Chapter Eleven
Stormy sat next to her fake Louis Vuitton luggage in the hotel lobby, flicking through her cell’s address book looking for an LA friend who might care enough to drive eight hours round trip to pick her up.
Her finger hovered over Jill’s number briefly, but her roommate was the last person to tell she’d been left ditched and destitute in Vegas. She was two months overdue with rent and had maxed out her credit cards to meet utility bills. And she had twelve bucks left in her purse.
There had been fifteen, but she’d spent three dollars on a bottle of Advil to try and clear her hangover so she could think.
Unfortunately, the fog in her brain had only lifted enough for her mother’s voice to tell her she was a dumbass.
Of all the times to stand up for yourself.
Stormy reached the Zs in her contact list, stared at Zander’s name, then switched off her cell and dropped it into her handbag. Who was she kidding? There were no friends left in this state.
A male passerby gave her an appreciative smile and she returned it perfunctorily.
If worst came to worst, one of her family would lend her bus fare to Kansas, where she could beg for her old job at the Rib House. She’d been a waitress, modeling occasionally for catalogs, when she’d hooked up with a photographer, moved to LA and found herself…waitressing. On the advice of the boyfriend, Stormy got boobs as big as her smile. With curves had come more opportunities—swimsuit and lingerie modeling, product launches at gun and car fairs. Music videos for rock stars.
She sighed.
Meeting Zander had been like hitting the biggest ladder on the snakes and ladders board. Only she’d gotten too secure and made the mistake of sharing her dreams—marriage and kids. He’d looked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. Probably he was.
A couple of tears escaped to roll down her cheeks and under her large sunglasses. She waited until they hit her collarbone before wiping them away, determined not to let anyone see her crying.
Within two minutes, she could sweet-talk any passing guy into helping her but right now the thought of asking a man for anything made her queasy stomach churn.
Across the lobby, Stormy caught sight of Zander’s redheaded date busy on her laptop and her nausea increased. Intelligent, classy women always hit a nerve—the way they sneered at their sisters who only had looks to get ahead on. As though making the best of what God gave you was something to be ashamed of.
In Stormy’s neighborhood, school was a place you left soon as you were legal. Focusing on hair and makeup and being pretty—now that was an investment in your future.
She was going to throw up. The urge hit fast and she lurched up from the couch, clapped a hand over her mouth and glanced around wildly for the ladies’ room.
Halfway across the foyer, her stomach revolted and her mouth filled with liquid, sour and acrid, making her heave again. A splatter of vomit oozed through her manicured fingers. Eyes watering behind her sunglasses, cheeks flaming, she stumbled blindly in the direction of the restrooms, while people around her exclaimed in horror.
A Starbucks paper sack was thrust under her nose. She grabbed it gratefully and spat out the acrid contents of her mouth. A hand grabbed her elbow, a calm female voice said, “Tell the front desk that housekeeping’s needed, will you? I told her not to eat the shrimp.”
The surrounding exclamations became more sympathetic.
Stormy allowed herself to be led to the restroom and into a stall where the paper sack was removed gently from her hands.
“I’ll get your bag.”
She couldn’t answer, too busy retching up yesterday’s cocktails, wearily rising to her feet between bouts to activate the self-flush. Like a parrot bobbing on a goddamn perch.
When it was over, she sank onto her heels and wiped her mouth with toilet tissue. A tap on the stall door roused her. “I have your bag if you need something in it.”
Oh sweet Jesus, this just gets better and better. She’d noticed that accent last night. Her rescuer was Zander’s classy girlfriend.
“Are you okay in there, should I call the hotel doctor?”
“No!” She didn’t have money for medical attention. “I’ll be out directly.”
Muffling a groan, Stormy hauled herself upright, only catching sight of the splatters on her crimson dress as she opened the door.
And better.
Too ashamed to meet the eyes of her rescuer, she staggered to the sink and soaped up her hands, then removed her sunglasses to splash cool water on her face. In the mirror, her skin was the same color as her lank platinum hair and her eyes were puffy and bloodshot. Behind her, the redhead looked cool and collected in a forest-green shift dress. But her brown eyes were warm with concern as she passed Stormy a hand towel.
“What’s your room number? I’ll call Travis.”
And better. “We had a fight checking out.” She shrugged, but couldn’t stop the quiver on her next words. “He left me to find my own way home to LA.”
“Then of course you must come to my room to clean up.”
Somehow she managed a laugh. “I don’t think Zander would like that.”
“We’re not sharing. My name’s Elizabeth, by the way.”
Two women came into the restroom and recoiled as they caught the smell.
