The Manolo Matrix (2 page)

“You’re a better mood enhancer than Xanax.”

So what if I’d flubbed an audition? There would be others. It wasn’t as if I was dead. The sun would come out tomorrow. I was going to put on a happy face. Nothing was gonna get me down. And a bucket full of other sunshiney clichés.

Bottom line? I was coming out of this a winner.

And nothing—not bad agents or tasteless producers or even rude customers—was going to change that.

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BIRDIE

“Hey, babe. You look thirsty. Can I buy you a drink?” The man sidles closer, the smell of bourbon on his breath and the fire of lust in his eyes. I smile and preen, the skills that had faded during my long years in prison returning swiftly. Just like riding a bicycle, I think, my confidence increasing as his gaze roams over my body, taking in my long legs, bare under my short skirt.

Since the three-inch heels of my newly acquired Jimmy Choo sandals shape my calves and raise my ass, I know he likes what he sees. His inspection continues, honing in on my nipples, hard under the soft silk of my Joie tank top. My panties dampen and I squirm a little in surprise. Years ago, this man would have bored me. He, with his blatant lust and unoriginal approach.

My body’s reaction is testament to my need. Five years without a man. Five long years in which I’d gotten myself off to fantasies of freedom, not of a cock.

Freedom.I used to reach for it through steel bars only to have it escape from my grip, a slight brush of air against my fingertips the only hint that there was, in fact, a freedom to find.

And now here I am. Destiny achieved.

I crook my finger and urge the man in closer. He comes quickly, like an eager puppy, and I press my mouth to his, my hand sliding down to cup his cock and his balls. I squeeze, not too hard, but not gentle either. I nip at his lower lip with my teeth. He makes a low sound in his throat, pain mixed with pleasure, and I know I can have him if I want him.

I do. But at the same time, I don’t. As the saying goes, there are many fish in the sea, and the one I

catch tonight is the one I intend to fry. “Go,” I say. “You don’t want to fuck with fire.”

He pulls back, the lust in his eyes now cool. I wait a beat, another, then mouth the word again:

“Go.”

He leaves, his tail between his legs and his dick limp. I’ve ruined him for the evening, and for that, at least, I feel a tug of proprietary pleasure. I may not have fucked him, but tonight he’s still mine.

Other members of the happy hour cattle call surge around me. The men stare, they lean in, they try to make eye contact. I grant them each a smile. Even after living in a goddamn box, I’ve still got it going on.

And now, in the clothes I was born to wear, a drink in my hand and my hair freshly cut, I know I’m hot.

More, I know I’m going to get laid tonight. I just have to find the man I’m looking for.

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As I survey the room, I notice the women. They’re watching me, their heads bent together, something in their eyes that I assume is jealousy. What else could it be? Certainly, I’m worthy of their envy. But as I

watch, I wonder. One of them whispers and the other snickers. One of them sits up straighter, thrusts her breasts out, then does a little shimmy motion. Are they talking about me? I don’t know, but something tells me they are. Fucking bitches. Fucking whores.

I wonder if they’d be so cavalier if they knew who I am?

Probably.

If I’ve learned one thing throughout my professional life, it’s that people are stupid. They believe what they want to believe, ignoring what’s right in front of them if it doesn’t fit neatly into their imagined little world.

Like me, for example.

“You look like a lady with a lot on her mind.”

I turn and look at the stockbroker face that’s talking to me, and I wonder if this man has ever had an interesting thought in his life. Has he ever had a moment of excitement, ever felt a pure
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sensual rush?

Has he, for example, ever felt the thrill of the kill?

His eyes widen, and I’m sure he has read my thoughts. I smile coldly, and he turns, then pushes through the crowd to get as far away from me as possible.

I watch him go, using the moment to scan the crowd, looking for my quarry. No luck, but it’s early yet, and the profile I have indicates that he comes later, after the men and women looking to hook up have left. He comes to forget, it says, and I have to wonder if he’s forgotten me.

