More Stories from the Twilight Zone (41 page)

Malachi grabbed her hand and pulled her from Alan. “Actually,” he said, “
I
need to have lunch with her. We need to discuss her character.”

Alan bristled and stepped closer so that Livia was sandwiched between them.

“I'm sorry, boys,” Livia said, “but you're both out of luck. I've
promised the rest of the day to my best girlfriend—we have an awful lot to catch up on.”

The two men stared at her downcast, but each seemed satisfied that she wouldn't be with the other.

“Go play with your girlfriend then, doll,” Alan said, squeezing her arms and kissing her on the cheek.

Malachi pulled her into a long, tight embrace. “Can I see you tonight?” he whispered.

Alan cleared his throat pointedly.

“Booked through the night.” She pulled away and put a hand on each of their shoulders. “You boys play nice while I'm gone.” She looked back just once as she left. The bigwigs slavered in her wake like lovesick, dreamy-eyed puppies.

Two men subjugated in less than two days.

Not bad, for an aspiring goddess.

 

Jenny's bookstore was a rare haven for intellects nestled between the trashy apparel shops and flavor-of-the-week nightclubs on Hollywood Boulevard. Jenny told Livia that it had been there since the 1950s, before the neighborhood's glamour decayed into seediness.

Outside the glass storefront window, Livia kicked a few French fries off Tippi Hedren's star in the sidewalk. Even when Hollywood gave her the cold shoulder, she faithfully defended its glitz and tinsel.

She sauntered into the store, pulling off her sunglasses and planting them on top of her head.

“Jenny!” she yelled.

The shop was usually empty but always charming. Amber light shone from antique green lamps onto cherrywood bookshelves and plush chocolate-colored chairs adorned with thick ribs of corduroy. Livia fell into one sideways, her high-heeled tawny boots dangling over the side. “Jenny!!”

“You're impertinent, you know that?” Jenny called from the stockroom.

“But you love me!”

Jenny emerged and sat in a chair facing her. “How're you holding up? Feeling any better since the other night?”

Livia grinned like a six-year-old showing off a new front tooth. “You wouldn't believe how much better!”

She recounted her sudden power in new sex appeal, her triumphant intrusion into the audition room, and her seductions of both Alan Hakim and Malachi Chung. Nothing was omitted except the deal she had made with Isis.

“And the best part is, I'm only just getting started,” she said.

Jenny pursed her lips in disapproval. Getting up, she strode to a bookshelf.

“I
know
what your books say,” Livia whined. “ ‘No good will come of any of this.' But those books were written by bitter people who never really lived. They're
stories
.”

Jenny triumphantly pulled out a volume of Shakespeare's
Antony and Cleopatra
.

“Remember what happened to Cleopatra?” She tossed the thick book to Livia. “And your other idol, Marilyn Monroe?” She walked to another shelf, pulled out
Double Cross
, and tossed that to her, too. “Whacked by the mob. Remember how they treated you the other day? Alan Hakim is a bigoted,
married
mogul who's famous for his temper! And Malachi Chung is a heroin addict—”

“
Former
heroin addict!”

“—who's built a career wreaking violence on women!” She kneeled in front of Livia. “Olive, I'm serious. I'm happy for you—believe me, I am. But you've got to be careful.”

A chill flashed through Livia like a cold black wind—but it passed.

“Don't be so uptight,” Livia said. “Look, I appreciate your concern. I really, really do. But this is my chance—this is what I've been
dreaming about my whole life! Besides”—she grabbed Jenny's hands—”don't forget who my co-star is.”

Livia had her. Jenny couldn't suppress a sly smile. She knew Jenny's fantasy lover. Livia had seen his poster in her bedroom, his shining countenance facing the head of her bed. Lucas Bright was Jenny's objet d'amour.

“I'm bound to get to know him at some point—we'll be on set together for six months,” Livia said. “And once I do, I just might have to introduce him to a very special someone.”

Jenny groaned. “But wait—doesn't he have a girlfriend? The singer from the Wind-up Dolls, right?”

“That was ages ago. Supposedly he's dating the girl from that new lawyer show.”

“The female partner?”

“No, her daughter. But that's probably just for publicity.”

