Turning It on (Red Hot Russians) (5 page)

“Mom, please. It wasn’t that bad.”

“Yes it was! You’re an inverted triangle! That’s the hardest figure to fit. And don’t get me started on the support problems!” She turned to Marcy, shaking her hennaed head, and pointed to her own overly ample bustline. “She inherited the Feldman shape! Poor Mother is so top-heavy now; she can hardly stand up straight. Who’d have thought Rachel, the adopted daughter, would turn out to be the lucky one?”

Hannah hunched her shoulders and rearranged the nest of scarves that hung around her neck. Did they have to have this conversation with Jack sitting right here? “Mom, it’s not going to be an issue.”

“Don’t tell me you’re wearing scarves with your wedding gown.”

“Why not? I could start a trend. Bridal pashminas. The inverted triangle crowd would jump all over it.”

“You’re not taking this seriously. You should try the nutrition shakes Rachel drank. She lost twenty-five pounds before her wedding.”

And walked down the aisle looking like a sun-baked skeleton. Even now, Hannah couldn’t look at her older sister’s wedding photos without noticing her protruding clavicle.

“Don’t even think it,” Melinda chimed in. “Those shakes are toxic. You’d be much better off simply skipping the junk food and having a colonic.”

What a perfect time to change the subject. Hannah tried to catch Jack’s eye across the table but he seemed determined to avoid her. “Actually... I’ll be having a dress designed.”

Melinda cocked her head in surprise. “Really? Who are you using?”

Edie gasped. “Do you have any idea how much that costs?”

“I won’t be paying for it myself.” Under the table, Hannah gave Jack a light kick with her toes. Finally, he looked over and she mouthed one word. “Now.”

The mothers exchanged puzzled glances. Jack squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. “Actually, Hannah and I have some news.”

Marcy’s eyes grew wide. “Good grief, you’re not eloping are you?”

Jack chuckled. Everyone chuckled. “No, but Hannah and I are leaving town. Do you remember Eric Conrad from high school?”

The parents looked blank, and then Marcy asked, “That little skinny boy with terrible asthma, who used to live over on Concord Street? He was in some of the plays with you in high school, wasn’t he, Jackie?”

“That’s him,” Hannah said. “He also worked on the literary magazine with me.”

“He came over to our house to study,” Edie said, nodding. “A sweet boy, but pimples so bad I could hardly look at him. Didn’t he ask you to the prom, Hannah?”

For the second time today, she was tempted to stuff a napkin into Edie’s mouth. “Mom! Will you listen to Jack?”

Everyone quieted. Jack smiled. “Well these days, Eric is an up-and-coming producer in Hollywood and, thanks to me, he’s a key client of Windsor and St. Clair. He’s working on a project for a top cable network and has asked Hannah and me to be part of it. We leave next Monday for Puerto Rico, and will be gone for ten weeks.”

Ralph Gordon harrumphed. “Ten weeks? What about your work, son?”

“Eric’s a client, and I’ve already laid out for the partners the many benefits of having a representative of the firm on-site.”

Mom counted on her fingers. “Ten weeks has you gone until the middle of April. That will put you way behind on the wedding.”

Marcy waved away her concern. “Not to worry, Edie. Hannah can take the train out after work this week, and between the three of us, we’ll get it all done. Tell us about the project, dear.”

Hannah smiled sweetly. “I’ll let Jack do that.”

* * *

After dinner, Edie and Marcy cornered Hannah in the kitchen.

“A reality show?” Edie sputtered, indignant. “Have you two gone crazy?”

Marcy shook her head. “Honey, if you wanted a vacation that badly you should have said something. My brother has a place in Key West you’re welcome to use anytime.”

“It wasn’t just that. Our friend needed help. Jack didn’t feel right about turning his back.”

“This is a terrible idea, and I think you know that, Hannah.” Marcy looked into her eyes. “Sometimes, as a wife, you have to put your foot down.”

“She’s right,” Mom echoed. “Rachel’s Darren wanted to go off on some ridiculous boys’ weekend trip to Las Vegas last year. All she had to do was say, ‘absolutely not.’ And that was that.”

