Bad, Bad Things (6 page)

41

Lolita Lopez

Sergei’s grip loosens on my necklace. I have enough slack to pull away and I do.

Even though my clit pulses and my raging hormones tell me to keep playing this game, to let him hike up my skirt and fuck me right there in the backseat, I do the smart thing and knock on the dividing panel. “Pull over.”

Sergei seems shaken back into reality by my instruction to the driver. He lets go of my wrist and scoots back. His stiff cock tents his trousers. The car glides to a stop just as his frosty aloofness returns.

“Here.” I toss a white business card with numbers on it toward him. “You have until close of business tomorrow.”

My piece said, I waste no time bailing from the car. I can barely walk, my legs are so shaky. With every step, my panties teasingly scrape against my clamoring clit. I shove on my glasses and take a bewildered look at my surroundings. It’s a street lined with upscale shops. Spotting the nearest door, I hurry toward it.

My sense of danger is high. I’ve just blackmailed one of the richest men in the world, after all. He could have me grabbed off the street and thrown in the trunk of his car. Lord knows, with money like his, he could make me disappear with a snap of his fingers.

Inside the boutique, I inhale a trembling breath. I glance over my shoulder for the first time. Sergei’s car is gone. My heart pounds against my chest as I touch my kiss-swollen lips. I can still taste him, just the barest note of lemon. His scent clings to my skin and clothes. I’m gripped by this bizarre urge to find that cologne and douse my bed sheets in it so I can roll around naked in his scent.

“Oh fuck,” I groan, rubbing my forehead. Am I seriously in lust with Sergei? Great.

Just fucking great. That’s exactly what I need right now. An attraction to the man I’m attempting to extort. Boy, I just thrive on complications.

My caterwauling cell phone interrupts my thorny thoughts. I recognize the ringtone immediately and answer as I busy myself with the rack of dresses in front of me. “Hey, Marco.”

42

Bad, Bad Things

“
How could you
!”

His screeching voice startles me. My fingers freeze on the hanger. “What?”

“I never thought you’d betray me like this!” He’s hysterical and screaming in such a high tone I can barely understand him. “She’s my rival.
My rival
! Are you trying to destroy me?”

Shit. He’s already heard about my backup plan.
Shit!

“Calm down!” My sharply whispered words do nothing. He continues to rant so loudly, nearby shoppers are giving me curious looks. I move into the closest corner and try to reason with him. “It’s not what you think, Marco.”

“Don’t give me that shit! She wouldn’t call me to gloat if this wasn’t something big.” He sobs raggedly. “I hate you, Ofelia Brandt. I fucking hate you!”

The line goes dead. Stunned into silence by the vitriol in his voice, I stare at my phone. Marco has always been something of a drama queen but this was different. I’m hurt that he doesn’t understand why I did what I did. How he could believe I’d betray him to his rival without a damn good reason is beyond me.

Or is it?

If I was honest—really honest—I’d admit my schemes don’t exactly engender a lot of trust.

If I was honest—brutally honest—I’d admit I’m not always the best friend and sometimes I exploit people.

But those are things I’d never admit aloud. Just admitting them to myself makes me want to crawl in a hole and die. Deep down inside, I think maybe, just maybe, I’m a truly shit person.

And that sucks.

43

Lolita Lopez

Chapter Five

“What do you think, Mom?” I hold up neatly painted toenails for her inspection.

She studies the cherry red polish and holds up a jerky thumb. “Great!”

I start to clear away the nail polishing supplies. Mom tries to stay as still as possible so as not to smudge her nails. I’m quite proud of myself for only swiping her fingers twice with the tip of the wet brush. I didn’t hit her toes once.

“Up-pup-pup.” Mom inclines her head toward the speakers.

“Sure.” I adjust the volume. Stevie Nicks’ smoky voice filters over the airwaves.

Mom closes her eyes and leans her head back against the overstuffed chair. Her stretched out legs move in a sort of rhythm, her ankles bouncing side to side on the ottoman in time with the music.

I’m always surprised by the seemingly haphazard extent of her injuries. She can still control her legs enough to sway in time with the music but couldn’t take a step to save her life. I can only imagine how incredibly frustrating it is for her and it makes me profoundly sad.

“Mo-mo-na?”

