Read Sugar Valley (Hollywood's Darkest Secret) Online

Authors: Stephen Andrew Salamon

Tags: #hollywood, #thriller, #friendship, #karma, #hope, #conspiracy, #struggle, #famous, #nightmare, #movie star

Sugar Valley (Hollywood's Darkest Secret)

BOOK: Sugar Valley (Hollywood's Darkest Secret)
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Sugar Valley

 

Hollywood’s Darkest Secret

 

 

 

By Stephen Andrew Salamon

 

 

© 2000 by Stephen Andrew Salamon.

Smashwords Edition

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may
be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any
form or by any means without the prior written permission of the
publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a
review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

 

Second printing

 

The innocence always starts out slow. But the
evil is what triggers the speed. Checkmate. -
Damen
Schultz

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter
One

Chapter
Two

Chapter
Three

Chapter
Four

Chapter
Five

Chapter
Six

Chapter
Seven

Chapter
Eight

Chapter
Nine

Chapter
Ten

Chapter
Eleven

Chapter
Twelve

Chapter
Thirteen

Chapter
Fourteen

Chapter
Fifteen

Chapter
Sixteen

Chapter
Seventeen

Chapter
Eighteen

Chapter
Nineteen

Chapter
Twenty

Chapter
Twenty-One

Chapter
Twenty-Two

Chapter
Twenty-Three

Chapter
Twenty-Four

Chapter
Twenty-Five

Chapter
Twenty-Six

Chapter
Twenty-Seven

Chapter
Twenty-Eight

Chapter
Twenty-Nine

Chapter
Thirty

Chapter
Thirty-One

Chapter
Thirty-Two

Chapter
Thirty-Three

Chapter
Thirty-Four

Chapter
Thirty-Five

Chapter
Thirty-Six

Chapter
Thirty-Seven

Chapter
Thirty-Eight

Chapter
Thirty-Nine

Chapter
Forty

Chapter
Forty-One

Chapter
Forty-Two

Chapter
Forty-Three

Chapter
Forty-Four

Chapter
Forty-Five

Chapter
Forty-Six

Chapter
Forty-Seven

Chapter
Forty-Eight

Chapter
Forty-Nine

Chapter
Fifty

Chapter
Fifty-One

Chapter
Fifty-Two

Chapter
Fifty-Three

Chapter
Fifty-Four

Chapter
Fifty-Five

Chapter
Fifty-Six

Chapter
Fifty-Seven

Chapter
Fifty-Eight

Chapter
Fifty-Nine

Chapter
Sixty

Chapter
Sixty-One

Chapter
Sixty-Two

Chapter
Sixty-Three

Chapter
Sixty-Four

Chapter
Sixty-Five

Chapter
Sixty-Six

Chapter
Sixty-Seven

Chapter
Sixty-Eight

Chapter
Sixty-Nine

Chapter
Seventy

Chapter
Seventy-One

Chapter
Seventy-Two

Chapter
Seventy-Three

Chapter
Seventy-Four

Chapter
Seventy-Five

Chapter
Seventy-Six

Chapter
Seventy-Seven

Chapter
Seventy-Eight

Chapter
Seventy-Nine

Chapter
Eighty

Chapter
Eighty-One

Chapter
Eighty-Two

Chapter
Eighty-Three

Chapter
Eighty-Four

Chapter
Eighty-Five

Chapter
Eighty-Six

Chapter
Eighty-Seven

Chapter
Eighty-Eight

About The
Author

--Prologue--

Dreams... Dreams are something that every human being possesses
deep in their minds, hearts, and, most of all, their soul’s
foundation. Those that possess it in their souls, possess it
because they were born to see, feel and conquer that dream: their
destiny. Yet, others that bear it in their minds, only bear such
dreams because it sounds good to have, such as someone cloning,
copying off another person’s artwork, only because their artwork’s
better. And finally, the ones that retain, hold, possess it in
their hearts, possess it because of some passion, some craving for
that lifestyle, for that dream; they crave for an unexplained
reason. Out of all these feelings toward ambitions, they all run
along the same line, but in different bearings, directions; they’re
all a form of “visions.” For some, they become verity, reality, but
for others they become just a mirage, dream, just a reflection that
will never be. Some work hard for their visions of what they want
to be, and what they want to achieve, to come true: to be real. For
others, they don’t have to work hard at all; it just comes true for
them.

In the end, those that worked for their
dreams to become real in the eyes of others, as well as themselves,
end up with pure happiness, pure prosperity. But, those that had
their dreams become real by someone handing it to them, without
breaking a single drop of sweat, end up with something else.

That something else was the subject that
Damen thought of as he flew in a private jet that was leading back
to his hometown. He sat in his seat motionless, sweat dripping from
his forehead and hands that shook as if they’d been soaking in a
pool of ice. He held an Oscar trophy tight in his hands, his grip,
and thought, how ... did I get here? These thoughts were something
Damen never imagined would enter the depths of his consciousness,
as well as subconscious. That question, to him, was not in his
vocabulary, his way of thinking, until this moment, this fragile
day that the question came to him, took over him, and finally
allowed him to see it.