“How nice for Rachel,” Hannah murmured, suspecting that if she tried such a thing with Jack, the results would be far different.

Marcy frowned. “You need to talk with him. And if you don’t, Ralph and I will. Promise you’ll try.”

“I already have. But Jack has his heart set on this, and I don’t see anyone talking him out of it. This is a chance for him to do something he’s always wanted to, and get the acting bug out of his system. After ten weeks, life goes back to normal.”

Neither mother looked convinced.

“Jack and I are adults, and there’s nothing to worry about. Now, can we please talk about something else?” She smiled and turned to her mother. “How is Rachel feeling? You haven’t mentioned her pregnancy once today.”

Edie’s face brightened at the mention of her favorite topic. “She’s the very picture of health. You know your sister. Everything she does, she does beautifully. And of course, she doesn’t have to worry about any of the problems I went through.”

Marcy nodded solemnly. She and Mom had been best friends since they’d met in a newcomer’s bridge club, and she’d been there through the years of infertility and miscarriages that preceded Rachel’s adoption. Ironically, Hannah was conceived less than a year later.

“But you on the other hand...” Mom sighed and shook her head as she dried a wineglass. “You should consider it a warning. These things run in families, and you’ve already waited so long.”

“I just turned twenty-five!”

She placed the glass in the open cupboard. “And by the time you marry, you’ll be almost twenty-six! Then you fritter away another year or two on your job and before you know it, you’re pushing thirty and everyone knows how hard it is to conceive once you’ve hit the big three-oh.”

“Mom, please don’t say that.” She could only imagine the reaction if she was to break the news that neither she nor Jack were sure if they even wanted to have children.

Marcy put her arm around Hannah’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. With all the treatments out there these days, I’m sure you two won’t have a bit of trouble. We’re all just living for the day when you and Jack are back in Port Pleasant with a family of your own.”

* * *

That night, Hannah waited in bed for Jack. The buzz of his electric toothbrush, the one Dr. Martinez and squeaky Robynne were always pushing, came from the master bath. With a sigh, she reached for her tablet and brought up her notebook app. Eric wanted her completed last fling list first thing Monday morning.

She’d already sent two names: Fitzwilliam Darcy and Heathcliff. How Eric was supposed to produce living versions of fictional characters, she had no idea, but that was his problem, not hers. She didn’t feel the least bit guilty making his life difficult, considering how much he and his show had already disrupted hers. Besides, he’d known her long enough to realize she’d never been fascinated with boy-band singers or prime-time hunk-du-jours. But his past text had begged her to name real people. She tapped her stylus against her chin. Maybe it was time to throw him a bone.

Jack came out of the bathroom in his Yankees sleep pants and no shirt. He’d started working out with a personal trainer after New Years and his upper arms had a nice bulge. Not Incredible Hulk bulge-y, but arms a girl could get lost in. And his shoulders had a swagger that had been missing since he joined Windsor and St. Clair. He climbed into bed beside her. She moved a little closer, tugging at the wide neck of her oversize sleep shirt to show off more of her neck and shoulder. Oblivious, Jack tapped the screen of his phone and began to scroll through messages. He sucked in a breath and muttered. “Assholes.”

It was as though a trio of gray-haired lawyers had just climbed into bed with them. “Big Windsor, Little Windsor or St. Clair?” she asked.

“All three.” His answer was more of a groan. He tapped the screen and the message closed. “I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

“Good idea.” She scooted closer, though work had already encroached on Jack’s mood. “You’re looking good tonight.”

He gave a short laugh. “Thanks, but too much of Mom’s cooking means more hours in the gym this week. Like I’ve got time for that.” He scrolled to a sports site and began to read an analysis of the Giants’ play-off loss. They were out of contention for the Super Bowl, but that was a small blip on the radar. For a true fan like Jack, football season never ended. “Looks like Quentin Brown’s having knee surgery this week,” he said.

Whether that was good or bad, she didn’t know, so she simply nodded and turned back to her fling list. Athletes were a possibility. She respected the dedication it took to succeed in a sport, even if she’d always been picked last in gym class. She added one more name to her list.

