deep sleep. At first, she thought the hotel operator had rung the wrong room, then realized she had not.

Carlo had company for the night.

Hugh Preston.

She felt the realization like a blow to her chest. Tears
flooded her eyes, and a small sound slipped past her lips, a whimper of pain and betrayal.

She hung up the phone without speaking.

T
he entire studio waited for Zoe. Restless energy crackled in the air, a combination of tension and boredom, anger and expectation. And nerves, stretched to the snapping point.

As each minute ticked past, with an entire shoot crew left twiddling their thumbs, money simply whirled down the drain.

Jack checked his watch and swore silently. He had booked Zoe despite the things he'd been hearing about her performance. She had never failed to perform for him; and when she was on in front of the camera, she made magic. He had decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. Now his ass was on the line.

The advertising agency's art director strode toward him, his expression thunderous. “Where the hell is she, Jack? This is costing us money. A lot of money.”

Jack worked to keep his expression and stance relaxed, his voice calm and confident. “She'll be here, Bill. She's probably run into traffic. Pete's talking to the agency now.” He placed a hand reassuringly on the other man's shoulder. “Don't worry, I can make up for this lost time. We will absolutely wrap today.”

“You're certain?” The man looked relieved, if only a bit. “We can't afford overtime.”

“I'm positive.” Jack motioned the spread of pastries and
breakfast breads. “Have another cup of coffee, and I'll get an update.”

Jack crossed to his assistant, furious now. He had just made a promise he had to keep, but if too much more time passed, it would be near impossible to do so. “Dammit, Pete, what did the agency say?”

“They're trying to find her. Gail sent someone over to Zoe's place, she wasn't there.”

Jack swore under his breath. Zoe was already an hour and a half late; he had better face the fact that she might not show at all. “Call Gail back. Have her get somebody else over here.”

“Who do you want?”

“I want fast, and I want now. And I need somebody with experience, we have time to make up for.” Jack made a sound of disgust. “Ask for somebody who looks like Zoe. Bill wants long blond hair and tits.”

Pete nodded and started for the office. Jack stopped him. “Make sure Gail understands how unhappy I am about this.”

Pete nodded again and hurried off. Minutes later, he rushed back, out of breath. “Call made, but…she's here.”

“Zoe's here?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. Get her into makeup then cancel that ca—” Jack bit the words back at his assistant's expression. “What now?”

“You'd better take a look at her, Jack. She's in the office.”

Jack nodded and followed Pete, dread forming a knot in the pit of his stomach. When he caught sight of Zoe, he stopped, shocked and sickened. She looked wasted—as if
she'd been out all night, many nights running. Her face was gaunt, her eyes dark and hollowed; she looked as though she hadn't bathed. And her head kept bobbing—like one of those tacky dogs he sometimes saw in the back of cars in east Los Angeles. She could hardly keep her eyes open.

He turned to his assistant. “Bring me a sweet roll, the gooier the better, a Coke and a cup of strong, black coffee. Then tell makeup and hair to get ready to do the work of their lives.”

“Should I cancel that call—”

“Hell no. We'll get started, but I'm not confident Zoe's going to be able to pull this off.” As Pete started to walk away, Jack stopped him. “And keep Bill the hell away from her, or our asses will all be in the fire.”

Jack stepped into the office, snapping the door shut behind him. Zoe's head sprang up, and again he thought of one of those ridiculous dogs. “What were you thinking of?” he demanded. “Coming here an hour and a half late, and looking like…like this?”

Her eyes flooded with tears and her chin trembled. “I'm sorry, Jack. I really am. I—”

He cut her off, and advanced on her. “This isn't just your reputation you're fucking with. It's mine. It's the ad agency's.” He stopped directly in front of her and he saw how difficult it was for her to stay focused on him. “Today you put the client's budget at risk. In the process, you put all of us at risk.”

“I'm sorry, Jack.” She twisted her fingers in her lap. “I just forgot, I didn't set my alarm and—”

“Don't give me any shit.” He rested a hand on each of her chair arms and leaned toward her. “You're in trouble,
Zoe. You're trashing your career, your life. Already most of the shooters in town won't work with you. And what do you expect me to do? Do you expect me to book you again after you pull a stunt like this?”