He lay back in his seat, with a bloodstain on
his white shirt under his new, black tuxedo, and kept on saying
those words repeatedly. He began to chant that question, as if the
question was a whole other being, trying to attack Damen and show
itself to him. It was like the question was more than just words,
assertions, it was a reflection of Damen’s life; a reflection that
he didn’t want to see, or even feel its presence. The sweat from
his forehead dripped onto his hands as he looked around the cabin
in search of some meaning, some symbol of why he was in the
position he was in.

Fear built up in his mind. Beginning to wipe
the sweat away from his forehead, he noticed that it was draining
down his skin like a melting iceberg. The sweat symbolized his
life, his position that he didn’t want to be in, and also
symbolized this moment of nervousness. He started to get aggravated
with the sweat, fighting it, and trying to beat its speed, so he
turned to a man behind him, who sat in the middle row, and asked,
“Could I get a tissue or something ... please?”

The man came up to Damen. Handing him a
tissue; he spoke in a comforting tone, “Don’t worry ... everything
will be okay... I’ve been your agent for a while now. I wouldn’t
lie to you, Damen.”

His agent sat beside him and watched out of
the corner of his eye as Damen’s pale face turned to the bloodstain
on his shirt. He saw Damen’s eyes close immediately when they came
into contact with the stain. The way his eyes fixed on it for a
moment and then jolted away from the red, tormenting color, allowed
the agent to know that Damen was screaming inside. It was as if the
stain was a mirror and showed him how it was placed there: a
reflection of his pain. The agent turned to him and asked, “So, um,
why are we going to Mississippi?”

A single tear fell from Damen’s right eye, a
tear of pain, a tear of struggle. He lifted his head to face this
man, and another teardrop was forced out from his left eye. His
agent didn’t know if they were real tears, tears of sadness or
tears of anger, or just watery eyes. Nevertheless, even more of
these undefined tears fell when he opened his eyes to release some
of the pain he was withholding. Damen looked about and around this
empty airplane, jet, and felt the emptiness of it, just like the
emptiness he was feeling at the moment. He replied, “I have to
retrieve something ... something for a friend. It’s the least I
could do.” He looked out the window and gawked at the darkened
clouds. Damen watched as they flew by each cloud, ever so slowly,
but yet the plane was moving very quickly. He closed his eyes shut,
sealed them ever so tightly, and suddenly felt like the plane. He
felt like this jet, and how the clouds symbolized the unimportant
things of his life, his past; that’s why he noticed them. But
everything else, to his sight, the important things, he didn’t
notice; only because his life, his career moved with too great
speed to realize the most important things. The important things
that came into his life, such as his loved ones, moved quickly
through his mind’s sight, only because he didn’t notice them,
didn’t find them important—until now.

His agent inhaled a quick breath of air and
began to tap his foot on the ground. Tap. Tap. Tap. His nerves
built up inside him, aggravation at Damen’s excuse and his motive
for the flight. So he questioned in a snotty tone, “You mean your
ex-friend?”

“No, I mean my friend,” Damen replied
defensively.

“Damen ... listen to me, he nearly destroyed
your career. Just forget him,” said his agent. He then got up from
his seat and gazed at Damen with sincerity. “Listen, I’m gonna tell
the pilot to turn this plane around,” he added. Damen gazed out the
window again, and began to stare at his reflection in the window’s
pane.

“We will be landing in approximately ten
minutes,” the pilot announced over the intercom.

“Great ... just great, now we’re going to
waste our time by retrieving something for a friend, a friend who
would back-stab you at any second,” his agent said sarcastically.
“Listen to me, Damen, I know you’re a little upset right now, but
we should be back in California at this very second. The Academy
Awards hasn’t ended yet, and your butt isn’t there to answer
questions.”

“You actually believe that the Academy Awards
are still on after this happened?” Damen then shouted, “Are you
crazy?” At the same time, he pulled the bloodstain on his shirt
toward his agent, as if the stain should explain everything to him.
He shouted again, in an angry but sad manner, “Look at this stain
... this is my fault.” He then pulled out a cigarette, lit it with
his trembling hands, holding a lighter, and inhaled it like it was
air, pure oxygen that was needed at the time. The agent watched as
Damen’s undefined tears soaked into the filter of the smoke, making
it feel soggy on his lips.

“It isn’t your fault ... you didn’t cause
this to happen,” his agent answered, pointing to the stain,
touching the blood that still was thick to its form.

“Yes, it is.”

“Even if it is your fault, there weren’t any
witnesses to say it was,” he stated, watching Damen take another
long drag of the cigarette.

“What are you talking about? Did you hear
what you just said?” Damen asked; his fists began to tighten. “You
make it sound like it was alright...”

“Alright, alright, calm down. When we get
back to California, we’ll try figuring out if you were the cause of
this shooting,” his agent carefully mentioned. Damen looked down at
the Oscar trophy and began staring at its golden body very heavily,
like he was trying to ignore this man, this person who called
himself an “agent.” “I just don’t want you to destroy your career
over something like this. It doesn’t look good to the cops, you
going to your hometown directly after the shooting. They’ll think
you’re running away,” he announced. After his words of warning,
Damen’s anger got the best of him, and caused him to punch the man
directly in the gut.

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