Hadn’t that always been the way? Since she was a little girl. She’d been the pretty one, the ambitious one. Her sister? Not so much. She’d been the daring one, always ready to take a dare or a risk.
She still was.
She slid on a pair of tight jeans and a sweater. Well, not just any sweater, but one that had been Allie’s from the costume department, one that Cherise had decided to “borrow,” a sweater people might recognize as belonging to or being a knockoff of one Allie had worn in a famous scene where she’d pulled it slowly over her head while straddling her male lead on a picnic table.
Yep. Memorable.
Riley or Reed or Randy had noticed. The sweater was definitely an ice-breaker and nearly any red-blooded man in America would love to see it pulled off by Allie Kramer, or someone who looked like her, while being straddled.
Ryan or Whoever certainly had been turned on. Nearly came before he’d even kicked off his jeans.
She loved that kind of power over men. Hey, it wouldn’t be bad over women either, a power Allie wielded as if it were her God-given right.
Yeah, she thought, slipping outside without a second glance at the bedroom and the sleeping male within. She was glad Allie Kramer was gone.
Glad, glad, glad! She hoped she never came back. Working for Allie had been like being in some kind of indentured servitude or worse. Cherise had been a slave to Allie’s whims, fantasies, frustrations, and ambitions. The woman had called her at any time day or night and yeah, she paid well, but if you figured out that Cherise had been forced to be available twenty-four/seven, she wondered if she’d even made minimum wage.
All for the sake of being the “fabu
lous, beautiful, incredible Allie Kramer’s” assistant. Well, no more.
She took the stairs and stepped outside to the vibrance and pulse of the city at night. Now that she’d let loose some of her frustrations, she wasn’t ready to call it a night. Not yet.
There was still plenty to do, she thought, the dampness in the air invigorating, the prospect of the rest of her life exciting.
“Mrs. Brandon McNary,” she said aloud. Not for the first time. She loved the sound of it. As long as Allie Kramer didn’t reappear, Cherise figured she had a good shot at making all of her dreams come true. “Mrs. Brandon McNary,” she repeated, a little louder, and tingled inside as she walked on the sidewalk.
She would do anything. Any damned thing, to make certain she became Brandon’s wife. Allie Kramer didn’t stand a chance.
ACT I
She walked onto the balcony of the bed and breakfast. From the second story she heard the hustle and bustle of the city and viewed pedestrians walking briskly into the trendy restaurants and unique shops of this section of town. As a car passed on the street below, she narrowed her view to the West Hills, then leaned over the railing to gaze down the side street where the final scene of Dead Heat had been filmed, to that very spot where Lucinda Rinaldi had been shot and nearly killed.
A pity about that, she thought. The “accident” had turned out wrong.
In so many ways.
In her mind’s eye she saw them, the two women running. Her skin dimpled with the thrill and the first drops of rain falling from the leaden skies. She imagined the sounds of feet slapping against pavement, the darkened set, the hushed tones, the intensity of the scene and the actress, her heart racing, glancing over her shoulder, making certain . . .
“Sssh.” She sucked in her breath and gripped the railing as she re-created the scene in her mind. A buzz sizzled through her blood again and she fought the urge that seemed to be her ever-present companion.
“Not today.” With an effort she released the rail and stepped backward, across the wet flagstones into her bedroom. Surprised at how wet she was, that her hair was curling around her face, her shoulders drenched, she pulled the French door shut. How long had she been out there? Had anyone seen her? Dear God, she was getting reckless.
Be careful, she silently warned herself as she stepped into the bathroom where she found a towel and dried her hair and skin, only catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror now and then. She smiled at the brief images. She knew she was drop-dead gorgeous. How many times had she been told as much?
Still toweling her hair, she returned to the bedroom, dropped onto the thick duvet covering the bed, and saw the picture, one she’d placed so carefully near her pillows. The three of them were walking. A much younger Jenna Hughes was crossing an LA street with her daughters, holding each of their hands.
Her heart hardened as she noticed again that while Jenna was dragging the older one, who had turned to look at a puppy on a leash, she was half bent down to listen to what the younger girl was saying.
This snapshot taken by a member of the paparazzi said it all.
Sisters. As if they cared for each other. As if they had some special bond. Ridiculous. She knew all about sisters.
A slow-growing rage overtook her and she felt hot inside. Her lips tightened, her jaw ached. Her head pounded and her thoughts turned dark. Again. No matter how hard she wanted to kill it, the fury within was a dark seed that had sprouted, grown, and twisted itself over her heart for so many years now.
Beginning to shake, she spied a tube of lipstick on the table. Blood red. Though she knew it was a little crazy, she succumbed to her anger, flipped off the top of the tube, and smeared it across the glass, marring Jenna’s well-known features. In her haste the picture dropped.
Glass shattered.