“The stalls on the other side are free,” said Elizabeth firmly.
Stormy wished the floor would open up and swallow her. She buried her face in the hand towel. “You must think I’m a complete loser.”
“No, but I think your boyfriend is.”
She removed the towel. “Travis isn’t my boyfriend. We were only together a week.”
“Isn’t it great then, that you haven’t wasted a lot of time on him?”
Maybe she had a point. Stormy watched as the redhead picked up her sunglasses and rinsed them clean under the faucet.
“Travis got jealous…thought I sided with Zander or something.” She added awkwardly, “I was horrible to you, I’m sorry.”
“Seeing your ex with another woman would be difficult.”
“I’ve seen Zee plenty with other females, it was more that he was so—” she shrugged, “—comfortable with someone the exact opposite to me.”
“Precisely why I’m his biographer, not his girlfriend.” Elizabeth turned off the faucet. “As you correctly implied last night, we’re not each other’s type. I don’t even find him attractive.”
Stormy looked at her.
“Maybe a little attractive,” she admitted.
“He’s a Scorpio,” Stormy said sadly. “Where are you from, England?”
“New Zealand.”
“Aragorn or Legolas?”
“Aragorn.”
“We do have different tastes in guys.” For no reason she could fathom, she burst into tears.
Elizabeth put an arm around her shaking shoulders. “It’ll be okay.”
“My dress stinks,” she sobbed. “My breath stinks.”
“A shower and mouthwash will fix that.”
She sobbed harder. “My life stinks.”
“You’ll feel better when you’re cleaned up. And we’ll give you a ride home.”
“Zander—”
“Would be the first to offer.” Elizabeth gave her a fresh hand towel.
This woman wasn’t just from another country, she was from another planet. “You know we ended badly, right?”
“You dumped him. Yes, he told me.” Picking up another hand towel, she dried Stormy’s sunglasses. “But he says nothing but positive things about you.”
Stormy stopped drying her tears. “He said I dumped him?”
Holding the lenses up to the light, Elizabeth gave them a final polish. “High maintenance, am I right?”
Stormy gave an involuntary gurgle.
“That’s what I figured.” Elizabeth handed over the cleaned glasses. “The elevators are next door, so we won’t have to cross the lobby again. Ready?”
Taking a deep breath, Stormy jammed on her shades and then grabbed the handle of her suitcase. “Ready.”
A mother and her young son joined them as they waited for an elevator. The mom was kind enough not to stare after her first startled assessment. But her kid, around five, in a baseball cap that proclaimed him a Yankees fan, stuck his nose in the air and sniffed. “Pooh, something smells real bad.”
His mother yanked on his hand. “Gavin, shush.”
“He doesn’t mean any harm.” Weakly, Stormy smiled at him. “I was sick, honey, sorry about that. You and your mom might want to take the next elevator.”
They did.
Elizabeth’s room was simple by Zander’s standards. She glanced around wonderingly. “I was a last-minute tagalong,” the biographer said, reading her surprise correctly. “Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll go tell Zander he has an extra passenger.”
Stormy’s heart sank. Elizabeth could have called Zee. She obviously expected him to kick up as much of a stink as her unexpected guest.
And Dorothy was still a long way from Kansas.
* * *
Zander removed his expensive boots from the penthouse deck’s railings and stood. “You did what?”
“I offered Stormy a ride to LA,” his biographer repeated. “She and Travis had a fight. Can you believe it? He left her in Vegas without any money to get home.”
“Of course Stormy’s got money,” he said impatiently. “She’s one of this country’s top models.”
“Temporarily out of funds then,” Elizabeth said, “and needing a ride.” She looked at him expectantly.
There were so many assumptions—presumptions—in that look Zander nearly found himself at a loss for words. Nearly. “You do remember we drove here in a two-seater?”
“Oh. I forgot.”
Unbelievable. “How could anyone forget a single detail of a Dodge Viper?” He was tempted to leave her behind with Stormy.
“So what shall we do?”
“We do nothing. You retract your offer.”
Her brown eyes widened. “You said you were worried about her.” Like he was falling for ingenuous from that razor-sharp brain. To think that last night, he’d expressed gratitude to her. “Your concern clearly outweighs mine,” he replied bitingly. “Hire her a rental and she can drive herself.”
“I doubt she’s well enough.” Elizabeth launched into graphic detail of how she and Stormy had crossed paths.
Zander cut her off, mid-projectile. “Fine, you hire a car and drive her. I’ll see you in LA.” Someone needed to care for Stormy, as long as it wasn’t him.
“I’d love to hang out with your ex-girlfriend for four hours. I’m sure she’s got some great stories.”
