Lovely Death Page 12

  “Don’t bother,” Lewis said. “I can stop in and let her know on my way out. I’ve got a few things to run by her before I leave, anyway.”

  “Like what?” Nick said with a mischievous grin. “A blossoming sexual harassment suit?”

  Lewis hoisted his glass to the man who was technically his boss. Nick met it with his own. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” said Nick. “If all we’ve got left is minor sound tweaks, I’ll sleep easy from here on out. Because this sucker is done. I can hardly believe it, man. Another one in the can.”

  Nick set his glass on the edge of the mixer board. He felt almost as relieved as the axe-wielding Sandra had just looked on the big screen.

  “You alright?” Lewis said. The two of them had been friends for quite a while. Nick had brought Lewis up the ladder with him when Grindstone had been a hit. He wasn’t Nick’s first, but he had certainly been Nick’s closest friend since he’d moved to Los Angeles.

  Nick nodded, staring into the illuminated blackness that now came from the central screen. “Life’s just funny, man. Three years ago I got kicked out of my last apartment because I maxed out my credit cards to shoot those last few scenes of Grindstone. I remember being hungry almost all the time. Didn’t have a bank account anymore. Couldn’t even pawn my car because it wasn’t worth fifty dollars. And now, here we are.”

  “You made it, brother. Shit, we made it. And I damn sure wouldn’t be here without you. You know, a day doesn’t go by that I don’t have to stop and pinch myself mentally, tell myself that we’re really here, in the big time.”

  The glass emptied against Nick’s lips and he refilled it. “Jesus Christ, man. It’s unbelievable. When I think about all those quiet nights at Denny’s after we’d wrapped a shoot and all had to pile our dollars together to share a couple of Grand Slams. God, I’m amazed any of us survived those days. You, me, Sandra, and Kenny. I can’t believe we actually got you in front of the camera.”

  “I can’t believe my terrible acting didn’t make the camera explode.”

  Back then, when the quartet had been piecing together the first installment of Grindstone, they had filmed mostly at night, pirating their shoot locations in quiet, abandoned industrial buildings on the rougher sides of town. Fortunately, they’d never had any real problems aside from dealing with a few drunken hobos. But Kenny had kept his .22 pistol in the glovebox of Nick’s car nonetheless. If nothing else, it made them all feel at least a little more secure.

  “Not like I was much better, man. But we didn’t have a choice, did we?” Nick said. “It wasn’t like we could afford to pay anyone to fill the part. Besides, then you would have missed out on being skinned alive by a scrawny Jewish kid wearing a mechanic’s jumpsuit and about fifty pounds of makeup.”

  Lewis laughed out loud. “Oh man, you remember how pissed Sandra was when she found out we’d started using her makeup on him?”

  Nick cocked a finger at Lewis, grinning now. “Not as pissed as her boyfriend was when I asked her to do a gratuitous tittie shot.”

  At this, they both barked laughter.

  “Not going to lie, I thought he broke your nose. God that guy hated you. What a scumbag he was, right?”

  A moment of reflection softened Nick’s eyes, rocked him back to the days when his and Sandra’s relationship was rough, at best. She had been a friend of Kenny Mandel’s. They’d been in an acting workshop together. And when Kenny responded to the posting on Craigslist for an unpaid on-screen opportunity, he had been the best talent Nick and Lewis met with. Eventually, Kenny hooked Sandra into the project, and once she read the script, the deal was sealed. If nothing else, that sheaf of bound paper showed the true possibility of the film. It wasn’t just another of the millions of hackjob screenplays out there, written by starving actors with no storytelling ability. This was different. It was special. And it was written by a guy with no aspirations for screen time whatsoever.

  “Yes. Yes he was certainly a dirtbag. Him and that greasy fucking motorcycle of his. Everything turned out for the best, though. Didn’t it?”

  “Hah! You smug bastard. You won her the hard way though, didn’t you? Come to think of it, I think we all hated you at one point or another. Remember when Kenny walked out when we were over halfway through shooting the film?”

  “Jesus, I’d never seen him so mad before. All because he thought I was dismissing his stupid costume ideas.”