Jack glanced over. “Who’s Crusher?”

“A pro wrestler. Bettendorf published his book on how to be a well-dressed manly man. I met him last year when he was in town to do the
Today
show. Nice guy.”

Jack still had his gaze trained on her list. “Fitzwilliam Darcy? Heathcliff? Isn’t that a cartoon character?”

“
Wuthering Heights
, Jack. The foster child with gypsy blood who fell obsessively in love with Catherine Earnshaw, even after her death? Remember? Mrs. Barclay’s class senior year?”

“Sort of. You’re not making this easy for Eric.”

“I don’t care. We’re the ones doing him a favor. Who’s on your list?”

“No one that interesting.”

“I want to see.”

“You know the rules, the flings are supposed to be a surprise for when we get there. Besides, I sent it already. And I agree, this is bullshit. But it’s also a ten-week semi-vacation.”

“Come on, who did you pick? I showed you mine...”

Jack chuckled and put his arm around her. “All right, one name. Cristal Glass.”

“Who?”

“She’s a model and she was on a reality show. She married that guy who died skydiving last year.”

Hannah remembered the news stories about the Texas oilman and his surgically enhanced teenage bride. She sat up, and stared at him. “You mean that
old
guy? He was like seventy, and she was nineteen?”

“Twenty.”

“That’s disgusting! I can’t believe you chose someone like that!”

“Hey, she’s a widow. Have some compassion. A month shooting
Last Fling
might be just what she needs. Plus she’s hot. And her last name is Glass.”

“So?”

He chuckled and pulled Hannah close again. When he nuzzled her neck, it sparked a delicious little tickle. “So, she’s obviously Jewish. Think how happy it would make my mother.”

“Please! It’s not like you’re going to marry her!”

“But it’s
so
important when you have
children
!”

Jack’s shrill voice was meant to suggest Marcy, and Hannah shifted uncomfortably, thinking of her conversation with the moms in the kitchen. Best not to mention it. Jack was under enough pressure to please his family without knowing that they were picking out names for the grandchildren. She traced her finger over his chest. “So who else do you have?”

“I told you, no one interesting. Besides, you made fun of Cristal Glass, so I’m not opening myself to further ridicule.” He captured her lips in a long slow kiss that tasted more like Saturday night than Sunday. His big hand cupped one breast and brushed her nipple through her cotton T-shirt. “Anyway, I can think of something much better to do.”

“Can you?” Her voice was husky with desire. She put her tablet aside and ran her fingers through his wavy blond hair. Who needed a last fling, when everything she wanted was right here?

Chapter Five

“Who the
fuck
is that, and why is she wearing combat boots?” In the offices of Renegade Productions, Cody deWylde sneered at the screen in disgust.

Eric glanced at his host and executive producer, whose face was still slightly puffy from his latest cosmetic procedure. “Uhh...that would be Hannah Levinson. She’s one-half of Jack and Hannah, our New York couple.”

“You only answered one of my questions.”

“The boots? That’s just how she dresses. She’s kind of bohemian.”

Cody snorted. “Bohemian? As in hairy legs and armpits?”

“I don’t know,” Eric snapped. “I don’t pay attention to her legs or her armpits.”

“She looks fat.”

“She’s not fat. She’s just big. In a good way,” he added, quickly.

“It’s only good if she likes to show it off. My guess would be no.”

“Your guess would be right,” Eric said, defeated.

“Jesus Christ. And she’s engaged to the frat boy?” Cody shook his head. “You’re not just pullin’ my dick, are you, bro?”

Eric shuddered at the mere suggestion. “No. She and Jack are a couple. You liked his clips, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah. Him we can work with. Good-looking, all-American boy-type. Lawyer. And he sings, too?”

“That’s right.”

“Beautiful.” Cody made notes on a pad of paper. “But her? I don’t see them together. No one else will either.”

“But they
are
together.”

