Hollywood Kids (3 page)

She kissed him on the cheek. 'You shouldn't have bothered, Mike, but thank you.'

The baby began to cry while the toddler tugged impatiently at her skirt.

Michael stepped back and raised an eyebrow. 'Two of 'em, Amber. You couldn't wait, huh?'

She blushed. 'What can I tell you? My husband's an animal and I love it!'

'Yeah, yeah, he's an animal all right,' Michael agreed. Where
is
the asshole?'

She settled the baby in its crib, talking over her shoulder. 'He called. They're towing his car.'

'Bet he's thrilled,' Michael said, making his way through the cluttered living room, nearly tripping over a large furry toy lying in the middle of the floor.

Amber headed for the kitchen, her two-year-old trailing behind her. 'You know our Quincy, Mister Impatient.'

'Yeah, do I know Q!' he said, following her.

She placed the toddler in a high chair and turned to survey him. 'Anyway, Michael, you look fantastic. I was expecting -'

'A wreck - right?'

What with the shooting and all...' she said, taking a jar of baby food from the fridge.

He paced around the kitchen. 'I'm doing fine,' he assured her. 'In fact, now I'm here I'm doing great.'

'Good,' she said, spooning apple sauce into the child's open mouth. 'Cause we want you to feel right at home.'

'You know I will.'

'I'm sorry we can only offer you the couch.'

'I've had some of my best times on couches.'

'I don't want to hear about your sex life,' she scolded, still smiling.

'Hey, right now it's non-existent. I was hoping you had a girlfriend who looks exactly like you.'

'Sweet talker! But I love every word of it!'

'I only speak the truth.'

'The good news is you can stay as long as you want. You know Quincy loves you like a brother.'

'Yeah,' he nodded, scratching his stubbled chin. 'I feel the same way about him.'

He thought about his friend for a moment. Quincy was one of the good guys, a very special person who'd taught him a lot. Back in New York they'd been partners for six years. Quincy had been like an older brother to him - a calming influence, because Michael had a wild streak and a temper he couldn't always control. It was better now he wasn't drinking, and getting shot was enough to calm anyone. Still, it was nice having a surrogate brother who'd watched out for him, especially as his real brother, Sal, was a low-life scumbag and he couldn't care less if he never set eyes on him again. Sal was a liar, a cheat and a con man, yet their mother, Virginia, still imagined the sun shone out of Sal's fat ass. Sal had always been her favourite when the two of them were growing up. Michael was the one who got to take the brunt of her anger, because she couldn't vent it on his father on account of the fact that the weak sonofabitch ran every time there was trouble, and in the Scorsini household there was always plenty.

When he was ten his father had taken off permanently - kind of a moonlight flit thing - leaving them with no money and no forwarding address. Virginia was forced to take two jobs just so they could get by.

It took her two years to track her missing husband. By the time she did, the man who was to become Michael's stepfather -Eddie Rowlinski - had moved in and taken over.

Eddie was a tough bastard who drove a liquor truck for a living, and beat up Virginia and her two boys for sport. He was a bear of a man with hands like lethal weapons and a vicious temper. He was also a bad drunk.

Eddie had kicked the shit out of Michael until one night, when he was sixteen, he'd run away, lied about his age and gotten a job as a bartender in New Jersey. He hadn't gone home for eighteen months, and by the time he did he was over six feet tall, strong and athletic.

Shortly after he returned, Eddie got horribly drunk one night and tried to take a strap to him.

He fought back, breaking his stepfather's nose. After that Eddie left him alone.

A few months later he'd made it into the Police Academy, which really burned Eddie, not to mention Sal, because they both considered all cops the lowest form of life. Too bad. It had given him a feeling of strength and purpose, and after graduating with the highest score possible, he'd moved rapidly through the ranks, eventually - much to Eddie and Sal's continuing disgust -becoming a highly respected detective.

The memories of Eddie were too disturbing, even today Michael had trouble thinking about him.

So why was he? The aggravation wasn't worth it. It was almost as bad as remembering his real father, Dean, who'd lived in Florida for over twenty years with a new wife and family.

