Wanted

Wanted –

In this sexy thriller reality show diva Tierney Evans
always gets what – and who – she wants. But when she gets mysterious, beautiful
Kiel
Fortune into her bed she finds herself in a heap of trouble.
Both are in danger of being killed – he by some ex-compatriots bent on keeping
him quiet and she by suspects so numerous she can only guess who the real
culprit is. Together they must face the showdown – but will they survive long
enough for their passion to turn into love?

Wanted is a SHORT novelette. It has sexual situations.

This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s
imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.

WANTED

Copyright
2013 Mila McClung

All
Rights Reserved.

For the rest…

CONTENTS:

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER ONE

She thought
maybe she loved him. She knew she loved the way his fingers danced over the
piano keys as he played Chopin. It was the same way they danced over her skin
when he made love to her.

Tierney Evans
didn’t know much about love. Her parents had never loved her. She was just a
shiny toy they held up to their friends and said: “Look, see what she can do!”
like they would a trained poodle. At first, their big dream was to turn her
into an Olympic champion swimmer like her mother, Betsy. But Tierney soon proved
to be a disappointment, crying and throwing tantrums whenever they dragged her
out to the lap pool. Then they decided she should be a ballerina but her feet
were too big and clumsy to do a pirouette. After that came riding lessons – but
she was allergic to horses – and now, at the age when most girls were starting
college - she was practicing to become the next piano virtuoso. She was also
the star of her own reality show, Taming Tierney, produced by her billionaire
dad’s sports clothing company, Aram Evans LTD.

And she was
sleeping with Istvan Rader, her piano teacher. The grungy cameramen followed
them around as if they were Brad and Angelina, immortalizing every chipped
fingernail and cranky diatribe, every good morning kiss and
goodnight/goodbye/good riddance – which happened quite a lot. Tierney loved her
loving but she still wasn’t sure she actually loved Istvan.

Oh, he was
handsome enough with his fierce blue eyes, chestnut hair down to his shoulders
and a body worthy of sculpting for posterity but he had too many flaws. He was
arrogant, in his lovemaking, and his music, always made her feel she was
lacking in both. He humiliated her in front of the cameras, once went so far as
to throw a glass of vodka – with ice – in her face! The creepy producer, Bill
Weathering, welcomed the pianist’s bad behavior – knowing it would bring the
show those oh so high ratings he lived for. But Tierney fought him, threatening
to walk out until he had the footage removed. She was weary of being her
lover’s whipping post, and Weathering’s golden goose.

“Can you hear
the perfection?” Istvan asked her in his smooth, deep accent. He was Hungarian,
born in
Budapest
. His life from the age of five had been about
the piano. He seemed to resent her for thinking she could start training at the
age of nineteen. Which wasn’t her idea, anyway - it was those damned selfish
parents of hers, needing to have a reason to be proud of her. You’d think her
being their one and only daughter was reason enough.

“I hear it,”
she sighed, unimpressed.

“You’re not
really listening. Where is your mind, Tierney?”

“Someplace far
from here. Istvan, let’s grab Daddy’s jet and take off for some warm, wonderful
place! Just the two of us. If we could be alone, without the cameras and the
paparazzi maybe this relationship would grow into something good.”

He stopped
playing. “It’s good now.”

“For you,
maybe. Not for me.”

“You just need
a good lay, Tierney. That always sets you right.”

“Not this
time.”

“Sure, this
time and every time. I know you too well.”

She leaned back
into a soft purple sofa, rolled her green eyes. She was wearing a denim
miniskirt and an elegant but unadorned satin blouse, her shoes bright blue and
dangerously heeled. It was true, any other time she’d be naked and ready for
him in the blink of an eye – but something was different now. Some minute shift
had occurred in her universe – some change was on its way - and it had nothing
to do with Istvan – she could feel it. And it made her tingle all over with
fear and excitement, too.

The
midday
sun was streaking through the beige linen curtains on the bay window,
highlighting the colorful modern furnishings and rich wooden floors of the
Beverly
Hills
bungalow they shared. Tierney had first made love to Istvan on
that sofa a year before. She met him at a crazy party in the Valley, and
brought him home for a one night stand. He’d been so good at it that the one
night turned into several months. Tierney had been caught in his snare; she
wasn’t sure then if she wanted to be but she hated being alone. Lately, though,
that didn’t satisfy her. She needed more than a lover – she needed love. The
real kind, that lasted forever.

The afternoon
cameraman, gruff but handsome Bodey Gillette, entered, nodding his hello. “Got
any drama going, kiddies?”

“Yes,” Istvan
huffed. “Start filming.”

“No! I’m tired
of being this year’s pet monkey!” Tierney stood, gathered her Louis Vuitton
purse and car keys and headed for the door.

“Where are you
off to, Baby? We’ve got six more episodes to tape!”

“Stuff it, Bodey!
I’m out of here!”

Istvan
shrugged, began to play a funeral dirge. Bodey eyed them both strangely, switched
on his camera, urged the young man to emote into the lens; he eagerly obliged.