Livia felt something in her purse: the little purple phone buzzing with an unknown caller once again. Livia raised a knowing eyebrow at Jenny.

“Hello?”

“This is Lucas,”
the caller said.
“How's it going?”

Livia pressed the button to put it on speaker phone. “I'm all right. How about yourself, big boy?”

“Cool, cool. So I was thinking, since we're gonna be working together, we should have a drink. Get to know each other.”

“Sounds good. But I already had plans to hang out with my friend Jenny.”

“So bring her! I'm down with threesomes.”

Livia nodded knowingly at Jenny, who blushed. “We'll meet you at the bar at Chateau Marmont at eight?”

“Nice. See you girls there.”

“Ciao!”

She snapped the phone closed. “I prefer the term ‘Fairy Godmother,' ” she instructed.

Jenny jumped up and danced around the store, giggling, more animated than Livia had seen her in years.

“Can I borrow your lucky bracelet?”

 

Every person in the posh bar, male or female, gaped at Lucas Bright.

But he only had eyes only for Livia.

Jenny had regarded the night as a test and prepared accordingly: She had rehearsed in her mind all the bon mots and scintillating conversation she would bestow on that handsome hunk of Hollywood manhood.

Oblivious, Lucas ignored her chatter—and ogled Livia.

“What was it like, growing up in Louisville?” Jenny asked, scooting closer to him in the booth.

“We didn't have Liv.”

“Why did you take up acting?”

“To meet beautiful women like Liv.”

“Who's your favorite co-star?”

“Liv.”

“Who did you vote for in the last election?”

“If Liv was on the ballot . . .”

Livia's phone rang, but quickly she silenced it. Malachi, the caller ID said. She sighed and returned it to her purse.

“But don't you miss the south, Kentucky bluegrass, sweet tea, and all that?”

“Not when I'm with Liv.”

Lucas brushed his chin-length dark blond hair back behind his ears and took a long swig of Blue Moon.

A rough hand grazed Livia's bare knee—definitely not Jenny's.

“What was it like working with Marla Marsden on your last film? Isn't she brilliant?” Jenny wouldn't let up.

“I don't know,” Lucas said with shrug. “She wasn't Liv.”

He gestured the waitress over and ordered two shots of whiskey.

“But she's one of the most talented female directors of our time!”

“No hard feelings, but I changed my mind about a threesome,” he said, unable to take his eyes off the actress. “I just want Liv.”

His hand traveled slightly up the inside of Livia's thigh.

Disgusted by his obvious under-the-table grope and Livia's patent refusal to stop it, Jenny was dispirited and distressed. Not with Lucas so much. He was what he was: a scumbag in a drool-worthy package. Her best friend, however, disappointed her. She wasn't the old Livia—loyal, principled, true to the core. This Livia had the face of an angel, the heart of a whore, and the soul of a chiming cash register. Finishing the last of her blackberry martini, Jenny excused herself to go to the restroom.

Lucas rose to let her slide out, but instead of returning to his seat, he joined Livia on the opposite side.

“Move,” he ordered.

“Manners, little boy,” she chided—but she shifted to give him room.

He grabbed her face roughly. “I don't know what you're doing,” he said, “but you're driving me crazy.”

“Must be the old Caesar and Cleopatra thing,” she said lightly.

She tried to ignore his smoldering eyes, wide jaw, and strong arms. He was a million times more attractive up close.

“I want you, Liv. I've wanted you since you kissed me in that audition.”

She tried to breathe evenly. “Look, Jenny will be back soon—get back over there and behave.”

“Who?”

The waitress brought the shots of whiskey. He downed one and handed Livia the other. “I'm having more fun without her.” His sex appeal was overpowering. Finally she understood how
she made men feel. She took the shot obediently. “Good girl,” he said, caressing her shoulder.

Her cell phone rang again. She cursed it as she hunted for it in her purse. Alan, the caller ID read. She silenced it and put it away.

“Alan Hakim?” Lucas said, staring over her shoulder. “Why is he calling you at nine thirty at night?”

“How would I know?”

“Are you lying to me?”

“Did I answer it? I'm here with you, Lucas.” She ran a finger lightly down the inside of his forearm. “Here is where I want to be.”