“Please don't fire me.” She grabbed his shirt and clutched at it. “Don't call Tremayne. Please, Jack.”

Compassion pulled at him. And concern. He remembered the sassy, bright girl she had been when he first met her, and the memory hurt.

He shouldn't let personal feelings get in the way of his professional duty. He hadn't miscommunicated to her the seriousness of her actions—she had put them all at risk. But he couldn't just…abandon her.

He made a sound of self-disgust and straightened, forcing her to drop her hands. “If it were anybody but you, I'd kick you off my set right now, then I'd call Tremayne and raise hell. One chance, Zoe. Do you understand me? I'm giving you only this one chance.”

“Thank you, Jack. Thank you.” She stood, swaying a little when she made it to her feet. “I'll do better, you'll see. I will.”

Pete eased into the office with the food and drink. Jack glanced over his shoulder at his assistant, then turned back to her, narrowing his eyes. Zoe had always been tough, if he was going to reach her, he had to be just as tough, and as blunt as he could be.

“It's sickening to see you this way, Zoe. You could have had it all, but instead, you're throwing it away on drugs. Your career, your health, your looks.” Pete brought her the sweet roll, and she stared at it as if it turned her stomach. Jack shook his head. “Get some help, girl. You really need it. If you don't, I'm afraid I'm going to be attending a funeral. Yours.”

Two hours later, Jack called a break. This shoot, the last two hours, represented a professional low. Pulling shots out of Zoe had been like pulling nails out of concrete. She could hardly keep her eyes open, let alone focused. He had worked with first-timers who had been better able to follow his direction.

Hiding her needle tracks had been almost impossible. The makeup artist, a seasoned veteran who had dealt with almost everything, had been near tears with frustration.

Jack marked several rolls of film and dropped them into his bag. Until he had seen the tracks, he hadn't realized Zoe was using. He hadn't realized she had graduated to needles or just how deeply in trouble she was.

He had seen this sort of thing happen to models before—suddenly they had money and attention; they became addicted to the life-style, to the men and parties and substances. Then, just as suddenly, they were missing jobs, losing bookings. Once a model started that deadly downward spiral, it was almost impossible to pull themselves out. A few made it, a very few.

“Jack! Christ, you're not going to believe this.”

Jack looked at his assistant's face, so pale his freckles stood out in shocking relief. His stomach sank, and he knew without asking that what his assistant had to say he wouldn't like—and that it was about Zoe. He asked, anyway. “What?”

“She's gone. Zoe's…gone.”

“Gone?” he repeated, his heart beginning to thunder.

“She climbed out the bathroom window.”

She hadn't heard one thing he'd said.
Jack dragged a hand through his hair, angry and frustrated, disappointed.

“There's more, Jack. She…she left wearing the dress.”

Jack searched Pete's expression waiting—praying—for a punch line, a
gotcha!
he knew wouldn't come.

Zoe's career was over, Jack acknowledged. Now it was a matter of finding a way to save her life.

Jack figured if anybody could get through to Zoe, it would be Becky Lynn. The two had been close at one time, when they'd all been young and struggling, before everything had changed.

Before he had screwed everything up.

He frowned and pulled his car to a stop in front of her and Carlo's bungalow. He should have tried calling, but he had decided that giving her an opportunity to refuse to speak with him wouldn't be the wisest strategy. Besides, a face-to-face discussion would be more effective.

He had wanted to see her.

He frowned again, not liking the direction of his thoughts. He had come here out of concern for Zoe, not for other, more personal reasons, not because the need to see Becky Lynn clawed at his gut. And certainly not because he couldn't put her out of his mind.

He crossed to the front door and rang the bell. She answered within moments, and he could see she wasn't happy to see him. Of course, he hadn't expected her to be.

“What do you want, Gallagher?”

He flashed her a cocky smile, knowing it would send her blood pressure skyrocketing. “Hello to you, too, Red.”

As expected, fire flew into her eyes. “I don't have time for this.”

She swung the door shut; he caught it with his palm. “I came to talk to you about Zoe.”

