3

Laikyn

By the time Wes returned with a very intoxicated Chastity in tow, I was tired of sidestepping all the questions. I told Jen I would catch up with her later, then offered to share an Uber with Wes and Chastity so she could get home safely.

When Wes said he would just take her back to his place, a sigh escaped. I wasn’t sure if it was relief or disappointment, nor did I care to overanalyze it. It had been fun while it lasted, but I expected this to happen. Wes was still in love with Chastity even though she treated him like garbage. I didn’t have the dedication or interest to help him get over the heartbreak, which meant he would be stuck in limbo as long as I was in the picture.

Pretending to be the understanding girlfriend, I agreed, telling myself Wes would call me eventually. When he did, I would do my best to bolster his self-confidence and act hurt, but deep down, Wes didn’t matter.

Now, as I sat in the backseat of my own Uber ride, my brain had moved on to more important things. Like getting from the main gate to the house without getting snatched out of my front yard. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t going to happen. Security measures had been put in place on the grounds to ensure no one got past the main gate, but knowing that and accepting that were two very different things when your brain continued to dredge up ghostly images of Diggy and the hole in his head.

The driver kept looking back at me through the rearview mirror. I could tell he was trying to figure out if I was someone famous. When he realized he’d been caught, he nodded and smiled.

If he recognized me, he didn’t mention it, but I was sure he was trying to determine if he’d seen me on television or in movies. Then again, I probably wasn’t the first famous person he’d driven around. Not that I was famous for any reason other than being Monica Quinn’s daughter. If it weren’t for the fact that I lived in Los Angeles, people wouldn’t recognize me on the street.

It wasn’t until he stopped in front of the house that I decided to ease his curiosity. “My mother’s Monica Quinn,” I said with a smile as I opened the door. “Can you wait until I’m through the gate?”

“Of course. Yes. Thank you very much.”

Rather than risk unauthorized vehicles getting in, I punched in my code for the single-door gate next to the main one, then hurried through, closing it behind me and standing completely still until I heard it lock. Once inside, I felt better. I wasn’t worried an intruder was lurking in the bushes because they couldn’t get this far. The gate was electrified, and without a code to open it, a few hundred volts were going to knock whoever tried to get past it on their ass.

As I strolled up the brightly lit front drive toward the house, my pepper spray held at the ready (you know, since there was no such thing as an absolute), I realized I was disappointed for a number of reasons.

One, Chastity was going to have drunk sex with Wes tonight, and she wouldn’t even remember it in the morning.

Two, I was going to break up with Wes without fucking him because he was going to have drunk sex tonight and pretend it was them making up when in reality, Chastity would kick him to the curb in the morning.

Three, I wasn’t the one having drunk sex.

And last but not least, my mother was home. I knew because there was a shiny gold Lexus in the front, parked haphazardly in the driveway, one tire in the grass, the bumper pressed up against the brick, dangerously close to the elaborate flowerbed she’d had installed two months ago.

I ignored all my disappointments except one. Right now, the only thing I had control over was the fact that my mother was home. It was never a good sign when she came home before dawn after a night out. It usually meant she’d brought the party to the house. And by party, I meant whatever person she was entertaining for the evening.

As I walked up the rounded porch steps that descended from the house like a cascading concrete waterfall, I felt the same sense of foreboding I got every time I came home. Not only did I fear what lewd act I might stumble upon once I went inside, but I also hated this place. I hated what it stood for. I hated that my mother thought it was her castle and she could rule the world from it. But most importantly, I hated that I still lived here, more so that I didn’t have the means to get a place of my own. If my mother had one lick of sense in her head, I probably would’ve had a trust fund to fall back on, but she wasn’t good at managing money. Unfortunately, when you put a lot of it in her hands, she found a way to make it disappear without much effort.

So, no, I wasn’t rich. I had a few thousand sitting in my account—what little I’d saved back when my mother showed her love by showering me with cash. Enough that I could get a place of my own and live there as long as I got a job. It wasn’t that I was opposed to gainful employment. I’d just never given it much thought. Or actually, any thought, really. I wasn’t sure I even had any skills someone would pay me for. Maybe that explained why I was still living here. Not only because my mother begged me to but also because I wasn’t motivated to actually work for a living.