  “And stupid they were. What serial killer honestly wears a coonskin cap?”

  “A fashionable one?” Nick rolled his eyes and lifted his glass once more. “Actors,” he said with disdain.

  “Actors,” Lewis agreed. “But, hey. They’re not all bad, right? I mean, even Sandra came around eventually. I still don’t know how you managed that one, but good on ya, buddy.”

  A smile warmed his face as Nick thought of Sandra, probably back on their couch at home, watching trashy reality TV.

  Sandra had been staying there during most of the days while Nick was at the studio, just hanging out while Nick worked on editing. She hated shopping and didn’t have all that many friends in L.A., despite her rising popularity. Truth told, Sandra had come to despise the City of Angels. She missed her family back in Chicago and couldn’t spend a day out with one of her L.A. acquaintances without bitching about it to Nick for an hour after he got home. She hated being at their downtown loft all alone, but she hated the manic pompousness of the city even more, especially now that she had been exposed to the most extreme level of sycophants in Hollywood, the upper echelon. They were going to leave. Nick had promised that as soon as the editing was wrapped, they would pack up their things and shoot across country, somewhere far from the west coast. It was a bitter irony that Sandra, even more so than Nick, had come to loathe the city which she had previously wanted so badly to recognize her.

  Nick set his glass at the edge of the desk. He pushed his chair back and stood.

  “Hey, take it easy, man. Was it something I said?”

  “No, not at all,” Nick said. “Actually, yes, it was. You reminded me I’ve got someone to get home to.”

  “You aren’t going to stick around to celebrate?” Lewis held the bottle up to the light, revealing it to be almost half full. He sloshed it around, tipped it in Nick’s direction. “You’re not going to let all this good hooch go to waste, are you?”

  Nick snorted. “We both know that won’t be a problem. Just don’t hit on my secretary. Again. She doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.”

  “But she does have an obscenely huge rack.”

  “Just behave yourself. Cheers again, brother.”

  “Cheers indeed,” Lewis said. “Tell her hi for me.”

  Nick snared his leather jacket from its seatback and left the video editing studio.

  Lewis watched him go. When the door clicked shut, sealing off the rest of the world, he spun his chair back to the giant screen. He eyed the logo of the beer bottle: a shadowy priest wearing a disapproving frown. It was, quite possibly, the most befitting label ever placed on a bottle of beer. Lewis smiled.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me, Padre.”

  He poured another serving from the bottle, cued up the film to replay once more, and got comfortable in his chair.

  ***

  Nick greeted the doorman to his building with a smile. The guy wasn’t as much of a talker as the other guards, but he always tipped his hat when Nick saw him.

  Nick’s loft was located in the South Park neighborhood of Downtown L.A., off 11th Street. It was nicer than anywhere he’d ever lived before. Hell, with private security and marble floors throughout, it was nicer than most places he’d ever set foot in before. It was technically Sandra’s place. She had rented the luxurious unit shortly after the giant royalty checks for Grindstone had started rolling in. Even though they’d been dating for a while and had decided to move in together, they hadn’t signed the rental papers together because of Sandra’s insistence that they ought to be married first b
efore tying up their financial lives. It didn’t make all that much sense to him, but it was a minor thing so Nick didn’t press it.

  Instead, Nick bought a house in the southern hills, a gaudy, sprawling thing that he never visited. And even though it was occasionally used to host parties, he didn’t actually live there. His accountant had both advised and handled the purchase of the place. Apparently it helped to shelter Nick’s taxes, even if it didn’t shelter his body.

  The elevator doors bounced Nick’s reflection back at him in a mirror of brass. What he saw was a slightly healthier version of the person he had come to picture in his mind’s eye. His face was less gaunt. His hair was longer, but clean. And his clothes, while still pared to a simple tee shirt and jeans, were not ragged or disreputable. He looked like an ordinary guy. Sure, his pocket was full of hundred dollar bills—a holdout habit from his days when he couldn’t keep a bank account afloat—but a normal guy, by all outward appearances. On the whole, he remained unchanged by his rapid rise to success. He felt unchanged, too. Which he supposed was a good thing. The only thing that looked out of place was the bundle of flowers he’d picked up at the shop on the corner.

