Read American Beauty Online

Authors: Zoey Dean

Tags: #JUV014000

American Beauty (2 page)

Heart pounding, shaking with adrenaline, she turned around to see what had smacked her—a cherry-red Honda Civic dotted with rust spots was stopped on Sawtelle ten feet behind the crosswalk. Fortunately, her own engine was still running; she cut the steering wheel hard to the right and managed to ease the Lexus to the west side of the boulevard, directly in front of the red sign for Wild Women—yet another strip joint.

What am I supposed to do?
Anna panicked to herself. She’d been driving for two years, and this was her first accident. But she remembered what she’d learned in driver’s ed. In case of an accident, try and remain calm. Step one: Turn off the engine. Step two: Make sure everyone in her car was okay. Step three: Make sure the other driver wasn’t hurt. She stepped out of the Lexus to check. …

“What the fuck is the matter with you?”

Anna whirled. The driver of the Honda—a middle-aged woman with a pale face that looked like it had been smashed in a closing elevator door and never resumed its normal shape—was striding over to her. Gray hair roots led to a red ball of frizz tied back with a bad Chanel knock-off scarf. She wore a black sweatsuit; pastel puffed-paint pandas marched down the sleeves.

“Where the hell did you learn to drive?” the woman barked throatily with the voice of a lifelong smoker. “You stopped like a maniac! Don’t deny it—you gave me no chance to stop. You better get the fuck out of here before the cops give you a moving violation.”

Anna blinked in surprise. “B-b-b-but you hit
me
.”

She quickly racked her brain. What now? Call the cops? In New York, her mother’s driver took Anna wherever she wanted to go in their Mercedes town car. On rare occasions Anna had hailed a taxicab, but that was only when Reginald was sick or doing what he did best—playing the ponies at Aqueduct racetrack.

“Are you even Licensed to drive?”

“Of course I am,” Anna fired back. “Let’s just call the police.”

“Are you nuts?” The frizzy-haired woman’s voice went up an octave and her face began twitching. Anna noticed the red lipstick that had crept past the lip line at the corners of her mouth melting down, like two mini scarlet fangs. “I bet you were on your cell phone. You want the cops? The cops will arrest you!”

Was that true?
Could
they arrest her? Dammit, if only Cyn were with her. Or Sam Sharpe, the self-assured friend whose party she was heading to. They’d know exactly what to do.

“Look. Just wait. Why don’t you push your car off the road if you can’t drive it?” Anna suggested, with more bravura than she actually felt. “You’re holding up traffic.”

The redhead got right in her face. “If I was you, I’d get my ass out of here.”

Maybe she should. If her car was drivable, she could get it as far as a service station.
No,
she decided. You didn’t leave the scene of an accident, no matter what. Then what? Wait, you were supposed to swap insurance information. Did you need to call the police here in California if there wasn’t an injury involved?

Ben. Ben would definitely know what to do.

“I’ve got to make a phone call,” Anna announced to the woman. “Go back to your car. I’ll talk to you in a minute.”

The other driver let out a scoff, rolled her eyes and stomped back over to her car. Anna took a deep breath and quickly assessed the damage to the Lexus. The oyster-gray rear bumper was severely dented; the right taillight had spider-glassed. A glance at the tailpipe revealed that the impact had bent it shut. So much for driving away from this mishap—she remembered enough from chemistry class to realize that she’d die from carbon monoxide poisoning before she even got to the service station.

Anna went back inside the car and dialed Ben. The phone rang, once, twice. Anna could feel the anxiety fluttering in her stomach. After three rings her heart was sinking; evidently, he couldn’t come to the rescue this time. But just as she was about to hang up after the fourth ring …

“Yeah?”

Anna was taken aback by the brusqueness of his tone. “Hi, it’s me.”

“Hey, Anna.” His voice immediately softened. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Well, I mean, I just got into a car accident.”

“Jesus, what happened? Are you okay?” he asked quickly, his concern obvious in his voice. That made her feel better.

“I’m fine. It’s nothing, just a fender bender, but—”

“Thank God you’re okay. Whose fault was it?”

“Hers, I think. I’m going to trade license and insurance information. Do I need to call the police?”

“No police if there’s no injury. Definitely get her license and insurance info and you’ll be all set. Listen, I’m in the middle of a work thing. Glad to hear you’re okay. I’ll call you later to check in, I promise. ’Bye.” He hung up.