“For now.” Cody’s devious smile was a reminder there was no low this guy wouldn’t stoop to. He’d once been a figure skater but had nuked his career, and his female partner’s, by having kinky sex with a judge. The first time Eric met him, Cody referred fondly to the incident as his appointment with destiny. That should have been Eric’s first signal to run. A nervous quiver fluttered in Eric’s stomach. One of deWylde’s conditions for backing the show was that he would not only host, but also become the executive producer. Eric had assumed it was a vanity title, but now was he starting to see how much control he’d relinquished. “What are you getting at?”

“What I’m getting at is that she doesn’t fit the storyline. Frat Boy and Bohemian Girl With Hairy Legs don’t belong together. There are better options for him.”

“In terms of the story? Or real life?”

Cody shrugged. “What’s the difference? He wanted to come on the show, she didn’t. I’d say she feels threatened. His list is stacked with hot women. Hers is a joke. And you heard what she said in her interview...and what he said in his.”

“Those were leading questions.”

“Which he chose to answer in a way that suggests our boy isn’t quite all in. This is golden and I say we run with it.”

“Wait a minute. We can’t do that. I promised Hannah we wouldn’t embarrass her if she went on the show. She’s my friend. They both are.”

“You have no friends. Not on the set of
Last Fling
, at least. Rule number one. Don’t get close to the talent. Rule number two, misery makes good TV, and good TV makes the money boys happy. If the money boys aren’t happy? Spooky hospital shows don’t get green-lit.” Cody hummed
The
Twilight Zone
theme song.

Eric blew out a breath and ran his fingers through his hair. Breaking his promise to Hannah versus bringing Dr. Pamela Chandler to life? God, this sucked.

“Shall we move on?” Cody pressed the remote, speeding through the rest of Hannah’s interview, and stopped at an interior shot of the Homestretch Café. “This the one you did in Chicago?”

Numb, Eric nodded.

“How come you didn’t bring in a crew to shoot this?”

“It was Sunday. Short notice. I know my way around a camera.” Not only that, he wanted it done right. As Eric settled in to watch, he could almost smell the bacon and homemade biscuits. He’d arrived at the Homestretch early Sunday afternoon. Alison and another waitress, fortyish, with careworn features, hustled from table to table, while a dreadlocked teenage boy bussed tables. Eric kept his face averted, focused on his phone, as Alison approached with a menu. Then, he looked up and smiled. “Nice to see you again, Alison.”

She nearly jumped a foot. “You!”

“Yes, me. Surprised?”

Her mouth quirked in the little smile he liked so much. “No. One of the neighborhood guys was in here the minute we opened this morning, talking about how an angel of the Lord gave him fifty bucks last night. He described you perfectly. Except for the angel part.”

“I’m not a bad guy. I came on strong last night but you seem like a nice, reasonable person and I hope you’ll hear me out.”

She chuckled a little at that. “I am a nice, reasonable person, which is precisely why I want nothing to do with a reality show called
Last Fling
.”

“I know it sounds provocative, and that’s not what you’re about these days. But I also have an idea what two hundred and fifty thousand dollars would mean to you.”

Her eyes narrowed. She looked around the nearly empty dining room. The other waitress had just flipped the door sign from Come On In! to Sorry, We’re Closed. She took a seat. “Okay. Five minutes.”

His heart pounded at the sight of her sitting opposite, though she couldn’t have looked more different from her days as glamorous tabloid fodder or last night’s sexy pinup. She wore rimless glasses and a ponytail that was starting to come loose, releasing a few shiny locks around her face. Eric could have sat there for hours, just looking at her. But he was on the clock. This was his shot.

Quickly, he explained the concept of
Last Fling
, being honest, while trying not to scare her away. He knew the clincher was the one hundred grand she would earn for the first nine episodes and the bump of an additional hundred and fifty grand if she was chosen as a last fling.

“But if I make it to the end of the show and he chooses me, don’t I have sleep with him?”

Odd, that the stripper had asked the same thing. “Definitely not. Our couples understand this from the beginning.”

“Do they?” She sounded skeptical.