Becky Lynn hesitated, then frowned. “What about Zoe?”

“May I come in?”

She glanced over her shoulder, and he saw her uncertainty. She still felt something for him, he realized, self-satisfaction curling through him. Otherwise, she wouldn't hesitate to let him in; otherwise, she wouldn't think twice about being alone with him.

“What's the matter?” he asked, purposely pushing her buttons. “Don't you trust yourself with me?”

Just as he had known it would, his comment got her back up. She made a sound of disgust. “You have three minutes.”

She threw the door open and stalked inside, expecting him to follow. He did, glancing around in curiosity as he crossed the threshold. “Nice place.”

Fists on her hips, she glared at him. “Clock's ticking.”

He slipped out of his jacket and tossed it over one of the rattan and suede chairs. She narrowed her eyes, obviously annoyed at the way he was making himself at home. He lifted his eyebrows in exaggerated innocence. “You don't mind, do you?”

“Not at all. Put your jacket back on and your time's up.” She folded her arms across her chest. “You came about Zoe?”

“Yeah.” He frowned. “I'm worried about her. She's in trouble. Big trouble.” His frown deepened. “She came to a shoot yesterday, and she was pretty messed up.” He filled Becky Lynn in on the details, and as he did, her expression became concerned.

“Needle tracks?” she repeated, surprised and distressed. “You're sure?”

“Oh, yeah, I'm sure. The makeup artist couldn't even conceal them. And by the looks of her arms, she's been
using for some time.” He drew his eyebrows together. “You didn't know she'd graduated to needles?”

Becky Lynn shook her head. “Did you?”

“Hell no. I wouldn't have booked her if I had.”

Her mouth tightened. “Of course you wouldn't have.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“As if you didn't know.” Becky Lynn tipped her head back and met his eyes. “Jack Gallagher would never let anything get in the way of his career, his ambition. And certainly never a friend.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Zoe's not my friend. She never has been. Besides, business is business.”

“'Business is business,'” she mimicked, taking a step toward him, her expression furious. “So what was that thing with Garnet McCall all about? Where do you draw the line between business and personal?”

“That's ancient history.”

“Is it? Well, Zoe's not. You don't call her a friend, but you slept with her. God, you make me sick!”

She spun away from him, and he followed, pulse pounding. He caught her elbow. “Wait a minute! What do you mean, I slept with Zoe?”

“Which part don't you understand?” she asked scathingly, jerking her arm from his grasp. “You didn't think I knew. You didn't think I had found out. Now you're concerned about her, but back then, instead of helping her, you fed into her sickness.”

“Hold on.” Jack looked Becky Lynn dead in the eyes, not believing what he was being accused of. “I didn't sleep with Zoe. Not ever.”

“Oh, please.” She placed her fists on her hips. “Don't lie about it now, Zoe told me ages ago. Surely you're man
enough to stand up for your own actions, despicable though they may be. After all, now you have nothing to lose.”

He took a step toward her, jaw and fists clenched. “I did not, repeat did not, sleep with Zoe.”

“Oh, come on, Jack—”

He cupped her face in his hands. “I didn't sleep with her because of just what you said. And because I was with you then.”

Tears flooded her eyes, and she broke free of his grasp. She crossed to the doors that led to the terrace and gazed out. “Because you were with me,” she repeated, her voice thick. “That didn't stop you from screwing Garnet McCall, did it?”

Jack felt her words like a punch to the gut. What could he say? To claim youth, bad judgment, or whatever now, from this point in his life, after having made it to the top, seemed both weak and pitiable. Besides, looking back, there had been many reasons he'd done what he had—business, immaturity, maybe even fear.

He stopped on the thought. He had been afraid—because he'd gotten so close to Becky Lynn, because he had grown to care too much for her, because caring, and exclusivity, had never been a part of his plans. Wouldn't she laugh at that now?

After a moment of his silence, she glanced over her shoulder at him. “Why did you come here today? Why did you think I could help Zoe?”

Those were two unrelated questions, he realized. His coming here, in truth, had had little to do with Zoe. “I thought you were friends.”