I avert my gaze as I toss acetone-soaked cotton balls in the trash. “She didn’t answer her phone. I’ll try again later.”

“La-la-lie!”

My attention snaps to her face. She’s pissed. She
knows
.

“Na-na-not duh-duh-duh-dumb,” she says angrily. “See.” She brings her closed fist next to her eye. “Bl-bl-black.”

I sigh heavily and move onto the smidge of free space on the ottoman. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”

44

Bad, Bad Things

She shakes her head. “Na-not ma-ma-mad you.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” And I really am. I really need to hear it from her. “Look, here’s the deal, Mom. Mona and her boyfriend are in big trouble. They owe a lot of money to some really bad people and I’m trying to make it all go away. I don’t know where Mona is. She’s disappeared. I’m looking, but no bites yet.”

“Druh-drugs?”

I nod. “Cocaine. Meth. Pot.”

Mom looks away, her eyes shiny with tears. She gulps back a sob and slaps her chest. “Fa-fa-fa-fault!”

“No,” I say sternly. “This is no one’s fault but Mona’s. She’s a selfish junkie. We can’t help her until she’ll help herself. That’s all there is to it.”

“Jay-jay-james.”

Her first husband. Mona’s father. Coke-snorting, whore-humping Caligula of eighties Hollywood.

“Maybe,” I say, following her reasoning. It’s not the first time I’ve wondered whether Mona’s addiction has a genetic component behind it. Bad blood will out and all that.

I take hold of Mom’s hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. “I’m going to fix this. I promise.”

She touches my face with trembling fingers. Tears drip down her cheeks. I swipe them away and kiss her forehead. “It’s going to be all right. You’ll see.”

Mom swallows hard and sniffs. I blot her face with some tissues and then get her settled in for the night. Knowing she’s feeling a little low, I climb in bed beside her and snuggle while we watch
Golden Girls
reruns. When she’s good and asleep, I switch off the TV, move her call button into place and leave the room.

Sandy isn’t coming tonight. It’s just me and Delia. There’s a beam of light beneath Delia’s door. I can just barely hear the television as I pass.

45

Lolita Lopez

My shoulders sag under the weight of my burdens. I slump into the squishy chair in my reading corner and stare out the window. The back lawn is a mess. The gardens are overgrown with weeds. Scum coats the ponds. I still haven’t been able to afford to replace the koi.

The stack of scripts on the coffee table catches my eye. Right next to them are the piles of bills I fished out of the kitchen drawer earlier. Guilt sours my stomach. What the fuck am I doing? Why do I keep wasting time on casting calls and running wherever my agent sends me when I need money
now
? Why the hell do I keep embarrassing myself at those auditions?

“It’s never going to happen.”

Saying it aloud makes me want to cry. And yet…and yet it frees me from the ridiculous dream I’ve entertained for so long. The dream of following in my mother’s footsteps, of earning three Oscars and a dozen more acting awards, of being
someone
.

“Mediocre.” I say the word bandied about in the press—and it’s true. I’m not very talented. Sure, I was a super-cute kid on a successful TV show once. Now I couldn’t get a commercial spot hawking feminine deodorants.

I cradle my face in my hands and sob. No money, no job, no education and no prospects. A junkie sister on the lam. The Mexican mafia on my ass. A Russian billionaire probably plotting my demise this very instant. Ain’t my life just fucking grand?

A ringing cell phone interrupts my pity party. I wipe my wet face, no doubt smearing mascara and makeup everywhere, and shove off the couch in search of my phone. I follow the muffled ring to my bed and find my iPhone buried under the dress and undergarments I’d worn out earlier. The number isn’t one I recognize but I answer anyway. “Hello?”

“Ofelia.”

My heart fucking stops. There’s no mistaking that Russian accent. “Y-yes.”

“No deal.”

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Bad, Bad Things

My stomach drops. I can feel bile rising in my throat but shove it down. I have to be strong now. My life depends on it. “Then I’m releasing the tape.”

“Not so fast,” he says quickly. “We negotiate on price. Too high for one tape.”

“The price is non-negotiable.”

“Then give me something else.”

I’m totally flummoxed. What the hell else can I possibly give him? “I’m not Blockbuster. I don’t have shelves of sex tapes over here.”

