before I completely ruined my life. But I worked in an uptight law firm with a brand made of sedate blues and sharp angles. Former-rock-and-roll-groupie heiress wouldn’t look good on them.
“Miss Drazen?”
It was Ernest Thoze standing by the reception desk, senior partner and my boss ten times over. I could have bought and sold him, but that wasn’t the transaction I had in mind. I wanted to earn his respect.
I glanced at Drew then back at Thoze. Shit.
Thoze the Doze + Drew the Screw = I-Had-No-Rhyme-For-How-Much-I-Didn’t-Want-That.
Thoze tapped his watch.
“Six minutes,” I said. “I got it.”
Thoze nodded and paced off. I was always ten minutes early, and fucktard over here had just given me seven minutes of reorganizing to do.
Fucktard smiled like a rock star. I remembered why I couldn’t keep my eyes off of him or Strat.
“I knew you were meant for big things,” he said.
I turned to face him, getting close enough to hiss. “It’s been real fun reminiscing, but let’s cut it short. I have a meeting. I’m sorry about Strat. That was fucked up. I wish I could have been there for you, but I didn’t know until it was too late.”
I didn’t wait for a response, because seeing him made me feel things. Physical things. Emotions. Perceptions. He made me wonder if my hair looked all right or if my skirt showed enough/too much leg.
I paced off to my meeting, listing all the ways people could tell lies of perception.
Excited utterances.
Dying declarations.
Present sense impression.
He must be a client.
Present state of mind.
Prior inconsistencies.
Gotta be a hundred copyright claims after Strat split.
Declarations against interest.
Business record exception.
Just keep cool and don’t give anything away.
Public records.
Ancient documents.
And motherfucking family records.
Boom. I pushed open the glass door to the conference room with finality.
I reorganized all the packets and laid one at each of the six seats with thirty seconds to spare. I opened the blinds that covered the windows looking out into the hall, letting everyone know the room was ready.
Life wasn’t like books, not that I had time to read. But in books, there were fake coincidences and chances that changed fake lives. In real life, things happened because you made them that way. I’d never expected to see Indy again because I wasn’t looking for him, and when I did see him, I assumed he was a client.
When he walked in ahead of Thoze and four other lawyers, plopped his briefcase down at the head of the table and smiled at me, my heart sank.
Not a client.
Chapter 4.
1982 – Before the night of the Quaalude
It was the era of the deLorean with a car phone the size of a loaf of bread. The era of payphones and beepers. Reagan, E.T. , Rocky III , poisoned Tylenol, and Love Canal.
I lived all of it and none of it. I looked at the world through a peephole in the front door, outside to inside. Everything was tiny, far away, and in full focus.
My friend Lynn was the lens. She was a card-carrying groupie. She’d gone to Carlton Prep, same as me, and she was, unfortunately, dumb as a box of rocks. The product of two beautiful, stupid people who made a ton of money for being beautiful despite their stupidity.
She was entertaining as hell though. Connected. Older. Fully-sexed. I didn’t want to be her, but I knew I had to go through her stage in life. And she needed me because she had a habit of getting her ass in trouble, and I had a habit of creating ways to get her out of it.
The Breakwater Club used to be stuffy and traditional but had changed to a venue for hip Hollywood parties on weekends. They let you smoke anywhere outdoors, but not inside. Which was annoying, especially on March nights when it could get down to fifty degrees by the beach.
Lynn struck a wooden match, hands shaking. She leaned on a concrete planter and cupped her hands over the flame. The corner of her cigarette lit. She sucked hard to pull the
“Miss Drazen?”
It was Ernest Thoze standing by the reception desk, senior partner and my boss ten times over. I could have bought and sold him, but that wasn’t the transaction I had in mind. I wanted to earn his respect.
I glanced at Drew then back at Thoze. Shit.
Thoze the Doze + Drew the Screw = I-Had-No-Rhyme-For-How-Much-I-Didn’t-Want-That.
Thoze tapped his watch.
“Six minutes,” I said. “I got it.”
Thoze nodded and paced off. I was always ten minutes early, and fucktard over here had just given me seven minutes of reorganizing to do.
Fucktard smiled like a rock star. I remembered why I couldn’t keep my eyes off of him or Strat.
“I knew you were meant for big things,” he said.
I turned to face him, getting close enough to hiss. “It’s been real fun reminiscing, but let’s cut it short. I have a meeting. I’m sorry about Strat. That was fucked up. I wish I could have been there for you, but I didn’t know until it was too late.”
I didn’t wait for a response, because seeing him made me feel things. Physical things. Emotions. Perceptions. He made me wonder if my hair looked all right or if my skirt showed enough/too much leg.
I paced off to my meeting, listing all the ways people could tell lies of perception.
Excited utterances.
Dying declarations.
Present sense impression.
He must be a client.
Present state of mind.
Prior inconsistencies.
Gotta be a hundred copyright claims after Strat split.
Declarations against interest.
Business record exception.
Just keep cool and don’t give anything away.
Public records.
Ancient documents.
And motherfucking family records.
Boom. I pushed open the glass door to the conference room with finality.
I reorganized all the packets and laid one at each of the six seats with thirty seconds to spare. I opened the blinds that covered the windows looking out into the hall, letting everyone know the room was ready.
Life wasn’t like books, not that I had time to read. But in books, there were fake coincidences and chances that changed fake lives. In real life, things happened because you made them that way. I’d never expected to see Indy again because I wasn’t looking for him, and when I did see him, I assumed he was a client.
When he walked in ahead of Thoze and four other lawyers, plopped his briefcase down at the head of the table and smiled at me, my heart sank.
Not a client.
Chapter 4.
1982 – Before the night of the Quaalude
It was the era of the deLorean with a car phone the size of a loaf of bread. The era of payphones and beepers. Reagan, E.T. , Rocky III , poisoned Tylenol, and Love Canal.
I lived all of it and none of it. I looked at the world through a peephole in the front door, outside to inside. Everything was tiny, far away, and in full focus.
My friend Lynn was the lens. She was a card-carrying groupie. She’d gone to Carlton Prep, same as me, and she was, unfortunately, dumb as a box of rocks. The product of two beautiful, stupid people who made a ton of money for being beautiful despite their stupidity.
She was entertaining as hell though. Connected. Older. Fully-sexed. I didn’t want to be her, but I knew I had to go through her stage in life. And she needed me because she had a habit of getting her ass in trouble, and I had a habit of creating ways to get her out of it.
The Breakwater Club used to be stuffy and traditional but had changed to a venue for hip Hollywood parties on weekends. They let you smoke anywhere outdoors, but not inside. Which was annoying, especially on March nights when it could get down to fifty degrees by the beach.
Lynn struck a wooden match, hands shaking. She leaned on a concrete planter and cupped her hands over the flame. The corner of her cigarette lit. She sucked hard to pull the
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