You Don't Know Me (13 page)

“Want to tell me what happened after our last visit?”

Denise considered. “I went on a little vacation,” she said cautiously.

“What was it that set you off?”

“Set me off? Look, Doc, I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.”

“You left my office and drove away in Carolyn’s car. Were you aware of your actions?”

“Yes,” she answered belligerently. Did he have to sound so arrogant and accusatory?

“You’ve been suffering from delusions. I just want to know if your decision to leave was made consciously.”

“I was pissed after our last session, okay?”

“Because I accused you of acting?”

His hazel eyes gave nothing away. No compassion there now. She had the sensation that he was angry with her. Maybe he actually got annoyed with his whackos once in a while.

“You really take your job seriously, don’t you, Stoner?”

“Denise, do you remember what I told you at our first session?”

“Let me think. No, don’t tell me. I bet I can come up with it.”

“I said I was only in Houston temporarily.”

“You didn’t give me a chance to answer,” she complained. Damn the man. She hated it when he acted like he didn’t hear her.

“My home’s Los Angeles,” Stone went on relentlessly. “I gave up my practice and moved for personal reasons, but I’m going back now.”

Vaguely, she recalled some part of this story. A wife. An ex-wife, maybe? And a life that seemed shallow and pointless. He’d left for Houston because . . . because . . .

Her mind shut down. Panic seized her. “You can’t,” she whispered, tortured.

He didn’t answer, but his eyes saw everything. To her horror, Denise felt tears burn. She would not cry. Nothing could make her cry in front of someone except a director’s cue. She damned well wouldn’t let it!

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Denise’s throat closed in on itself. She stared mutely.

“But I didn’t come here to talk about me,” he added more gently. “We need to discuss you. Your therapy, and where we go from here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I haven’t been your doctor long enough to make predictions on your illness.”

“But I’m definitely ill, right? We’ve established that.”

“You’re symptomatic of a cyclothymic personality and—”

“Speak English, Doc.”

“—I think you’re heading toward, or are already suffering from, a severe bipolar mood disorder.”

“So I’m bipolar. Big surprise.” Denise shaded her eyes against the glaring sunlight so she could see him more clearly.

“It’s also possible these delusionary spells and lapses are drug-induced.”

She knew what he was asking. She didn’t blame him. And she wasn’t exactly drug-free. “Just say yes,” she teased.

“Women are more prone to bipolar illnesses.”

“Do say.”

“Women have two X chromosomes, which is important in bipolar illness, if dominant X-linkage is involved.”

The meaningless words were coming out of his mouth, but Denise was reading his eyes. He was saying, “Please, let me help you.” She could almost believe his sincerity.

But that would be too risky. Too, too risky.

“You’re going to miss talking about my sick sex life,” she murmured, her voice whispery and weak.

His brows pulled into a frown. For once in his life he seemed stumped for some professional platitude. Reaching into his breast pocket, he drew out a business card, holding it out to Denise. It took an immense amount of energy to accept the card.

“If you change your mind, this is my L.A. office number,” he explained.

Hope surged inside her. She didn’t live here, with Carolyn. Hell, no! She was an Angelino herself.

But he was rejecting her. Call it what you will, he’d come here to personally drop a diagnosis on her, then make sure she understood their relationship was over.

“You’re also going to miss a big chunk of income.”

She saw him draw back and regard her thoughtfully, almost sadly. Well, why not? He was losing big bucks here. Did he really think she’d follow after him like a lovesick fool? Did he think she’d buy that mumbo-jumbo, psychiatric bullshit?

“Call me,” he urged.

“You belong in L.A., Stoner. That dyed hair and that mock serious look. Now if you learn to curl your lip a bit, you could do one of those fifties’ James Dean-Marlon Brando jeans commercials.”

To her surprise he reached for her hand. Denise’s heart jolted at the contact, but he simply shook her limp fingers in a gesture so poignantly symbolic of endings that she nearly lost control of those bottled-up tears.

“Maybe when you learn to trust a bit more,” he said, bestowing one of his rare smiles on her before he left.