“Not tape,” he corrects. “You. Tonight.”

I don’t know what to say. A resounding and shrieked “NO” springs to mind but something Marco said to me a few days ago comes back to me.

Beggars can’t be choosers.

And maybe he’s right. My back is against the wall. I need that money in that account by tomorrow night.

God, have I really been reduced to prostitution?

“Half now,” I croak and then clear my throat. “As a good-faith payment,” I clarify.

“I want the rest in the morning.”

“Fine.” I can hear the smug smirk in his voice. “I send car.”

I catch my reflection in the mirror above my vanity. Tear-streaked face, rumpled tracksuit, and messy hair. “Give me an hour.”

“
Da
.”

I stand there, phone in hand, for a good five minutes and just stare at myself. I can’t believe I’ve just agreed to trade sex for cash. It’s a hell of a lot of money and in a way I suppose I should be flattered. And sure, Sergei is sinfully sexy and makes my panties wet but, I mean, come on! This is wrong.

Right?

I’m so confused as I hurry through a shower. I make sure all my naughty bits are silky smooth and slather on a light-scented lotion. Within half an hour, I’ve blow dried 47

Lolita Lopez

my hair, applied enough makeup and jewelry to cover the bruises on my body and selected a simple but sexy black cocktail dress. The dipping V-neck shows off some of my best assets. I settle on a pair of pumps that are easily kicked off—just in case I need to run.

My thumb hovers over the screen of my iPhone. I need to text someone to let them know where I’m going. If I message Fox, she’s going to lose her shit. I send a quick text to Jolie instead. She’ll disapprove and be worried but she won’t call to scream at me.

She’ll wait until we’re in the same room together to really lay into me.

I grab my purse and stuff it with necessities before leaving my room. I pop in to check on Mom and then knock on Delia’s door. She shuffles out in her robe and house slippers looking decidedly annoyed. “I’m heading out. If I’m not home by noon tomorrow, call Jolie. She’ll know what to do.”

I peck her cheek and take off, not wanting to fight with her. She calls after me but I pretend I don’t hear and hurry down the staircase. A flash of headlights illuminates the foyer. I reach the door just as the austere bodyguard from earlier today rings the doorbell.

He starts to speak but his gaze flits to the still-destroyed interior of the entryway.

“What the hell happened here?”

“Oh that?” I brush past him, effectively forcing him outside, and shut the door.

“Just a little home renovation gone awry.”

He doesn’t believe me for a minute. His eyes drift lower and settle on my neck. I swear he can see the fingertip bruises there. Suddenly nervous, I flip forward a little of my hair. “Can we go?”

He snaps back to reality and ushers me to the car. As we drive across the city, I’m struck by the memories of my backseat encounter. Sergei’s scent hangs heavy in the air.

If I close my eyes and pretend, I can feel his breath against my skin, his hand sliding between my thighs.

48

Bad, Bad Things

Soon we arrive at the hotel, the place where all this began, and I’m shaking with fear and excitement. It’s the fear of living out a scene like the one on the tape because, quite frankly, I’ve had enough beating to last me a lifetime, thank you very much. It’s the excitement of doing something so wrong and so sordid it’ll make me blush when I’m wrinkled and scrawny and living in some miserable old folks’ home.

We enter through a private entrance at the rear of the hotel and take a similarly private elevator up to the penthouse suite. It’s a place I’m intimately familiar with, having thrown a few parties there with Jolie. Well, not really
with
Jolie. Against her wishes, actually. But I still contend some part of her wanted to have a little fun or else she never would have supplied us with keys.

Sergei holds court in the living room of the suite. He’s comfortably seated in the corner of a sleek white sectional sofa. His laptop is open and running on the cushion next to him. He talks quickly into the Bluetooth headset attached to his ear. He seems irritated and immediately I’m nervous. I study him with a wary eye as I follow his bodyguard into the room.

Sergei’s demeanor changes as he becomes aware of my presence. There’s a flash of a smile before his stony façade slips back into place. He ends his phone call with a few clipped orders and then tosses the headset aside. The laptop is closed and moved. He gestures for me to come closer.

“Check her.”

The bodyguard moves behind me and I’m forced to endure the humiliation of a pat down. He keeps his palms out, using his knuckles to follow the outline of my body.