“Hell, you’re right. You shouldn’t be anywhere near her. Book a driver with a rental.”
Her brows knit. “Stormy’s very upset; someone she knows would be better.”
“Too bad,” Zander said more ruthlessly than he felt. “What if the press sees us together?”
“They’ll think she dumped Travis’s sorry ass for yours,” she said innocently, but Zander noted the dig. “After your public spat with him last night, isn’t that a good thing?”
He gave her a stern look. “Do not try and out-manipulate the manipulator.”
Elizabeth dropped her gaze. “I wouldn’t dream of it, only…” She sighed.
Zander tried to remain silent and couldn’t. “Only?”
“I’ve already said yes on your behalf.” Her warm, brown eyes lifted, a kindly blowtorch to his conscience. “I’ll have to find a way to break the news of a driver and car without hurting her feelings.”
“Remember how in Back to the Future Marty McFly is warned not to get involved in people’s lives, in case it interferes with the space-time continuum?” Zander spoke through gritted teeth. “You’re in my life solely as an observer,” he stressed. “A chronicler.”
Solemnly, she nodded. “I think Stormy may need closure.”
He stared at her. “You’ve been in California, what…ten days? And already you’ve got the psychobabble down pat. I’m driving her home and that’s it!”
“I’ll go and hire myself a rental car.” The damn woman all but skipped to the door.
“No need,” Zander said darkly. “Your body will fit in the trunk.”
* * *
Stormy always knew when Zander was pissed. His bluntness gave way to excruciating politeness.
“Thanks for this,” she said awkwardly as he waved the valet aside and opened the passenger door for her.
“My pleasure.”
“Elizabeth?”
“Is taken care of.” His tone suggested a brick, a sack and the East River were involved.
Clunk. Her door shut. She waited until he’d got into the driver’s side and fastened his seatbelt.
“I didn’t mean to get her into trouble.”
“You didn’t. Is the air-con a comfortable temperature for you?”
They’d fucked each other five ways to Sunday in the not-so-distant past. “It’s fine.”
One hand on the wheel, he selected music—Foo Fighters—turning it up too loud for conversation, and swung onto the highway. Taking the hint, Stormy slouched in her seat, shut her eyes and tried to sleep. But the bass beat aggravated her lingering headache, and closing her eyes only made her nauseous. Twenty minutes later, temples throbbing, she sat up. “Can you please turn off the music?” she called. “I have a headache.”
“No problem.”
She wound down her window, but the fresh air came too late.
“Pull over!”
The vehicle scrunched over gravel, she flung open the door and heaved miserably into the rangy roadside weeds. But there was nothing left.
Zander’s hand landed tentatively on her shoulder. “Okay?”
She shrugged him off. “Do I look okay?”
Getting out of the car she stumbled away a few meters until the urge to cry passed and her stomach settled. The desert wind brushed against her face, hot and dry and aging. When she returned to the Viper, Zander silently held out his flask.
“Trust you to think the hair of the dog is a hangover cure.” Still she needed the taste out of her mouth.
“It’s water,” he said.
“Thank God.” She rinsed, spat, drank, and felt better. Returning his flask, she shut her door and refastened her seatbelt.
But Zander didn’t start the engine. “When did I become the sober driver and you the party animal?” Reluctance laced his concern, familiar and hurtful. Yeah, I care about you, but I don’t want to.
Staring straight ahead, Stormy said sharply, “I’m accepting a ride, not a lecture.” She’d given up too much for him and the fact that he’d never asked her to, only made her more bitter. Was there anything worse than having no one to blame but yourself?
“I’m the last person qualified to lecture.” Zander started the engine and pulled onto the highway. “I’m asking because I’m worried. What the hell is going on with you?”
Incredulous, she turned her head to glare. “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe I’m still traumatized by being dumped by my boyfriend two seconds after I said I loved him.”
It was his turn to keep eyes on the road. “I ended it badly and I’m sorry, but self-destructive binges with a closet psycho aren’t going to help you any.”
Stormy tossed her head and then wished she hadn’t. “You only care because it’s Travis.”
Impatiently, he changed up a gear. “Jealousy wasn’t our style.”
“No, Zander, it wasn’t yours. I pretended I was cool about your hook ups on tour. And when I couldn’t pretend anymore, when I said, ‘let’s get serious,’ it was ‘bye-bye, baby.’”
“I run a mile from commitment. You knew that.”
“This wasn’t a run, it was a sprint.”
“Because you made me think about it, and that scared the crap out of me. Right from the start I said, ‘I’m shallow, babe, don’t get attached.’” His hand thumped on the steering wheel. “Dammit, I couldn’t have been clearer.”