Since Dean had walked out on them Michael had seen him twice - two uncomfortable short meetings arranged by him because he'd felt it important to attempt to get to know his real father. But it was not to be. Dean Scorsini had made it abundantly clear he was not interested in the family he'd left behind. He'd treated his son like a stranger, and after the second meeting Michael had decided never to try again.

Such was life. A father who didn't care. A mother who wasn't capable of doing so. And a stepfather who was a sadistic sonofabitch. He'd survived. Just about.

'How about a beer?' Amber suggested, wiping a dribble of apple sauce off her son's chin.

'You got non-alcoholic?' he asked, wishing he could grab a can of ice-cold Miller's and demolish it in three great gulps.

'Ooopps, sorry, I forgot,' she said quickly. 'Quincy told me you're in that... uh... AA thing.'

The programme,' he said drily. Twelve steps to peace and serenity.'

Amber didn't understand what he was talking about, nobody did unless they'd experienced it. The programme had saved his life long before he got himself shot. It hadn't saved his marriage - nothing could have done that.

'Quincy will go to the store when he gets back,' Amber said.

'No problem. I'll have a Seven-Up.'

'Diet?'

'Nope. I'll live dangerously an' take it regular.'

'Help yourself,' she said, gesturing towards the fridge.

'You know what, maybe I'll smoke a cigarette instead,' he decided.

She pointed to the back door. Take it outside, Mike. You don't mind, do you? Quincy and I gave it up.'

He smiled. 'So what vice
do
you two have?'

Amber smiled back. 'Never you mind.'

He wandered into their back yard, mentally checking out all the things he had to take care of. First on his agenda was renting an apartment because he didn't plan on spending too many nights on the Robbins' couch. He'd already decided it wasn't wise to contact Rita until he was settled. When he did reach her, she needed to know he was ready to spend time with Bella on a regular basis, and he didn't expect to have to deal with any of her shit.

Rita was a piece of work. He'd married her because she was pregnant - for once in his life he'd done the right thing.

Yeah. The right thing. Soon after she'd given birth, Rita had turned into a nagging shrew blaming him for everything, from the loss of her showgirl figure - wrong, she still had a sensational body - to her stalled career.
What
fucking career?

Rita had been a waitress when Sal had introduced them, but like many pretty women she'd harboured aspirations to become a model or an actress. She was furious when she'd realized the baby tied her to the house. 'I have no freedom,' she'd often complain. 'I can't be stifled like this.'

He couldn't understand what she was bitching about, as far as he could see she had plenty of freedom. Every weekend when he wasn't working he babysat, while she ran riot in the shopping malls with her flashy girlfriends, spending too much of his hard-earned money.

Rita was charge-card crazy. When the monthly bills came in it drove him nuts. 'How many pairs of shoes can you wear?' he'd demand, completely exasperated.

'As many as I want,' she'd reply, spoiling for a fight.

Rita was a feisty one with her flaming red hair and a temper to match. She was also an outrageous flirt, and knew how to press every one of his buttons. It had worked in the early days when he'd thought he was in love.

Four years of marriage and she could have fucked the New York Yankees for all he cared.

When Rita left New York he'd been relieved, except that it meant he couldn't see Bella on weekends. At first he'd spoken to his little girl every Sunday, but after he was shot, communication broke down, and whenever he called all he got was an answering machine.

He'd felt guilty, but, what the hell, he knew he'd make it up to her, he hadn't deserted Bella like
his
father had deserted
him
. He and Bella were going to spend a lot of time together, and if Rita didn't like it, too bad, she'd simply have to accept it.

He loved his daughter and he was determined to start being a good father. It was time.

Kennedy Chase was thirty-five years old and couldn't pay her rent. Well, technically she could, she had savings, a small portfolio of stocks and bonds, several well-invested Treasury notes and a modest house she owned in Connecticut. But dammit, her one golden rule was never to dip into her savings, and she stuck to that rule rigidly.

The rent problem meant she'd have to do something she tried to avoid - a celebrity interview.

Oh, God, no! She hated the thought of sitting down with some egomaniac who probably considered themselves real hot because God had given them good genes and a few lucky breaks.