  And those flowers signified a much deeper evidence that Nick was different.

  Yes, he had changed, though in an unmaterialistic way. For the first time in his life, he was happy. There was no denying that. All the things he’d fought to achieve had turned out for the best. He was no longer a struggler. He wanted for nothing. But that wasn’t what was really important. The single thing in his life that stood out among all the others was the contentment of his heart. It was Sandra. He loved her more than any woman he’d ever known. She had completed him, had inspired him to find greatness. From the moment she came aboard the first Grindstone film, a spark had been ignited within him. She was everything he had ever idealized in a woman before. She was radiant and beautiful, but not conceited. She was a dreamer, with high hopes and a sometimes painfully naïve view of men. Her passion for film was what had made her leave her family in Chicago and come to L.A. And Nick knew that she was the only woman he had ever truly loved.

  Back in the early days, with her by his side night after night, his crappy indie horror film came to life before his very eyes. Even though she had a boyfriend—that heavy-handed James Dean wannabe with a piece of shit Harley Davidson—she had given Nick inspiration. It was because of her that the film had not only been good, but great. She had put her heart into the process, and in turn, had brought the same out of Nick. Never mind that Nick’s character in the film had literally had his heart torn from his chest. That was purely coincidence.

  Sure, there was his stalker to deal with, but he had heard nothing from her in almost two months. Things were looking up.

  The elevator sounded its electronic beep, announcing the arrival of the car. The sound snapped Nick from his reverie. He got on board, punched the circular button of the twenty-third floor, and endured a full twenty seconds worth of Adult Contemporary Jazz on the ride up.

  The doors slid silently open, revealing a long, wide hallway decorated in white marble and brass wall lamps. Modern art prints hung on the walls. They looked like the sort of thing a drunken five-year-old had created by taking a bunch of paint tubes and stomping on them in front of a convenient canvas.

  Nick padded down the red runner of plush carpet that bisected the hall, past the doors of two unmet neighbors until he reached his own. It was one of only four lofts that took up the entire floor.

  He turned the key in the lock, pressed the polished slab of red oak inward, and stepped into the home he shared with Sandra.

  Nick sighed happily. He hung his hat and keys on the brass rack above the entryway table. He put his wallet in the little ceramic dish and unloaded some pocket change. He kicked off his shoes carelessly as he walked down the hallway. Dim can lights lit his path, illuminating dark wood floors and smooth red walls.

  The loft was split into two floors. The first was comprised of an ultra-modern kitchen and an attached living room, with ceilings that vaulted over twenty feet into the air. The second floor was where the bedroom and office waited.

  Nick frowned. The place was silent. Despite the early hour, all the lights beyond the entryway were off and Nick cursed as he stubbed his toe against the corner of the couch.

  “Well crap,” he said aloud. Sandra had already gone to bed. Nick frowned, let the flowers droop to his side. Cellophane crinkled against his jeans and he let out a sigh. He immediately felt like the world’s shittiest boyfriend. This was the fourth night in a row that she’d already gone to bed by the time he made it home from the studio. The difference tonight was that he was two hours earlier than usual. It was only seven-thirty, and that was early, even by her standards.

  And then he saw the wine bottle. His eyes started to adjust to the shadowy apartment and he made out the bottle of cabernet on the otherwise bare kitchen table. It looked mostly empty and stood beside a single crystal goblet. That made Nick feel even worse.

  “Fuck,” he said, and laid the flowers on the counter. He would make it up to her. Maybe he would buy the both of them a spa treatment. Or hell, now that Return to the Grindstone was practically finished he was free to leave town. Why not book a couple of plane tickets to somewhere that thrived on “island time?” And then he had a better idea yet. He would order them both tickets to Midway International in Chicago. What better surprise could he give Sandra than to take her home to see her family?