I smile a little at the thought, because the truth is we’ve never met, he and I. But he knew me, so many years ago. Knew my name, knew about my jobs, my network. Even though he’d never once laid eyes on me, he knew enough to help bring me down.

I hate him for that. I’ll hate him until the day he dies. A day that, thanks to a twist of fate and an unknown benefactor, promises to be sooner rather than later.

“Another round?” The bartender stops in front of me, his eye on my now-empty martini glass.

I shake my head. “Water.” I need to stay sharp. Clear.

As the bartender fills a wine glass with sparkling water, I place my handbag on the bar. It holds four things: my gun, my lipstick, a large syringe, and a neatly folded computer printout. It’s the paper I’m interested in right now.

Of all my possessions, it is the only one that matters to me, for this piece of paper holds the key to my rebirth. Only a week ago, I had no prospects upon my release. No plans other than to reenter my profession and hope that the authorities didn’t again track me down. This time around, though, the odds would not be in my favor. I’d already been caught once. I was in the system. I was damaged goods.

Which meant that my client list would be significantly shorter. More important, the eye of the law would

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be on me for any crime with a similar m.o. A serious detriment to my ability to earn a living, and I’d spent many hours pondering the conundrum.

And then I received the email. As a model prisoner only days away from parole, I’d been blessed with certain perks, including access to the Internet. Of course, certain websites were off-limits, and I had no formal email account, but all those things were only minor inconveniences. Not true obstacles.

By the time the gates opened and I was free to step out onto the street wearing my thrift store jeans and shirt, clutching my shopping bag full of possessions, I had been contacted, had responded, and knew the game that was in play.

A game that would allow me to shine. And would pay me handsomely for doing something I so very much love to do.

I sniff a little, suddenly overwhelmed by the nostalgia. This will be my last job. After my mission is achieved, I’ll be relocating to Switzerland. Not permanently, you understand. Just until I arrange for a waterfront cabana on a remote island. A staff of three, I think. A cook. A housekeeper. And a well-oiled and buff cabana boy to keep me…limber.

I smooth the paper and scan the information that I’ve already committed to memory: Information about the other players in this wonderful little game. I look around again and—suddenly—there he is.

Unshaven, rumpled, but with a feral look in his eyes. A man come to drown his sorrows. He’s come for the bourbon, but I intend to convince him to try another remedy—the low, hot pulse of a woman.

I slide off my stool and grab my glass. And then I move across the room, every movement an invitation.

He sees me, and his eyes flash with a heat born of alcohol and lust. I smile, and I know it’s a done
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deal.

First a fuck. And then, later, death.

That’s the point of the game, after all.

Winner take all. And I don’t intend to lose.

JENNIFER

Ispent Sunday afternoon sitting in Starbucks reading theTimes, thePost, andBackstage while I sipped a venti mocha and munched on a blueberry scone. I’m tall, a size six or eight depending on the designer, and I maintain my relatively thin thighs and reasonably tight ass through deprivation coupled with binging.

Here’s my rule: I go the entire week on salads and fruit, with a can of tuna (packed in spring water, of course) to give me a little protein. My standard drink is water or black coffee, with one grande skim latte tossed into the mix every morning. Just for the calcium, you understand.

Alcohol I don’t worry about

(though I should), and if I do binge with a friend or on a date, then a day or two of nothing but Diet

Coke, rice cakes, and sugar-free gum puts me back in full diet equilibrium.

With a routine like that, is it any wonder that on Sundays, I go a little wild? A pastry at Starbies and a mocha. Withwhole milk. It’s just decadent enough to hold me over for an entire week.

And I like my system a hell of a lot better than Atkins or Weight Watchers or whatever fad is currently in fashion. My

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way is tried and true; it’s kept me thin since high school. It may be boring, but it works. And I’m not inclined to meddle with success. Not entirely true, actually. I used to be a sizefour. But that was back during my pack-a-day years. And while my size four jeans still hang in the back of my closet for nostalgia’s sake, I don’t expect to ever return to those heady days. The ciggies may have kept me thin, but they also did a number on my voice. Plus, there’s that whole cancer thing to worry about.