Did that make me pathetic?

I stood on the porch, staring at the front door, and pondered that momentarily. Finally, I shook off the thought. I would let that keep me up another night, but not tonight.

I started to put the key in the lock, but I realized the door was open. Definitely odd.

The house was lit up like Monica had been entertaining guests, and based on the sickening scent of cigarettes and pot, not to mention the strange car in the driveway, I figured she was.

Once inside, I tucked my pepper spray in my cross-shoulder bag and locked the front door behind me.

“Monica?”

Yeah, I referred to my mother by her first name. Not because she said it made her feel creepy, although that was true. It was merely my passive-aggressive way of letting her know she sucked at being a mom. She only thought I was doing it because she requested it.

“Are you home?” My voice echoed back at me.

My mother’s house was ridiculously fancy, not to mention extreme overkill for two people. Eight bedrooms—five of which had never had a guest—and twelve bathrooms were far more than we would ever need. There was a parlor, three living areas, two dining areas—the formal and the one reserved for only really special guests—and even an indoor greenhouse, although my mother couldn’t keep a cactus alive. We didn’t use even a quarter of the house, but my mother was a diva and insisted status was only reflected by the material items one owned. Although I didn’t share the same ideology, I figured she was doing something right since she was still highly admired and sought after.

Too bad it had nothing to do with taking care of herself or nurturing the relationships that might see her into old age.

I scanned the interior, trying to determine what was different since I left for the party nearly six hours ago. It looked the same. Mostly. The circular staircases ascended to the second floor, a large marble table positioned in the center of the space with a lavish floral arrangement sitting on top. The gray-veined marble floors sparkled as though they’d been shined with a cloth, and under the cigarette stench, I could smell a hint of lemon oil.

The only thing different was the single Dior slingback pump that looked like it had taken a tumble down the stairs. I recognized it as my mother’s.

Monica had been gone before I left the house. When I was leaving, the housekeeper was rushing through, tidying up, emptying my mother’s dirty ashtrays and glasses of whatever liquor she’d received as a gift from people looking to get her attention.

That poor housekeeper. I didn’t know her name because she was the third one we’d had in the past month. They rarely lasted more than a week, two tops. My mother would find some reason to belittle them and then fire them. Another would come along, and I’d feel sorry for them because they were going to work ten times harder than they were getting paid for.

That was why Monica didn’t have house staff, although she claimed she valued her privacy. Probably the biggest lie she’d ever told. My mother preferred people waiting on her hand and foot. When I was little, there was more staff in this house than they employed at the STAPLES Center, or whatever they were calling it now, before a Lakers game. But over the years, the services she looked to for hiring had refused to keep sending people, claiming she was verbally abusive. Which she was. She was also a spoiled, surly, rebellious brat.

Again, I hated that I still lived here.

Looked like the housekeeper’s efforts had been in vain. A glance in the front parlor told me my mother had brought the party in there when she got home. The small throw pillows were on the floor, the coffee table was crooked, and the rug beneath shifted. There were two empty wine bottles, one lying on its side on the floor alongside a half-empty bottle of gin. There were stray pieces of clothing—a leopard print bra, a pair of men’s pants, and two and a half pairs of shoes—beige Valentino rockstud heels, brown Ferragamo loafers, and the other Dior pump.

That put the headcount at three upstairs.

Believe it or not, that wasn’t the record number of people my mother could fit in her bed at one time.

She liked to brag even though I tried to convince her that it made my ears bleed.

Beyond the stray clothing and reclining liquor bottles, there was an ashtray with half a dozen cigarette butts and a roach, along with some scattered papers and a bowl of marijuana. Not all the dried leaves, stems, and seeds were in the bowl. There was plenty of it dusting the tabletop.

Frustrated with my mother’s disregard, I decided to ignore it as I always did. Come morning, the housekeeper would scamper through, tidying up once more, erasing everything as though it hadn’t happened.

If only life were that easy.

With a sigh, I marched toward the stairs leading to the second-floor wings, sidestepping a red thong and a matching bra carelessly left behind.

Monica had one wing, I had the other, and neither of us used more than one room. My mother claimed that not only did she need it for social status, but the space was necessary so she didn’t feel claustrophobic. Telling her five thousand square feet would give her plenty of clout and more than enough breathing room was pointless. She was practically married to this monstrosity of a house.

