They were here to be seen—but not for long. The way Hardie figured it, they’d stay just long enough to have a drink and be photographed and gossiped about. In a world where jacking off in the back of a porno theater makes you notorious, this couldn’t help but raise some eyebrows. Hardie saw it as pissing on the burning embers of their failed “accidental death.”
They’d get noticed, and Topless’s little plans would fall apart, and then they’d get out of here and go ghost for a while and have Deke call in the cavalry.
Lane, meanwhile, looked sick to her stomach.
The guy with the cell phone—a production assistant named Josh Geary—quickly cut through the length of the restaurant and headed out the back to the parking lot. This was insane, what he just saw. Josh checked the photo again, squinting, but yeah. Lane Madden, looking like she’d just crawled out of her own grave. A few key presses later, the photo was on its way to a web editor he knew back in NYC. Geary was leaving for NYC next month, and hey, it couldn’t hurt to send a little gift ahead of time.
The editor, whose name was Zoey Jordan, texted back: I WANT TO HAVE YOUR ABORTION. (Ah, those
Within twenty seconds, the photo was online with a snarky headline: LIFE IN THE FAST… ER, LANE?
Hardie was confused. Sitting across the table, Lane looked like she’d just been handed a death sentence.
“This is a good thing,” Hardie said. “We’ve just proven you didn’t die in a car crash this morning.”
“Uh huh.”
“They can’t do a thing now. They wanted to kill you and make it look like an accident and they failed. You’re sitting here in public. That dork in the two-hundred-dollar T-shirt probably just saved your life. He sends it to his friends, they’ll send it around.”
“But then what comes next?”
Hardie looked around the restaurant. Where was the waiter with his Manhattan? His brain worked better on booze, he was sure of it. Half of the shit that happened to him today wouldn’t have happened if he’d had a minor buzz on.
“Look, I know you said that these
“Now
“Touche. And that’s the guy I told you about. Deke. He can’t be touched. He’s straighter than a grizzly’s dick. I can call him, and he’ll have an investigation going by the time my drink arrives. He lives for shit like this. He’ll investigate. Everything comes out in the open.”
Charlie’s words broadsided her.
That was exactly what she’d been afraid of for three years now, wasn’t it? The very thought of it terrified her. Even worse than dying. Because if she had died back on the 101, if she hadn’t been lucky with that stupid martial arts move and that fistful of safety glass… then at least her worst memory would have died with her.
God, all this time, fighting Them, struggling to survive, escaping, running, begging for a chance to live…
Maybe all this time she should have been rooting for them.
Because once everything comes out in the open…
This time, Factboy was in the bathroom legitimately—taking a quick leak—when the phone in his cargo pants pocket buzzed. He shook, zipped up, then checked the screen and smiled. A Google alert on Lane Madden. He read it, then read it again, just to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him or somebody hadn’t linked to an
“She’s at Musso and Frank,” Factboy said. “Right now?”
“Right now.”
“Doing what?”
“Having drinks, apparently.”
There was a pause on the line; for a moment Factboy worried that Mann would be thinking he was playing a joke, or fucking around with her for some reason (though he’d never dare). Instead she said:
“You know, I could kiss you.”
And with that, the call terminated.
Factboy’s face melted into a loose grin. It wasn’t that he relished a kiss from someone like Mann—even if she was hot, she was still scary as fuck. No, what made Factboy happy was that warm, fuzzy glow of job security, the knowledge that he’d done well, and that he could bask in it for a few minutes. When he rejoined his family at dinner, his wife was pleasantly surprised he’d returned so quickly.
And Factboy told his kids that, yes, they could order ice cream out on the back porch after they finished their meals.
O’Neal eased himself onto a wooden bench in the Lake Hollywood dog park. Hands and legs scraped to hell, bruising all up and down his back, head throbbing, eyes watering. What hurt most, though, was his pride. They have a word for henchmen who fuck up. And that would be…
As if on cue, his cell vibrated.
Mann. “
We’ve got approval on a budget extension. But we need to wrap this up right now. No excuses, no more mistakes.”
“I’m fine, Mann, really, thanks for asking.”
Mann ignored him. O’Neal supposed he should know better than to expect concern about his well-being or health. In her mind, O’Neal had fucked up.
“I have two new team members bringing a vehicle,” Mann said. “I’ve got your position. Stay where you are. We’ll come get you.”
“Do you even know where they are?”
“Yeah. I know.”
“And you’ve got a new narrative in mind?”
“Of course.”
At long last the waiter placed the Manhattan on the table in front of Hardie. Sparkling reddish amber, packed with fresh ice, a vision of Heaven if Hardie ever saw one. But he shocked himself by not touching it. Not until he figured out what was up with Lane, who was staring at his drink.
“What is it? What’s wrong? I mean, besides the—well, obvious?”
Lane picked up a fork from the table, then pressed her thumbs against it until her knuckles turned white.
“I’m going to tell you something I haven’t told anybody.”
“Okay.”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Okay.”
Lane told her story.
Three years ago—January.
They’d been goofing around in her new car, speeding down Mulholland Drive in the late afternoon. He said for a real thrill you had to do Mulholland in the dark, in the rain, going like 90 miles per hour. She told him he was ridiculous. He told her that