  Nick resolved to do just that, immediately feeling better about himself. His laptop computer was in the bedroom so he tiptoed his way up the carpeted stairs, trying not to wake Sandra up. It was probably unnecessary, since after a couple glasses of wine she turned into a narcoleptic lightweight, but he was caught up in the moment of protecting her surprise.

  He ascended the steps, still grinning at his own clever thoughtfulness. He imagined her thin lips parting into that smile that melted him to the core, and could almost see the joy in her eyes as she fought back the urge to cry. Despite the monster-pummeling badass she portrayed on screen, Sandra was an easy crier. Her honest fragility was one of the things that Nick found strangely attractive. It was beautiful. Her emotions were as readily available to the surface as a live electrical wire that had been stripped of its protective coating. That was part of the reason her acting was so good. Yes, it sometimes resulted in flashes of temper that led to intense arguments, but damn was it worth the ensuing makeup sex.

  Nick climbed the last step and carefully rounded the shadowed corner. Streaks of moonlight guided his way from the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room.

  The bedroom door was shut. He turned the knob slowly and pressed it inward.

  He was completely unprepared for the scene he found.

  There in the light of the bedroom windows he saw a woman bent over on her hands and knees, her golden hair spilled down her shoulders and hanging over her face as she was slowly ridden from behind by a dark-haired man. Nick could not make out either of their faces and for a moment he thought that perhaps someone had broken into his home, some obsessive sicko who had dared to defile the bed of a famous actress. But it was no stranger. It was Sandra. When the man took her by the hair and pulled her head backward, Nick recognized the curves of her cheek, the swell of her breasts. It was her. And the man, he recognized him as well. It was her ex-boyfriend.

  “What the fuck?” Nick said. It was not spoken furiously. In fact, it was barely audible. He could hardly muster enough wind from his lungs to express the sentiment, let alone scream it. But the quietly humping couple both paused, turned their heads in his direction.

  “Nick,” Sandra said as she dove for the sheets. “Shit, baby, I can explain.”

  Nick stood there, hammered with a swell of emotions so hard it was like a freight train to the chest. Rage, shock, and heartbreak: these things pummeled his nervous system all at once, writhing and growing together in a maelstrom of dreadful wrath. His head swam, like a helium ballo
on that could come untethered at any moment as his overloaded system tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

  Eventually blind rage won out. Sandra was speaking to him, saying something that his brain did not even process. Nick did not remember giving his body the green light to do so, but in the next instant he was across the room, jumping onto the bed. He slammed into the naked man, fastening his hands around his neck and launching the two of them to the floor. Troy was his name, but at that moment Nick did not care. All he cared about was choking the fucking life out of him. And with the sweaty guy pinned to the ground beneath him, he was well on his way to accomplishing that. As he strangled the cuckold Nick felt the man’s still erect member brush against his jeans. Nick backed up and drove a knee into it, mashing those exposed balls into the carpet. Troy screamed. It came out as a pathetic, choked gargle, which only intensified Nick’s unhinged fury. The strangling was no longer doing the job fast enough.

  Sandra had begun to scream then too. She was pulling at his arms with all her strength but Nick batted her aside. He let his fists hammer down on the interloper’s face and neck. He rained six or seven blows down, and then more still. He pounded the fucker at least a dozen times. There was blood. Nick saw the slick coating darken the surface of his fists. He watched as it poured from Troy’s nose in a sanguine fountain.

  The lights came on next and Nick felt something heavy connect with the back of his skull. Sandra had brained him with a lamp. It knocked inky blobs across his field of vision and he toppled backward off his naked victim.

  Nick stumbled to the carpet at the foot of the bed, on his hands and knees, in much the same position in which he’d found Sandra. He tried to move, but found himself too stunned. The most he could do was blink his eyes and try not to collapse.

  Sandra was still screaming. And in the periphery of his vision he saw Troy sit up. The man was coughing, spitting out sprays of blood on the white bedding as he did so. He woozily rose to his feet and drove his foot into Nick’s side. Fortunately for Nick, the man was bare-footed and not wearing the pair of steel-toed boots that were currently parked at the bedside. It hurt, and much of the wind was taken from his chest, but nothing had broken. He fell to his side, rolled over onto his back.