I turned right at the top of the stairs, then came to a grinding halt when I heard a high-pitched cry coming from my mother’s bedroom.

Based on history, the sound could mean one of two things: either my mother was coming down from her last high, and she was sick, or she had some stranger in her bed. Those were the only two options, both of which I had experienced more times than I could count since I was ten years old and found her passed out on the bathroom floor shortly after some casting producer spent three days attempting to make her fall in love with him.

For the record, she got the part, but only because she blackmailed him with pictures of all the dirty things she’d insisted he do to her. That movie had reignited her career after several years of mediocre parts. Monica got what she wanted as usual, but I think it hurt her that she hadn’t gotten it because of her talent. She put on a brave front for the world, but her alcohol and drug abuse was directly related to her feelings of self-worth, of which she had very little. One might think she would’ve treated me better, considering I was the one person who truly loved her.

Based on the large number of shoes downstairs, not to mention the sounds following the first cry, I knew my mother would survive whatever was taking place behind her closed door. Her guests were obviously taking care of her.

I hurried down the hall to my bedroom, praying that Monica and her guests would not come out until morning. The last thing I wanted was to endure one of her drug-induced tirades or listen to her go on about the orgasms her nameless guests had given her.

I closed my bedroom door silently, flipping the lock for good measure, then went into the adjoining bathroom.

After going into the closet, stripping out of my jeans, T-shirt, and bra, then pulling on a pair of shorts and a tank top, I headed back to the bedroom. I considered washing my makeup off my face but decided I was too tired to bother. I could deal with it in the morning.

Right now, I just wanted to sleep.

A shrill sound jolted me out of a good dream, launching me right back into reality just as someone pounded on my bedroom door.

Sitting up, I tried to clear the cobwebs from my brain to decipher what was happening. A chill skated down my spine as I waited for the obnoxious clang of metal on metal to follow, reminding me I was in a cold, dark concrete box.

My gaze slid to the alarm clock on the nightstand, my brain attempting to determine whether it was really 3:57 A.M. or if it was counting down to zero.

“Laikyn! Oh, God, Laikyn! Wake up!”

Monica.

Not a box.

Not a countdown timer.

She pounded on the door. So hard this time, the mirror on the wall rattled.

I bolted out of bed, unlocked the door, and pulled it open, nearly getting a fist in the face when my mother reached to knock again.

“What’s wrong?”

“She … he … dead!”

“Dead? Who’s dead?” Jesus. What the hell did she take last night? The last time she’d had drug-induced delusions had been three years ago. That one night of chaos had been enough for a lifetime.

She pointed toward her bedroom. “There. Her. H—” Her chin trembled. “They’re … they’re…I need your help.”

“No. No, no. That’s not happening, Monica. I’m not … entertaining your guests. That’s gross. Really—”

Her bony fingers snapped around my wrist, and then my mother dragged me down the hall to her room.

“Hey!” I tried to pull away. “Ouch.”

“You have to … oh, Laiky, you have to help me.”

I knew when I was being manipulated because she used the nickname I detested.

Monica stopped inside the doorway and released me in order to jab her finger in the direction of the bed. I rubbed the spot where her claws had dug in but didn’t move.

“I’m not going in there,” I insisted.

“You have to.” She shoved me forward. “You have to help me.”

I stumbled into the room, my gaze snagged by the woman in the bed.

“Oh, my God.” My hand went to my mouth, and I backed up a step as though that might help.

It wouldn’t.

“Is she…?”

“Dead,” my mother bit out. “Yes.”

I glanced at Monica, taking in her disheveled appearance, the black smudges under her eyes, the rest of her makeup smeared. She was wearing a red silk robe, which hung loosely on her too-thin frame. Her eyes were crazed, her skin far too pale.

“What happened?” I demanded when I took in her swollen lip, puffy eye, and the jagged scratch mark on her cheek.

“I … I … I had to.”

Had to? Had to what? Kill the woman?

Maybe Monica was wrong, and the woman was just … I don’t know. Out of it.

Figuring there was only one way to find out, I took a step toward the bed, then another until I stood at the edge, close enough to see the woman’s blank stare. Her chest wasn’t moving, and her lips were tinged blue. Still, I attempted to find a pulse at her neck.