“Like you never accept a challenge,” she scoffed.
Understanding glimmered. “You saw changing my mind as a challenge?”
“No, I’m not that calculating.” She massaged her pounding temples. “It just happened.” His expression reverted to confusion and she wanted to slap him for being so ignorant of the emotion she felt for him. “Falling in love isn’t something you have control over.”
“None at all?” he said, skeptical.
“There’s a point I guess where you can pull back,” she conceded, “but you choose not to.”
“That’s just—” Zander stopped.
“Dumb,” she supplied. Swamped by a sense of defeat, Stormy slumped into the seat. “Hell, I am dumb. I come from a long line of dumb.” She thought she’d escaped the family curse of choosing the wrong guy. Her grandma had done it, her mom, Stormy’s two sisters.
“Quit putting yourself down,” he said sharply. “You’re gorgeous and giving and—”
“And yet dumped,” she finished. “Go figure.”
They drove in silence for the rest of the trip. “I wasn’t good for you,” he said, turning into her street. “I trample over tender feelings without even noticing and you’re so sweet you let me.”
This was where Zander always got her, with moments of insight. But he was right—day to day he’d pretty much forgotten she was there. Stormy needed to be needed and Zander didn’t allow anybody too close. “I’m a pushover you mean,” she said lightly. “That comes from the other side of the family. Maybe I shouldn’t have kids, help the line die out.” She hated being a whiner, but couldn’t seem to stop.
He pulled to a stop outside her home, one of a U-shaped block of condos with a communal patch of dry grass in the middle. “I mean you’re sweet and deserve better and I’m constitutionally incapable of being better.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? If I’d been a decent guy I would have broken up with you as soon as I suspected your feelings ran deep. But I ignored the signs because I liked hanging out with you—cooking a meal together, fighting over the remote when you wanted to watch Days, lazing by the pool.”
Stormy listened, amazed. She thought of all the energy she’d spent perfecting her sex-kitten persona, all her bubbling enthusiasm for fine dining and late-night clubbing.
Turning herself into someone exciting when the person underneath—the homebody—was the woman he liked spending time with? Oh yeah. Dumb as a box of rocks.
“Are you still modeling?” he asked abruptly.
She hedged. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“At the band’s relaunch party, you said you were hoping to work in early childhood education.”
Her confidence stoked by coke, she’d wanted him to believe she’d graduated to bigger things.
Stormy unfastened her seatbelt. “Turns out you need a high-school diploma to do a childcare course.”
“Enroll in adult education, study for a GED.”
“I’ve been a centerfold. Do you see a childcare center taking me on?”
“If you have clothes on, sure.”
“Besides, I haven’t been around kids in three years.”
“It’s not like getting back into the tech industry,” he said impatiently. “Kids stay basically the same.”
Zander was stimulated by obstacles, not discouraged by them. But when your starting point was a mother saying you’d never amount to a hill of beans, it was tough to be your own cheerleader.
“And how do I support myself while I’m studying?”
“Modeling, same as now.”
The lucrative jobs had dried up since their breakup and the physical obstruction charge and resulting negative publicity hadn’t impressed Stormy’s agency. Being Zander’s girlfriend had lent her an X factor. Without him, she was simply another beautiful girl in a city full of them. And she’d always worked around Zander’s schedules, which had given her a reputation as a celebrity hobbyist instead of a career model.
She’d hesitated too long. “Stormy, if you need cash, I’ll help out.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I feel guilty about how I ended it.”
She could take his money and let him off the hook or let him suffer a little more and keep her pride.
“Thanks for the ride.” A smile plastered on her face, she climbed out of the car.
“Stormy,” Zander leaned over and braced the passenger door to stop her closing it. “Is there anything I can do that would make up for what I did?”
She found some courage. “You can say, ‘I made a mistake.’”
A moment passed, then another, each a leaden weight on her hopes. Zander cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I can’t do that.”
Stormy smiled, brilliantly. “Then I’ll just have to get over you, won’t I?”
* * *
Elizabeth was mistaken. Zander accelerated away from the block of condos. If Stormy was broke she’d have accepted his offer of money.
But guilt crippled relief.
The person he’d dated had been sweet-tempered, easygoing and quick to forgive—nothing like the resentful woman he’d just driven home. He knew she missed him, but on the rare occasions their paths crossed she’d put on a brave face, enabling Zander to sustain the comfortable fiction that he hadn’t hurt her too much. Today he knew different.
On Brentwood, he stopped for traffic lights. A jogger loped across with a sports rucksack bouncing off his bony shoulder blades.