Anna just sat there for a moment, trying not to get upset. It wasn’t fair to expect him to drop everything and come to her rescue, right? Actually, the whole damsel-in-distress thing wasn’t very appealing. Well, it was appealing, actually, but she was definitely learning to take care of things herself these days.

Swap info. Then what? Call AAA. She remembered Django, her dad’s driver and caretaker, had signed her up when she arrived in California. Wasn’t there a card in the glove compartment? “Yes!” She found it and quickly dialed the road-service number. It only took her a minute or two to provide the monotone operator with all the pertinent information.

“Okay, just sit tight. There’s been an oil tanker spill on the Ten at the Vermont Street interchange—we’ve got all our wreckers there; it’s a total mess. We should have someone out to you in about two hours or so,” said the operator. “Give or take an hour.”

“B-But I’m on the street outside a strip club!” Anna sputtered. “Can’t someone get here sooner than that?”

“Ma’am, I understand you frustration, but the California Highway Patrol told us to make clearing the freeway a priority, and that’s what we’ve got to do. Is there anything else I can do for you? A tow truck will be with you as soon as one is available.”

“No.” Anna didn’t know what else to say. “I don’t think there—”

The operator hung up before Anna could finish the sentence. Damn. Now she was supposed to swap her license and insurance information with a shrieking harridan? As for Sam’s party, the one that was supposed to kick off graduation week in less than an hour, her attendance was becoming more and more unlikely by the minute.

Anna decided it was a long shot, but she could at least try to contact her dad and see if he could help her. He was shuttling between Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and San Francisco these days, trying to negotiate the acquisition of an off-strip but still pricey hotel/casino for a group of men in Sausalito who wanted to turn it into a gay-and-lesbian-themed destination. But if luck was with her and Jonathan Percy was in Los Angeles, maybe he could get her out of this godforsaken neighborhood.

“Jonathan Percy.” His brisk voice came through the phone.

“Dad, you’re back!” Anna exclaimed. She quickly described the situation.

Her explanation was followed by dead silence. “I’d love to help you out myself, sweetheart,” her dad said after the depressing delay, “but I’m swamped here. Look, it’s just a fender bender. Swap the information, stay in your car and keep the doors locked at all times, and wait for Triple-A. Then take a cab right home.”

Anna’s fingers tightened on the phone. “Dad, that isn’t reasonable.”

“Well …” She could almost see her father tapping a Cross pen on his expansive granite desk. “How about if I send over my new intern? He’s an ace; up all night wining and dining some real jerk-offs for me in Vegas—helped make the deal happen. I gave him the day off. But if I ask, he’ll come over.”

Great. Her dad’s intern hadn’t slept all night, but her father thought nothing of waking the guy up to tend to his daughter? Maybe Jonathan Percy found it acceptable to impose like that, but Anna didn’t. Besides, she remembered her last horrid encounter with one of her father’s employees. Lloyd Millar. Anna had accompanied him on a drive to Las Casitas, a fabulous resort on the Pacific coast of Mexico that her father had also been helping a group acquire. Lloyd had been so obnoxious that the Mexican authorities nearly wouldn’t let him cross the border.

“Dad, the last guy you sent my way was a Yeti in a bad Hawaiian shirt,” she replied testily. “I’ll wait for Triple-A. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“Hold on, Anna. No need to cop an attitude.”

Anna winced. Cop an attitude? Jonathan Percy tended to boomerang between businesslike precision and aging hipster slang, but she never got used to it.

“Really. Sit tight. I’m sending the new intern,” he repeated patiently, as if she were a five-year-old begging for sweets at the Ralph’s supermarket checkout counter. “His name is Caine Manning. He’s twenty-two, Wharton grad. Helluva guy. He’ll be there in thirty minutes. Tops. Okay. Ciao. Love you.”

Anna sighed as her dad clicked off. Well, she wouldn’t mind a little assistance sooner rather than later, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t take care of the situation herself in the meantime. She turned around to peer at the dreadful redhead, who had gotten back into her car. What was the next step? Exchange information. She took the registration and insurance card from the glove compartment, found her license in her bone leather Kate Spade hobo bag, and walked back to the Honda. The woman was trying—and failing—to get her car started.