“Good.” He pulled her face close to his. “You're my Cleopatra, no one else's.” He kissed her, setting her body on fire. A few moments passed before she opened her eyes—and saw Jenny standing at the table's edge, arms crossed.

“Fairy godmother, my ass,” Jenny snapped. She threw the borrowed bracelet on the table and stormed away.

“Jenny, wait!” She tried to climb out of the booth, but Lucas blocked her. “Let me out!” she insisted. “She's my friend!”

“Your friend?” he scoffed. “I've never seen a
friend
act so jealous. She wasn't having any fun. Let her go—you'll make up tomorrow.”

Watching Jenny push through the bustling restaurant made Livia uneasy. Neither had ever abandoned the other in a time of stress. But a group of three supermodel types making eyes at Lucas quickly distracted her. She'd be crazy to pass up a date with the hottest actor in the world. Jenny had been her friend forever—she'd come to her senses and forgive her in the morning. And after all, this was for her career. She'd never be famous if she didn't think of herself first.

They left the bar two hours later, both of them blitzed. The ravenous paparazzi waiting outside caught them sneaking out
holding hands. To their delight, Lucas brazenly kissed her for them.

“Cleopatra,” he whispered, kissing her hard in the backseat of the Lincoln that picked them up, “don't leave me tonight.”

“Your place?”

Tugging her hair, he shook his head with a grin. “Your place is closer. And anyway, I want to see where a princess lives.”

She felt like Goldilocks again—Baby Werewolf-Bear was just right.

 

The elevator worked for once, and their ardor gained steam through their ascent to the third floor. But when the elevator doors opened, the enchanted spell was abruptly broken. Like a tiger awaiting its prey, Malachi stood by the front door with a bouquet of bloodred roses.

“What the hell are
you
doing here?” Lucas demanded.

“Meeting my girlfriend, you piece of shit!” Malachi slammed the bouquet down, sending roses tumbling down the flight of stairs.

Livia shushed them both. “We had a late meeting to discuss our characters!” she insisted to Malachi. And to Lucas: “I don't know why he's here!” Fearing another reprimand from the landlord, she shepherded both men into her apartment.

“You
bitch!
” Malachi spat. “I'll make you pay for this. I'll make both of you pay.” He sucker-punched Lucas, knocking him to the floor—not a difficult feat, considering Lucas's intoxicated state.

Malachi pinned Livia's wrists together behind her back and yanked her so close she could smell his drunken, drug-fouled breath. “I thought you were something special. Now I know you need to be punished like the rest of them.” She screamed as he whipped piano wire out of a pocket and wrapped it around her wrists. He silenced her screams with long, malicious, malodorous kisses.

Lucas, however—who was wobbling to his feet—tackled him. Malachi was fast, wiry, and fought dirty, but Lucas had the strength of his chiseled muscles. Wrestling on the floor, Lucas threw drunken punches, while Malachi scratched and kicked. Since her wrists were wired behind her back, Livia could only watch. She didn't even notice the unlocked door swing open.

“Children, get up.” Alan Hakim stood in the doorway. He wore a Hawaiian-print shirt—all multicolored coconut trees, pineapples, surfboarders, and bare-naked women—1960s tie-dyed Levis, and red flip-flops. A yellow straw boater was cocked jauntily on his head.

His pistol was also pointing . . . straight at them.

Oh no
, Livia thought,
it's a goddamn, no-shit .45-caliber Magnum Desert Eagle—the most powerful automatic pistol made.
Her crazy, gun-fetishing ex—the creep who had played Perchik in
Fiddler on the Roof
—had one just like it.

The room froze.

“Malachi. I expected to see you here. I saw you pawing on my golden girl today.” His voice was as level as the Desert Eagle, but his ruddy face was crimson with rage. “Even went to the trouble of wiring up her hands so you could force yourself on her against her will. I'll deal with you in a moment.

“But Lucas—this is a surprise. Thought you'd try your hand at taming the vixen, did you? You're out of your league, son.” His voice wavered now. Keeping the gun aimed at Lucas, he took a sideways step toward Livia. “This minx heeds only real men, namely
moi
—a man with five decades of proven experience around the feminine gender, a man who can—”