Stormy’s bag is still in the trunk.
Screw it, one of his staff could return it. Except adding a two-hour round trip to someone else’s day to avoid ten minutes of further awkwardness smacked of cowardice. “Dammit!”
The lights turned green. Glancing for oncoming traffic, Zander made an illegal U-turn and retraced his route.
It had taken him too long in their relationship to register that Stormy wasn’t putting on her own oxygen mask first because it made no sense. What kind of person gave more than they received? Except when she had, eventually, asked for more—
Okay, he wasn’t proud of his response.
Parking outside the condo, Zander left the engine running and grabbed Stormy’s suitcase. The front door was open. As he approached, he heard two raised female voices, but the hall was empty except for two large suitcases and three cardboard boxes.
“Stormy,” he called. “You there?”
One voice stopped abruptly, the other rang clear. “I’ve been telling you for months I can’t afford penalty interest on my mortgage payments. No, I won’t shush! It’s my credit rating that’s affected, not yours.”
Stormy emerged from a room at the end of the hall, pulling the door closed behind her. Gripping the handle, she said belligerently, “What do you want?” Her mascara was smudged. Tear stains had scoured a trail through her foundation.
Zander raised her bag. “You forgot this.”
She gestured to the stack in the hall. “Add it to the others.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” The handle rattled and Stormy braced it with two hands. “Good-bye, Zander.”
He turned on his heel, walked to the Viper, switched off the engine and locked the car, silently cursing Elizabeth for getting him into this mess. When he returned, Stormy was sitting on one of the boxes, face buried in her hands with a grim-faced brunette standing over her.
“Don’t you dare make me feel guilty for doing this,” the brunette said shrilly. “Find a friend who’ll let you sleep on their couch.”
“I have no other friends.”
“Yeah you do,” Zander said. Stormy glanced up but he focused on her roommate. “What rent does she owe?”
The brunette’s mouth dropped open. “Ohmygod,” she squealed. One hand steadying herself on Stormy’s shoulder, she smoothed her hair with the other. “I’m Jill, and I’m a huge fan.”
“How much?” he repeated.
“Twenty-six hundred,” Jill breathed.
“Write down your bank account details and I’ll have someone pay it.”
He glanced at Stormy and saw utter humiliation.
“And the next three months in advance,” he added desperately.
Jill looked sheepish. “She can’t stay, someone else has moved in.”
“So kick ’em out, since you’re so good at it.”
The woman reddened. “That’s unfair, I’ve been really patient.”
“She has,” Stormy croaked. “Which is why I appreciate you settling my debt.”
They waited in silence as Jill wrote her details on a piece of notepaper, then gave it to Zander along with a second blank piece and her pen. “Can I have your autograph?”
He scrawled, You’re still a meanie. Zander Freedman, adding flourishes to make it indecipherable.
Jill peered at it. “What does it say?”
“Your support is appreciated.”
Stormy shouldered her handbag and pulled out the handle on the wheeled suitcase Zander had just delivered. She looked helplessly at the other luggage and boxes.
“Your roommate can forward it later when you have an address.” He said to Jill who was still ogling him. “I’ll pay.”
“Sure!”
He followed Stormy out, lifting the bag over the front steps, and looking around as he deposited it on the sidewalk.
“Where’s your car?”
She hesitated. “I’m catching a bus.”
“You sold your car?”
“Thanks for the loan. I’ll repay it when I can.” Wheeling the suitcase behind her, she started down the driveway.
He fell in step beside her. “Where will you go?”
“I’ll find a motel.”
“And pay with what?”
She wouldn’t look at him. “I’ll find a motel with a pawnshop nearby.”
“Here.” He emptied his wallet.
“Why are you pretending to care,” she asked bewildered.
Did she truly consider him that much of a bastard? “Why would I be pretending? We dated for over a year.”
“And most of the time you forgot I was there. You probably don’t even remember my real name.”
Shit. She’d told him? Zander hesitated, then looked deeply into her eyes. “All that matters is who you want to be.”
“It’s Irene, you jerk.”
“Jeez, I can see why you changed it… Stormy, wait up.” Whatever she believed, she meant something to him. He couldn’t leave her on the street, upset, with no money and no roof over her head. “You know what I did when I got home after breaking up with you?”
She walked faster. “Fucked some model or starlet?”
“Watched four episodes of Days in a row.”
“You hate my soaps.”
“Yeah.” He watched her process the implications.
She stopped and folded her arms. “Name two characters.”
“Marlena and Stefano.”
“Okay,” she said, trying not to cry. “I’ll let you help me.”