Tierney hopped
into her red Ferrari convertible; shot it out into the street and straight over
to
Santa Monica Boulevard
. It was slow going through a crowded freeway
or two until she found the
Ventura Highway
. Then she rammed the
gas with her spiky heel and flew over the pavement, ignoring a busload of
tourists who squealed at her from the top of a double decker.

“There’s got to
be more to life than this!” she said out loud.

She flicked on
the radio. Tina Turner was singing What’s Love Got To Do With It? Tierney
didn’t think love had anything at all to do with her situation. The lack of it,
maybe, or some mislabeled emotion that people were mistaking for love.

She followed
the highway out to
Pierpont
Bay
, hoping to make it
to her retreat in
Santa Barbara
before Istvan turned on his charm
and convinced her parents she needed counseling – again. He was obsessed with
pouring out his most minute miseries and sorrows to any fake TV therapist who
came along, and had her family believing it was the best thing for all
concerned.

“No more!” she
shouted over the hum of the engine. “I want to be me now! I am not some spoiled
little rich bitch who needs a reality show to prove her worth to the world! I
want to be loved, God Damn It! I want a real man who knows what a real woman
needs!”

She began to
cry, hard, the tears flying from her eyes and out the top of the convertible,
marking the sky like tiny raindrops. She thought she heard a strange buzz,
clicked off the radio, listening. The sound was louder, frightening her.

Tierney eased
off the highway; stepped out of the car. She trailed the sound down to the back
wheel, peered underneath the fender and gasped. There was a bomb, a real,
ticking, flashing bomb, like you’d see in an action movie, and the numbers on
it were closing down on zero, fast!

Tierney glanced
round – the cars zinging by might not get hit in the blast but she couldn’t be
certain. And she was way too close to a restaurant full of customers. She took
a strong breath, jumped into the car and steered it out as far away from people
as she could, finding a narrow stretch of beach to park on. Then she leapt out
of the driver’s seat and began to fling her arms like warning flags.

“Get back!” she
screamed to the gathering crowd. “There’s a bomb in my car!”

Panic broke
out; people scattered like bugs. Tierney sprinted towards the shelter of a line
of boulders just in time. The bomb exploded, showering fire and smoke and
bright red car parts all over the beach. She watched them fall; ducked to miss
her radio as it sailed by.

“Who would do
this?” she wondered aloud. “Who would want me dead?”

People were
closing in, smothering her. Some had recognized her. They were pulling out
their phones, hoping no doubt to get some good footage they could sell to one
of those sleazy online celebrity news sites.

“Can I help
you, Tierney?” one guy asked, reaching out his left hand – his phone was in his
right.

“That’s not my
name,” she lied, lowering her gaze. “But I’m fine. I can get up on my own.”

She did just
that and sought out some kind of refuge from the crowd. There was a marina
nearby. She headed in that direction, thinking she could lose herself there. A
second explosion from the car sent everyone scrambling, and gave her a chance
to disappear.

Tierney
searched through the endless line of crisp white boats; finally came upon one
called Sea Mistress that wasn’t so crisp or white but it was uninhabited as far
as she could tell. She made sure no one was looking then boarded it and slipped
down into the unlocked hull. The place was a mess; clothes strewn all over the dark,
70s style furniture, half-eaten pizzas still in their boxes, and cans reeking
of stale beer lying in clusters about the floor.

“God, can I
pick them or what?” she sighed. Then she heard footsteps and hid in the tiny blue-tiled
bathroom. It was a man – she could tell because he apparently stubbed his toe
on the beer cans and cursed out loud in a deep, sexy voice.

Tierney heard a
cell phone beep then the man said, “Yeah, I’m still here but I’m heading out in
awhile. No, I’m not sure where exactly, maybe Baja. I don’t care what Slater
says. I’m through! Get it? All right then. Talk later, Joe. Sure. Bye.”

Tierney waited,
afraid the man would yank open the door and find her but he didn’t. He stomped
up to the deck and started the engine. The boat began to move, easing grumpily
out of its dock and into the Bay.

“Oh my God,
what do I do now?” Tierney whispered. Her mind was jumbled, unsure of who to
trust. She tried to come up with a list of suspects for the bombing. Sure, she
had enemies, rich people always do. But she couldn’t imagine anyone hating her
enough to actually commit murder. It wasn’t Istvan, was it? He did know about
demolition, his dad ran a blasting company in
Budapest
. Maybe he
had sensed that she was over him and that mad temper of his got the better of
his judgment.

Or was it Bodey?
He had a thing for her, told her once that he meant to take her away from Istvan
once the show was done. Nah, he was too lazy to even think of constructing a
bomb, though he did work with explosives in
Iraq
while he was in
the military.

Then there was
her brother, Dennis
Aram
Evans. The brat was spoiled beyond
belief, had envied and despised Tierney for most of her life. And why? Because
he was utterly happy being an only child, pampered and paraded about like a
prize cow. He enjoyed all the attention and bragging. Then Tierney came along
and stole some of his sunshine, leaving him a miserable, sullen beast. She had
tried to love him in spite of his acid tongue and spiteful actions but it
couldn’t be done. Only a saint – and she certainly wasn’t one - could love that
guy.