“It won’t run,” the woman practically spat. “Thanks a fucking lot.”

Anna believed in the virtue of
la politesse,
having been raised by a mother who considered good manners as important as personal hygiene. A lady did not curse out loud. A lady did not raise her voice. A lady remained gracious and in control at all times.

A lady didn’t accept being cursed at.

“Now you listen to me, whatever your name is,” she told the other driver, her voice shaky but her tone steely. “I have someone coming to help. He’ll get here as soon as possible. In the meantime, unless you are ready to act like a human being, we are not speaking. I’ll be in my car.”

Take that,
she thought, as she turned on her gold Sigerson Morrison leather-and-topaz sandals and headed back to the Lexus.
Anna Percy has
balls.
Well, figuratively speaking.
She glanced at her Jacob & Co. five-time-zone platinum-and-diamond watch, which featured a gemstone kite in each time zone—an early graduation gift from her mother, who was off in Italy seducing a very young muralist. Damn. Sam’s yacht was supposed to leave soon. The unrealistic fantasy of making this party was growing fainter by the second. Not that it mattered; there was no point in holding everyone else up just because her car had been rear-ended by Cruella De Vil.

She got back in the pearl-gray Lexus and let her head fall onto the headrest. Then her cell rang. Ben. It had to be Ben.

“Hello?”

“Anna, Caine Manning.” Not Ben. “Your dad’s intern. He gave me your number. I just wanted to let you know that I’m on my way. I’m coming from Westwood; I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” His voice was assertive and deep. She instantly felt better.

“Thank you,” she told him gratefully. “I really appreciate it.”

“No problem. You can’t miss me. Lots of tattoos. Okay, see you.”

She clicked her phone shut. Huh? Tattoos? Her father had hired an intern with lots of tattoos?
No.
That had to be a joke.

Anna checked her watch again. She’d find out in nineteen minutes.

Four-Foot Eleven and as Bad-Ass as They Come

A
nna was about to call Sam when an electric-blue Ford F-150 pickup truck pulled directly in front of her car. A brunette guy wearing distressed Levi’s with holes in both knees hopped out of the cab of the pickup and strode back toward her. He wore an olive-green Brooks Brothers shirt with the sleeves rolled up; both forearms were indeed covered in tattoos. His deep chocolaty hair was slightly spiked in the front, his chin shadowed with light stubble. Silver hoop earrings hung from each earlobe.

Had to be him.

He tapped on her window. She pressed the down button and immediately noticed that one of his eyes was blue and the other was brown.

“Hey, Anna, I’m Caine Manning,” he announced easily.

Anna got out, surprised to find herself looking up—way up—at him, since he was at least six-foot two, maybe six-foot three. She quickly filled him in and he soaked up all the details, nodding every once in a while.

“Okay, got it covered. Come with me, but let me do the talking—if that’s okay with you?”

“Why not?”

Anna was proud of herself for having taken the initiative; if Caine could get the insurance and other information out of the driver of the Honda, so much the better. She saw him slap a smile on his face and head for the volatile redhead, who now appeared to be chomping on an entire pack of gum at once. Anna followed a few paces behind.

“Hi,” Caine said amiably.

“Who the hell are you?” Before he could answer, the woman stabbed a stubby finger in Anna’s direction. “This bitch is in so much trouble. I could get her arrested like that.” She snapped her fingers in what would have been Caine’s face, if he had been eight inches shorter.

His response was surprisingly muted, considering the traffic noise. “You and I both know that you’d be the one in trouble for following too close. Be grateful my client didn’t call the police. She was simply obeying the law by stopping for a crossing pedestrian.”

“Client?” She chomped furiously on her gum.

Caine nodded, then asked Frizzhead her name.

“Patrice McMasters,” Frizzhead replied hesitantly, paling a couple of shades.

“Patrice, I take it you don’t actually have insurance.”

“Look …” She took a crumpled tissue from her pants pocket and spat her enormous wad of gum into it, then threw it in the general direction of Wild Women. “I know that’s against the law, too. But I can’t lose my car. I need it to get to my job down at LAX.”

Caine nodded. “Completely understandable.”

“I’m just so damn stressed out, you know?” Patrice nodded too.

My God, Anna marveled. This was an entirely different woman from the one she’d dealt with previously. How had her dad’s intern accomplished that?

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