Well. That had certainly been a bad day. She’d spent the rest of the afternoon sitting around with Carolyn and dropping acid. She didn’t normally do many drugs. But she’d been so miserable since she’d run away from L.A. and John, she’d simply fallen into whatever Carolyn was doing. And Carolyn and her friends had gone retro and were doing acid.

She hadn’t ever told Stone, of course, though now she suspected he’d guessed as much. He would most likely blame her delusions and time lapses on LSD, and there was undoubtedly some truth to that. But he thought she was more than bipolar and that was frightening. What he was really saying was she was flat-out crazy, and Denise was viscerally afraid of being truly certifiable.

She’d surfaced sometime the following afternoon and had been stone-cold sober ever since. No fun, but she’d also experienced one of those short, clear periods when life seemed to make some sort of sense and her destined path didn’t seem so bumpy.

She had to cut ties with Carolyn. It was time to move onward and upward. She shied away from actually returning to Los Angeles and her career, but what else was there?

She had to go back. And this decision had absolutely nothing to do with Dr. Hayden Stone. Nothing.

“Hey there . . .”

Denise surfaced from her reverie to find Peter smiling at her. He’d been fairly self-contained since he’d discovered her on the doorstep. At least she hadn’t experienced any sexual delusions, nor had he displayed his endowments.

“Want something?” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the bar but Denise knew he was offering a veritable drugstore of delights as well. She’d already turned down cocaine, Ecstasy, and several others she hadn’t bothered to learn the names of. Yes, Carolyn ran with the hot, young Hollywood crowd when she was in L.A. and some of them visited her in Houston when they were looking for a change of scene.

Peter was still waiting.

“I’d like to look something up on the Internet,” she said. “Could you bring me a laptop or iPad?”

“Is this a trick question?”

His gaze slid from her face to her breasts. Her blouse was taupe silk and a line of black lace peeked out from the deepest point of the V. “Yes, it’s a trick question. The trick is to see if you understand it.”

“I understand.”

Now his fingers were following the path of his eyes. Reaching forward, he drew a line from the hollow of her neck to the deepest point of the V, then back up over the mound of her left breast.

“I don’t think you do,” Denise replied, but a terrible churning developed inside her. Anger and sorrow and fear vied for dominance.

He moved closer. She could feel the heat of his breath against her ear. Then he moved around behind her. This was no dream. This was Peter the Proud, ready to entice her with drugs, alcohol, and oh, yes, let us not forget his favorite lure: Peter the Proud’s Penis.

With a sense of inevitability Denise waited while his heat enveloped her. Her gaze lit on the luxurious appointments of Carolyn’s home: the vivid tapestries; the pre-Columbian art; silk drapes; the mosaic tile inlaid with gold.

And the guests. Milling around, paying little attention as Peter’s hands slid over her back and around the front to move up her rib cage and cup her breasts.

Denise jerked as if from a sound sleep. Peter was silently thrusting against her, rhythmically bouncing against her buttocks, as if there weren’t others in the room who were bound to notice any moment.

She didn’t waste time on words. Just turned around and slapped him for all she was worth. The second afterward she stared at her palm, shocked.

“Bitch!” Peter spat.

Denise trembled all over. She stalked from the room and ran upstairs, her whole body suffused with color. Shame. Shame that she’d let him touch her.

This was no delusion. None of it was a delusion.

She pressed her knuckles to her flaming cheeks, biting her lower lip until blood flowed freely.

“Denise? You in there?” Carolyn’s muffled voice sounded through the bedroom door. “For Christ sake, you’ve got the whole party in an uproar. Peter smashed my favorite Waterford vase, the fucking bastard, and said it’s your fault!” She rapped on the door. “Denise?”

Reluctantly, Denise opened the door. She looked at Carolyn. Really looked at her. Her red hair was artfully touched up but growing brittle, the telltale signs of too much tampering. Her face was unlined, to date, and she’d gone in for several sessions of permanent makeup so that now her eyes were always lined with a soft mink color of eyeliner and her lips were always pink rose. It was a procedure Denise was thinking about doing, too.

