Hollywood Scream Play (6 page)

The train pulls up and screeches to a halt.

There is only one passenger: Carl.

Before boarding, I’m frisked by one of the men. He takes my cell and snaps it off. His pupils dilate when he comes across the gun hidden inside the pocket of my coat. As he pulls a switchblade from my boot, he mutters, “Jesus.”

Carl chuckles. “Quite the little charmer, isn’t she? Trust me, her cooking more than makes up for her paranoia.”

I bat my eyes at the guy.

He missed the switchblade I’ve hidden up my coat sleeve. If I get a chance to use it, he better hope Carl doesn’t live, because he’ll end up in the cell next to mine, just for letting it slip by.

The men take their places in the cars on either side of this one. They stand sideways near the doors adjacent to it, so that they can watch us out of the corner of their eyes.

Carl doesn’t get up.

So much for manners.

The train begins my trip to hell.

I don’t offer my hand, or even a smile, but slip into the seat across from him. “Did you really feel you needed back-up against little old me?”

“What can I say? My own battalion of storm troopers is one of the perks of my new position.” He smiles. “You’ll get to enjoy them, too, soon enough.”

“Oh? How do you figure?”

“Ah, sweet wifey, you love to play hard to get, don’t you?” He plops down in the seat next to me. “Let’s stop the games. Time to kiss and make up.”

He leans in to do just that.

I leap up. “Don’t you dare.”

He yanks me down into his lap. “Come on, admit it—you want it, too.”

“Isn’t that the defense of all rapists?” I nod toward the security detail behind him. “Aren’t you worried about what your new cronies think of you?”

“Who, them? Nah. They’re part of my well-trained monkey army. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.” He puts one hand on my breast—“I can do this”—while his other hand takes my hair in his fist and jerks my head back—“and this”—then he licks my neck, all the way up the side of my face—“and this.”

A fist to the gut has him releasing my hair—“And I can do this”—I say, crushing my heel into his foot—“and this, and”— I flick the switchblade to his throat—“this.”

When I look up, the security detail is standing in the doorway, their guns drawn.

Despite his pain, Carl coughs out a chuckle. Waving them off, he declares, “What can I say? She loves public displays of affection.”

The men exchange concerned glances, but keep their guns steady—

Until the train jerks to a stop. “Smithsonian,” pronounces a congenial automated female voice over the car’s speakers.

The doors swing open, but the place is empty.

“If you’re looking for a diversion or witnesses, forget it. My people took the precaution of clearing out every station between L’Enfant and West Farragut before we boarded. And yes, they will shoot you in the back if you run.”

Okay then, I guess I should scratch “hasty retreat” off my must-do list.

“Donna, dearest, now that we have the foreplay out of the way, why don’t we discuss a way to save Acme?”

Slowly I lower the switchblade and lean back. “I’m listening.”

He smiles. “What I propose is simple. We end our interminable separation once and for all.”

“You’ll sign the divorce papers? Finally! Sure okay, I’ll have Alan send them to your evil lair.” 
Free at last! Free at last!

“You misunderstand me. The prodigal son—and daughter and other daughter, and let’s not forget you, my sweet—are coming home—that is, here to DC, to live with me. I look forward to being clasped to the bosom of my family. Well, yours, anyway.” He eyes me sideways. “Despite the fact they seem smaller than I remember.”

Overhead, the automated female voice declares, “Federal Triangle Station.”

Once again, the train slows to a stop.

Run
, the little voice in my head tells me. I stare out at the station. Two exits, one with a set of stairs, another ascending via an escalator—

“Don’t even think of it,” Carl murmurs. He nods toward his monkey brigade.

I’d be shot before I made it past either of them.

The doors shut. The train takes off again.

I turn to him. “You’re crazy! I’m not uprooting my children for you!”

“Oh, I’m not asking for me. You’d be doing it for Jack.”

“Jack? Why would I leave him? He’s been a better husband to me than you ever were.”

“You feel that way about him, even without a ring on your finger, eh?” He clicks his tongue in mock dismay. “Granted, I can see why it works for him. Why buy the cow when you’re already getting the milk?” His eyes slip down to my hips. “I’m not implying you’re a heifer, but you are packing a few more pounds than the last time I saw you.”

Keep your cool…Keep your cool…

I rise and walk toward the exit door. “This conversation is going nowhere.”

“Donna, if you don’t agree to my terms, everyone involved with Acme will be arrested and tried for treason. That includes your precious Jack, who’ll wither away in a cell for life, if he doesn’t get a lethal injection for the multiple murder charges I’ll make sure he faces. One way or another, you’ll get the ‘’til death do you part’ you seem to want so badly.” A second later he’s beside me again. “You’re not above the law, either. I’ll have you locked up on some trumped-up terrorism charge and make certain it’s for life—unless you do as I say.” He lifts my chin with his index finger so that I have nowhere to look except into his eyes. “In any event, our children will spend the rest of their lives with at least one of their biological parents, if not both. The choice is yours.”

The choice is mine.

I can save Acme and Jack by spending the rest of my life with Carl, or I can risk losing my job, the man I love, and my children and end up in jail.

Tears suddenly fill my eyes.

He must see them because he’s wearing his disgusting victory grin.

The next thing I know, he shoves me against the car’s center pole and grinds his mouth into mine.

The train shudders to a stop.

He backs off. It’s an involuntary reflex.