Nothing. The woman—whoever she was—was naked in my mother’s bed, and not for as long as I live would I ever get that image out of my head.

“I didn’t do this, Laiky,” my mother said. “You have to believe me. I didn’t do it.”

“No?” I laughed, and it rang with hysteria. “Then who did?”

I moved back to the door, not wanting to be close to the dead woman.

“He did,” she said, her gaze swinging to the far side of the bed.

He, who? Was she seeing people now?

“There’s no one else here,” I said, keeping my voice as calm as I could.

My mother shoved me again, this time toward the windowed wall. I peeked around the end of the footboard and looked down at the floor between the bed and the wall.

“Ah, Jesus. Monica, what did you do?”

There on the floor was another body, this one a man who was also naked with a glassy-eyed stare. Unlike the woman, who looked as though she was asleep with her eyes open, the man had a knife in the center of his chest, the handle pointed toward the sky.

“I had to,” my mother pleaded. “I had to, Laiky. He was going to kill me. When we realized she was dead, he went berserk.”

When they realized? Good God, I did not want to know how that realization came about.

“Who is he?” More importantly, why did she have a knife in her bedroom?

“The place … the party!” she cried out.

“Who. Is. He. Monica?”

“Lawrence Pierce,” she said, her eyes wide.

“Oh, my God!” I stepped back. “You killed a world-famous director?”

Yes, that was my voice screeching, but I couldn’t help it. Lawrence Pierce was the man responsible for directing some of the biggest box office hits of the decade.

“I only met him tonight.”

“That doesn’t make him any less famous,” I said snidely.

“He wanted me for a role.”

“And what? A simple no wouldn’t suffice?”

She squared her shoulders. “It was an accident.”

“What? You were holding the knife, and he just ran right into it?”

She was something else.

“I had to,” she said softly.

“And her?” I asked, unable to point at the dead woman.

“His wife.”

Oh, fucking hell. The husband and wife were dead? In my mother’s bedroom, of all places.

This was bad. So very, very bad.

“Those—” Monica’s arm snapped up, finger pointed toward the dresser. More panic escaped as her breaths raced in and out. “Those are their drugs. Not mine. They are not mine, Laiky.”

I glanced at the dresser and noticed the plate of cheese, crackers, and grapes—probably the explanation for the knife. Beside it, white powder and a rolled-up C-note. I wish I could’ve been surprised to find drugs in the house. I wasn’t. Unfortunately, with glamor came drugs of all sorts, and my mother had a penchant for them. Probably the reason I steered clear of them at all costs.

“Did you kill them, Monica?”

Her dramatic panic instantly disappeared. Like a curtain pulled down on her emotions, blocking them.

“That’s a ridiculous question, Laikyn.”

Was it?

While she was no longer panicked, I still was, and I wanted to be anywhere but there. I backed out of the room, my heart racing. “We have to call the police.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

She lunged for me, but I jerked out of the way. “I have to.”

“No. They’ll take me to jail. I can’t go to jail.”

Yes, she probably would end up behind bars, but at the moment, there were two dead people in the house. As much as I enjoyed all those television shows where people managed to hide dead bodies, those were fiction. I was not living in some dream world. When people died—especially famous ones whose chests were sliced open with a kitchen utensil—the cops had to be called.

Ignoring my mother’s frantic yelling, I dashed to my bedroom, grabbed my cell phone. Before I could dial, my mother came racing in, slapping the phone out of my hand.

“Call him!” she insisted, thrusting her phone toward me.

“Call who?”

“Rule. He’ll fix this.”

“What the hell is a Rule? Monica, I think—”

“He’s the one who came for you. He’ll help me again. Call him.”

I stared at my mother, my mind returning to that day when the man had come for me, saving me from whatever would’ve happened when that clock had stopped at zero.

No one had ever told me his name, and I’d never seen him again despite thinking I saw him everywhere. I blamed the hallucinations on my previous trauma. The man had saved me, so I had some misplaced hero worship, that was all. My mother wouldn’t even talk about him, but for the longest time, I’d been dreaming about him.

“Please, Laikyn. Call him. He’ll fix this. That’s what he does.”