“The prick says you slapped him. You should have kicked him in the balls.”

“I thought you liked him.”

“He smashed that vase into my mosaic tile. A piece hit Lambert Wallace on the chin. He’s bleeding, goddammit!”

Underneath her fury at Peter was an accusation meant for Denise.

And suddenly she was weary of this whole scene. Sick to the back teeth of Peter, Carolyn, and everyone else who’d cruised through the place these past weeks.

She could be gone and back in L.A. by morning.

As soon as Carolyn returned to the party, Denise packed up the clothes and personal items she’d bought since checking into Hotel Carolyn. An hour passed, an hour where the music downstairs swelled louder and louder along with the voices. Another night of revelry and self-indulgence and waste.

Leaving her bags at the top of the stairs, Denise tiptoed downstairs again, determined to avoid Peter at all costs.

No such luck. He was sprawled on the Aubusson carpet just inside the front door. Denise stepped gingerly over his legs; he was clearly stoned.

Carolyn stood beside a slim, handsome man in a black T-shirt and gray sports coat, her arm wrapped possessively through his. He had a handsome face, but there was something cruel about the eyes and cheekbones. His near-black hair was worn long and had been bleached with yellowish streaks, giving him a kind of rock star look. Lambert Wallace, she recalled. He’d started out in the tech business, video games, maybe, but was now involved in film production. He was touching a handkerchief to his chin. Ah, yes. The Waterford crystal debacle.

“Champagne?” Carolyn asked, her eyes too bright and wide.

“No, thanks. Carolyn, I’ve got to leave. Thanks for everything,” Denise told her.

Lambert gazed at her intently. Denise pulled out a smile of acknowledgment though she’d never felt less like smiling.

“Denise Scott,” he said. “I saw you slap our downed warrior over there.”

“Prick,” Carolyn muttered, staggering a bit as she glared at Peter’s prone form.

“Sorry about the cut,” Denise told Lambert, meaning it.

“Worth it.”

“Whad’ya mean you’ve got to leave?” Carolyn asked, her sluggish brain finally interpreting the message.

“It’s time to go back.”

“To L.A.?” She tried to focus on Denise. “No, no, no, no, no . . .” Nuzzling against Lambert, she asked, “Champagne? I’m dying of thirst.”

“I’ll get you a glass.”

Lambert disengaged himself from Carolyn, gently propping her against the back of the divan. He motioned Denise to follow him. Sensing trouble, Denise nevertheless complied. Lambert was about the only person in the room who seemed in control of his faculties.

“Are you leaving tonight?” he asked as he uncorked another bottle of Dom Pérignon. Half-empty bottles littered the bar.

“I hope to.”

“I’m catching a midnight flight. Why don’t you join me?”

“You’re going to Los Angeles?”

“I live in Beverly Hills.”

“Oh, well . . . I don’t know.”

“Don’t say no. I might never get over the rejection.” His smile was faintly mocking.

Denise considered. Why not? At least Lambert was stable. Hell, he was a regular Rock of Gibraltar in this crowd.

“I hate being alone,” she admitted.

He handed her a glass of champagne, Carolyn completely forgotten. “So do I,” he told her, still smiling.

Touching the rim of his glass to hers, the deal was set.

 

 

Dinah squinted at the screen, wishing for her readers. She’d left her glasses in Santa Fe. She was always leaving them somewhere. But she hadn’t planned to be separated from them so long.

She rubbed her eyes. If only Denise would call. She’d left message after message on Derek Sather’s voice mail asking Denise to call the home phone. Either Derek was simply ignoring her pleas to contact her, or he didn’t give a damn that Denise was receiving urgent messages to call home, or . . . he didn’t know or care where Denise was.

Maybe Callahan had been wrong in assuming Denise had run to Derek after the break-up. Maybe she’d left him and moved somewhere else. Somewhere better. Maybe she really was getting help this time, instead of bouncing into the arms of another man.