At any rate, the scones at Starbies are one of my guilty pleasures, and I look forward to my two hours of heaven every Sunday. (Since I don’t bother with the international or financial sections, about two hours is all it takes to plow through my various bits of reading material.) I’d awakened at my usual time, showered, and arrived at Starbucks shortly before noon. By two I was heading back home, which these days is a tiny studio apartment in midtown Manhattan, walking distance to both my job and the theater district.

My new studio is way smaller than my old place, but what it lacks in square footage it makes up with fresh paint, new carpet, and plumbing that actually transports water in the appropriate direction. It also has decent security—a keyed entrance to the foyer and then another keyed entrance from the foyer to the stairs. Not as ka-ching as having a doorman, but still pretty safe.

After what happened to my roommate last year, I’m all about safety.

Which explains why I totally freaked when I stepped onto the sixth-floor landing and saw that my door was cracked open.

Now, I amnot one of those idiot girls in horror films who hears the scary noise in the creepy house and decides to run toward it while everyone in the audience is yelling “No! No! Go back!

Go back! He’s in there with an ax!!”

So instead of taking a step forward, I spun around and headed back down to the lobby to calmly and rationally dial911.After the cops were on the way I’d have my little paranoid breakdown, thank you very much. Until then, I was playing the role of the coolheaded diva. Totally calm.

Totally in charge of my surroundings.

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I use an oversized Marc Jacobs tote bag (a gift from the parental units) in lieu of a purse, since I’m always schlepping scripts, paperbacks, and flat-heeled shoes (Manhattan is hell on your feet).

I adore the soft leather and classic lines of the bag, but I hate the way my stuff just falls to the bottom. And now, as I

trotted down the stairs toward the lobby, I pawed through the detritus, trying to find my phone.

My fingers found it about the time I hit the second-floor landing, and I whipped it out triumphantly, unlocked the keypad, and started to dial.

I’d hit the 9 and the 1 and then the phone rang. I stared at it, totally befuddled. I swear, it took me a full minute to realize I had an incoming call. Not the brightest of moments, but there you go.

Since I have no clue how to work my phone, I didn’t know how to get rid of the call so that I could finish dialing the cops. So I answered. It wasn’t like a masked gunman was barreling down on me. In fact, I fully anticipated that the police would find no one in my apartment. They’d also find no stereo, no laptop, no television, no cash. Oh, wait. I didn’t have any cash in the first place…

“I can’t talk,” I snapped. “I need to call—”

“Jenn! Where the hell did you go?”

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“Mel?” Now, Melanie Prescott is my best friend and former roommate, and I’m thrilled to talk to her pretty much any time. But not now. Especially when she was talking nonsense.

I pushed through the final door, emerging near the mailboxes. “Listen, I gotta call you back. I think someone broke into my apartment. I need to—”

“I’min your apartment.”

I stood stupidly for a moment as her words oozed along my cognitive paths.

“Jenn? Did you hear me?”

One synapse fired. “What do you mean, you’re in my apartment?”

“It’s not a difficult concept. I was watching the street from the window and saw you coming. I’m making appletinis for us, so I opened the door for you and went back to the kitchen. But now I’m drinking an appletini all by myself. Which totally begs the question of where the hell are you?”

“Oh.” I felt a little bit foolish. I cast about for an excuse, then noticed Terrence Underhill from 5B

coming in through the front door. “I, um, bumped into a neighbor. We started chatting. You know.”

“Cute?”

I gave Mr. Underhill’s octogenarian frame a once-over. “Oh, yeah. A real hottie. Definitely worthy of lobby flirtation.”

“In that case, I forgive you and I won’t drink your ’tini. But get up here, already.”

“On my way.”

I slunk back upstairs feeling like an idiot for totally overreacting. By the time I reached the sixth floor, however, I’d completely changed my attitude. What could Mel have possibly been thinking? This isNew