The lack of flow-through cash was on account of the fact that at the urging of an overly pushy agent she'd finally abandoned everything else and sat in her apartment for the last three months working diligently on a novel about love, sex and relationships in the nineties. She'd written three hundred pages and torn most of them up. Finally she'd decided fiction wasn't her genre - if she was going to write a book it had to be based on plain hard facts, because only the truth would do.

Once she'd made that decision she'd realized she needed to buy more time, and the only answer that came to mind was to accept the offer
Style Wars
magazine editor, Mason Rich, kept tempting her with. Mason wanted her to write six celebrity interviews, plus six pieces on any subject she cared to cover, and in return she would receive a healthy pay-cheque for the next year.

She'd thought about it for two weeks now. If she accepted Mason's offer she wouldn't have to worry about paying the bills for a while, and that would be a big relief.

Call him, her inner voice urged.

Tomorrow.

Not tomorrow. Today.

Taking a deep breath, she picked up the phone and connected with
Style Wars'
New York office.

'Mason?' she said quickly, before she changed her mind.

'K.C. My favourite scribe,' Mason said, sounding pleased. He was a white, heterosexual married man of forty-eight with a strong urge to lure her into bed. So far she'd managed to keep their relationship on a purely professional level, but it wasn't easy. Married men were always the most persistent.

Taking another deep breath, she said, 'OK, put me in front of the firing squad.'

'What's that?'

'Mason, I'm all yours.'

He chuckled, 'K.C., I couldn't be happier. I'll arrange a first class flight for you on American, and book us the Oriental Suite at the St Regis. We'll have a memorable weekend.'

She sighed. 'Very amusing, Mason. You know exactly what I mean.'

'You're missing out,' he said ruefully.

'Send me an advance cheque before I'm evicted. And give me the name of my first victim so I have time to throw up before the big moment.'

'Welcome aboard.'

'I'll be saluting all the way to the bank.'

Decision made. No going back now, she was working for
Style Wars -
the thinking Hollywood executive's guide to the real world, or what they imagined was the real world. Every month the Hollywood community devoured their subscription copy of the fashionable magazine -
Hey, I read
Style Wars, I'
m a well-read person
.

Actually, it wasn't such a bad publication - compared to the women's glossies and the men's jerk-off trips it was a virtual mine of information. In between the celebrity interviews, reviews, fashion statements and avant-garde photographs, there was usually one big story worth reading - some major scandal involving the rich and infamous.

It was the idea of the big story that attracted her. When Mason had first proposed the deal he'd assured her she could get into anything she wanted, and that appealed to her. Investigative reporting was her forte - she'd covered everything from the Anita Hill Washington debacle to political screw ups, the war in Iran, and several juicy Wall Street shenanigans.

Usually Kennedy liked to be where the action was - her motto was, have pen will travel. But six months ago her father had gotten sick, and she'd decided to stay in one place until the inevitable happened. Her dad was eighty-five years old and putting up an admirable fight against lung cancer. Three years earlier her mother had passed away. The loss was devastating - although Kennedy had learned to deal with grief when she'd lost her husband to a terrorist's bomb after twelve years of togetherness.

Phil had been a wonderful, smart sexy man. They'd met in college, fallen in love, travelled the world, and after six blissful years, gotten married aboard a boat on a crocodile-infested river in Africa. They'd both craved adventure, they were like junkies chasing the latest high - if there was something going on in the world they had to be there. Phil had been a brilliant photographer, capturing stark, honest images. Kennedy had written the pieces to go with his startling work. They'd been a formidable team, much in demand by magazines and newspapers.

Phil had died in Ireland covering the ongoing battle. She would have been with him except that she was three months pregnant, and since she'd had two miscarriages her doctor had advised her to stay home and take it easy for once. She'd lost the baby anyway.

After Phil's death her life had stopped for a while. She'd sat in their small house in Connecticut for almost a year, trying to get past the overwhelming grief that enveloped her. At times she'd considered suicide, but she'd known Phil would regard it as a cowardly way out. He'd fully expect her to achieve all the things they'd planned to do together, and she knew she couldn't let him down. So finally she'd drawn on every bit of strength she could muster and ventured out into the world again, only to find that travelling by herself did not hold the same fascination. It was difficult, dangerous and lonely.