My involuntary reflex is to gag.

Instead, I succumb to a voluntary one and spit in his face.

Angrily, he wipes it off with the back of his hand. With the same hand, he slaps me—hard.

My head smacks into the pole, causing me to wince.

“I presume you’ve made your choice.” He takes the kerchief from his breast pocket. Dabbing his face, he adds, “Sorry we have to do this the hard way.” His slight nod brings his entire goon squad into our car. “Boys, you saw the little lady’s switchblade, didn’t you?”

Carl’s goons nod ominously.

“Don’t you feel the public would forgive you if she were accidently shot trying to knife me, what with the cost of a jury trial and her time in the slammer?” He shakes his head. “I’ve seen how much she eats. Believe me, we’d be saving a lot of hard-earned taxpayer dollars.”

“We’d still have a lot of explaining to do to the press,” says Goon Number One.

“Quick thinking, Dewey. You get an extra cookie with your milk at bedtime.” Carl wrinkles his brow. “I guess she could commit hari-kari, right here in the car.”

Oh.

Heck.

Then again, maybe not.

I’m trying hard to teach my kids to think positively, not negatively; to make lemonade from lemons; to be proactive as opposed to reactive.

It’s time to lead by example.

“Metro Center,” the auto-announcer cries out cheerily.

A second later, the doors open.

Dewey’s reflection in the subway’s window shows me he’s close enough to slam in the gut with a back kick, no problem.

His gun flies out of his hand as he reels backward.

Hughey is aiming at me. (I really don’t think that’s his name. Still it’s better than Goon Number 2.) But, he’s not stupid enough to shoot in such narrow quarters, what with his boss standing between us.

This gives me time to roll for the gun—

Which I shoot because I have no qualms about killing Carl.

Hughey takes a slug in his wrist. When his gun falls to the floor, Carl scrambles for it. He grabs it and turns around to shoot—

But I’m gone.

The door slides shut behind me.

Carl runs to it and slams it hard, but it won’t open.

I smile pretty. I wave 
Bye-bye
.

A second later, the train is roaring down the track.

I flop onto the floor, gasping for breath.

When I can breathe again, I run up the escalator, two steps at a time.

Jack is sleeping soundly. He doesn’t stir as I undress, not even as I get into bed beside him.

As I spoon him from behind, he mutters, “Your feet are ice cold.”

“Maybe I need something to warm them up.”

He flips around so that we’re nose to nose. “I could rub them.”

“That sounds nasty.”

“I meant with my feet, silly woman.”

“Rub something else. Preferably not with your feet.”

He doesn’t need a written invitation.

His hand is slow, and gentle. So are his lips, upon mine.

Ah, yes, he’s warmed me up. All my senses are on fire.

When he enters me, I am frenetic. I am alive.

I am frightened
.

I beg him to stop, but it’s too late: I’m already outside the stratosphere of physical control and moving at warp speed toward the planet Euphoria.

There I hover, inert and joyous—

Until the inevitable: I crash, back here on Earth.

I have yet to recover when he whispers in my ear, “Don’t worry, Donna. Carl can’t hurt us.”

I sigh.

I wish I could believe that.

Chapter 4

Sunset Boulevard

“Sometimes it's interesting to see just how 
bad
 bad writing can be. This promised to go the limit.”

—William Holden, as “Joe Gillis”

Everyone’s life is the stuff movies are made from.

Admit it, if Hollywood came a-knockin’ on your front door with a contract to turn your life into a movie or a reality show, you’d be sooooo there.

Maybe it’s time for a reality check as to what they’ll do with the life you hold nearest and dearest—your own:

Reality Check #1: Your life story isn’t worth a plug nickel. If you’re banking on more, don’t. The producer’s offer will be piddly, because he thinks (and he’s right) that your ego will win out over your need for a few more bucks in your bank account. Not only that, whatever option money you agree to will come in after certain production hurdles are crossed (Translation: finding backers, a.k.a., the funding!) and your talent agent and entertainment lawyers slice off their own flesh-eating fees.

Hey, you’ll be lucky if the producer doesn’t hit you up to help fund the flick in exchange for an “executive producer” credit.

Reality Check #2: Don’t expect the script to truly reflect your experiences in any way, shape or form. There is a reason movies based on real people or incidents all start off with the disclaimer, “Inspired by…” which is even more of a tip-off than “Based on…”

Bottom line: Your story may have taken place in Peoria, but it won’t play well there. That said, expect a few embellishments, and perhaps a whopper or two.

Reality Check #3: You, madam, are no Erin Brockovich—so don’t expect Julia Roberts to play you in the movie. That also goes for Charlize Theron, Jennifer Lawrence, and Scarlett Johansson.

(Okay, maybe Meryl Streep, but only because she can play anyone. Lucky you!)

“One double espresso, extra slow drip, for Dude Lebowski!” the Starbucks Barista shouts over the murmurs of patrons.

“Wait…the Dude is 
here
?” a customer asks loudly.

All heads turn in order to scrutinize everyone within sight, cell phones poised to take a picture of anyone even resembling Jeff Bridges.

Arnie starts over to the counter, but I grab his arm and pull him back. “Way to go, genius! We’re supposed to be incognito, remember? If you go over there, everyone in the place will stare right at us.”

Arnie shrugs sheepishly. “When the cashier asked what name to put on the cup, Lebowski was the first one that came to mind.”