This might not be the best time to mention that the executive producer would award the prize money to the fling willing to go to the greatest length to win it. While sleeping with the contestant wasn’t a requirement, it would certainly improve a fling’s chances. But regardless of whether Alison won or not, Eric knew how much any extra money would mean. “Look, even if you don’t get that far, the one hundred thousand dollars would pay off the loan on this place...and allow you to keep providing a livelihood to those who are down on their luck.”

“I used every cent I earned to keep this place running. We were making ends meet, until the roof and the economy caved at the same time.” She drummed her unpolished nails on the wooden tabletop, gazing across the room at the teenage busboy.

Here was where Eric’s research was about to pay off. He gentled his voice. “When
Somerset High
ended, you were a star. You could have had your pick of offers. Instead, you left Hollywood, went to college, then came here and started this place. And I know why.”

She glanced back sharply, crossing her arms over her chest, challenging him. “Okay, why?”

“Because being famous created a rift with your parents that never healed.”

Her expression hardened. “You read that in
People
magazine.”

He gave a nervous laugh. “Guilty.”

“What else do you think you know?”

“I know that your parents ran a soup kitchen and opposed your career from the beginning. When you became famous, they never forgave you. They died in a car accident when you were twenty and you hadn’t spoken to them in years.”

“Well, you’ve done your homework. Unfortunately, most of it’s wrong. My parents were actually quite open-minded. That’s not to say they were proud of everything I did, but they encouraged me to follow my dreams. What disappointed them was that instead of using my fame in a positive way, I became known for clubbing, doing drugs and sleeping with married men. Can you understand why I don’t want to revisit that part of my life?”

“You won’t have to. You come on the show, and live in character for ten weeks. Think of it as an acting job.” Eric’s gaze followed hers, to the boy. “It’s a way to save this place, and continue doing work your parents would have been proud of.”

* * *

Now, he watched Alison on camera, talk of befriending a homeless mother and little boy, and feeling called by God to open the Homestretch. When the mother, who was now the manager and her dreadlocked son joined her, tears welled in Eric’s eyes. Quickly he blinked them away.

Cody snorted. “She’s going to tramp it up on
Last Fling
as a way to serve God? Well spank my ass and call me Charlie, I’ve officially heard everything.”

Eric looked over, stunned. “Aren’t you the least bit moved by that?”

“Moved, smoved. This is the Xposé Network, not the goddamn Hallmark Channel. Who’s next?”

“Him.” The swarthy image of Vladimir Shustov filled the screen.

The first thing Eric noticed was the terrible lighting, which cast deep, harsh shadows on the stripper’s face. He wasn’t smiling, as the other interviewees had been, though in fairness, the questions weren’t particularly lighthearted. On the tape, the interviewer asked, “What brought you to Miami?”

Shustov scowled into the camera. “My mother was dead, I had no family. The part of Russia where I lived is far north. Very cold and dark. I wanted to be where it was warm and there was sun. I found work with traveling folk dance troupe.”

Folk dancing? The background search had traced Shustov to something called the International Review, a Korean enterprise offering “the finest in private adult entertainment.” It was legal, but just barely.

“How did your mother die?”

“She and her boyfriend were shot eight times each. Mob hit.” He crossed his muscular arms and glared at the camera. “Anything else bad you want to know?”

Eric shifted nervously, stealing glances at Cody. Maybe this was a bad miscalculation. DeWylde’s ex-skating partner’s husband, who’d delivered him a live TV beatdown, had also been Russian. He might not want any reminders. But to Eric’s surprise and profound relief, Cody started to laugh. “Where the fuck did you find this guy, central casting?”

“He’s from Tammy’s list. He lives in Miami and works as an exotic dancer at a club called The Male Room, where he strips under the name ‘Vlad the Bad.’”

“Are you shittin’ me?” Cody wore an expression of sheer delight.

“Do you like him?” Eric asked, hoping he’d pleased Cody, and by extension, the network powers that be.

“We need a villain, and you turn up a male stripper called Vlad the Bad from Froze-my-balls-off Russia?” Cody gave Eric a friendly slap on the back. “I’d say you’ve just redeemed yourself.”