Chapter Eight

Cars started to arrive around seven p.m.—vehicles that cost six digits all lined up in the driveway to celebrate Dad’s birthday ball. Sure, it was my celebration, too, but they weren’t here for me. The roar of conversation, the clink of glasses, and the occasional laugh filtered from below. I needed to hurry. Dad would be waiting for me to arrive.

I pivoted back and forth in front of my floor-length mirror for one final check. My freshly dyed, platinum-blonde hair with no more hints of blue, laid soft and wavy to my jawline. I liked the layers. Though I would never tell my hairdresser, Maria, she had done an excellent job on my cut. Edgy, but cute. I nudged a strand back behind one ear, revealing a diamond stud. A gift for graduating high school from Dad. I traveled my gaze down my reflection. The light-blue gown lay slightly off the shoulder and hugged my waist nicely, before spanning out at the hips to the floor. Like a small girl, I swayed side to side to hear the swish. I reached for Mom’s crystal tiara and placed it on my head. A simple hairpiece instantly transformed me into a fairytale princess. Mom would have loved it. I batted those thoughts away, not wanting to dwell on that right now. I slid on some rhinestone-glass stilettos, caught one more glimpse of myself in the mirror, and then sauntered out my bedroom door.

Once in the backyard, the crowd drew me in. Designer suits and name-brand dresses, necks dripping with diamond and pearls, all denoted big bank accounts and influential status. Most conversations dwelled on investments, real estate, charity events, and travel. Every once in a while, I heard movie project or actor pitches. This was Hollywood—everyone was only as big as his or her last job. And everyone wanted to be rich and famous.

“Cynthia?” I heard someone say my name. I spun around and frowned at the sight of the washed-up actress—so washed up, I couldn’t even remember her name. She did a few projects with Dad several years ago, but she had a bad attitude, so my father blackballed her from the industry. So goes the life of a diva. Her purpose for being here crystal clear—to win back Dad’s affection. Good luck.

“You’ve grown up so gorgeous,” she purred.

I narrowed my eyes. “How did you get on the guest list? Didn’t my dad fire you?”

She pinched her lips and didn’t reply.

“That’s what I thought.” I rolled my eyes and continued through the herd of socialites in search of the “birthday boy.” A few more people nodded at me as I passed, but most turned away. Not surprising. I had been wicked to a lot of the people here. I couldn’t help it. They all wanted something from my father—a huge pet peeve of mine. No one came to these things for the love of birthday cake and Dad. A bunch of fake friends and moochers. They all repulsed me. As a lead producer in Hollywood, Dad had money, power, and influence. Everyone knew it. And everyone wanted it. If he lost it all, they’d disappear in a blink of an eye. So, who could blame me for being a little rude sometimes?

Across the lawn, I spotted Dad. He conversed with a few men next to a three-tiered level of white buttercream frosting adorned with gold leaf and silver balls. As I got closer, I could make out the gold writing with the words, Happy Birthday, Jack and Cindy. Underneath the décor, likely our favorite—red velvet. His gaze met mine, and I waved and smiled.

He waved but did not return my grin.

Odd. He always smiled at me. “Happy birthday, Dad,” I said once I reached him.

“Excuse me,” he said to a man next to him and motioned with the crook of his finger for me to follow him to the side of the garden behind a tall hedge. Once there, he faced me, his expression tense. “I heard you were not good while I was away.”

“I promise, I tried.” I faked a pout.

“I’ve had it with you,” his voice stayed to a terse whisper, “I meant it when I said you needed to be nicer to the servants, the family, and that you would need to look for a job or else. Did you think I was joking about all of that?”

“Sort of.” I giggled.

The vein in his neck pulsed. “I honestly do not know what to do with you anymore, Cynthia. I’ve had it.”

“Dad, please. I haven’t seen you in almost a week.” I held out my arms for a hug.

But he stepped back instead.

Why was he acting like this? It confused me. Hurt even. “Come on, Dad. It’s our birthday. Can’t we talk about this later? I know you want to have a good time. So do I. Let’s just—”

“No!” He thrust his finger at the air in front of me. “I meant everything I said before I left. I told you what I wanted for my birthday. Honestly, it is all I want.”

Tears pooled in my eyes. He had no idea what I went through. He only cared about whether or not I treated the servants and Meredith nice. But what about me? Couldn’t he see his broken daughter? Completely lost and alone. That right now, all I wanted was for Dad to hug me and tell me everything would be okay.

“Crying will not change any of this. Whatever happens from here on out is your fault!” He stormed around the hedge and back to the party.

I dropped onto a nearby stone bench, troubled, confused, and afraid. Ignoring my perfect makeup, I allowed myself to cry. Losing him would destroy me. He was it. He was all I cared about—all I had left.

The crowd began to sing, “Happy Birthday.”

I dabbed at my tears with my wrist, rolled my shoulders back, and strode around the bush barricade. The crowd thickened toward the front. I tried to shove through, but no one would get out of the way. Didn’t they understand? I had to stand next to him. Today was our birthday. Since before I could walk, it had been our tradition for us to blow out the candles together. I shifted past a few more people. “Please, I need to get to my dad.” I figured, as soon as he saw me, he’d beckon me forward. “Excuse me,” I said to a lady who had linked arms with some guy.

She glanced at me but didn’t budge.

I squeezed between her and a kid. As I neared the front, Dad came into view.

Meredith positioned on one side, her daughters on his other side.

The candles glowed against his face.

I lifted my hand to let him know I was there, but he didn’t look up.

Instead, he puckered his lips, paused for a wish, and blew. The flames dissipated into smoldering wicks.

Everyone clapped and cheered.

All but me. Frozen, still a few feet away, unable to comprehend what had just occurred.

Dad hugged his new wife and her two girls. He did not seek me out.

In that moment, I understood. I had been replaced. Complete clarity slammed into my chest—I had no one. Surrounded by fifty people, I felt completely isolated. Tears burned my eyes. I sprinted through the crowd, knocking people out of the way as I went. A few cussed at me, but I didn’t care. I had to go. Anywhere but here.

As I approached the limo, Henry didn’t talk this time; he opened the door and stepped aside. Better. He can be taught. I glided in.

He slammed the door closed without any acknowledgement.

I glanced up and about jumped through the roof. “What the—?”

An elderly woman dressed in a form-fitting white pantsuit sat across from me. Her salty black-and-gray hair laid piled high on her head in rose-shaped swirls. Though she seemed old, her dark skin looked radiant, smooth, flawless with golden shades of makeup that seemed to glow.

“Who are you?” I asked.

She smiled. “We’ll get to that.”

I frantically hit the button for the divider, but it wouldn’t go down. I tried the door, but it also did not work. “What’s going on? What are you doing in my limo?”

“We’ll get to that. Right now, you just need to shut up and listen.” Her voice sounded melodic, calm.

“I’m sorry, what?” How dare she talk to me like that. I sat taller, ready to pounce. “I don’t need to do anything. Especially with you.” I dug around in my clutch purse for my phone.

The woman held up a manicured hand to study her long, gold nails. “You are sorry. A sorry excuse for a human being. I would say you need a lot more than I can probably give you.”

“What do you want? Are you a struggling actress who thinks I can influence my dad for you? Forget it. Not happening.”

“I’m not an actress.”

“Then what are you…poor?” I shook my head. “Well, I don’t do handouts. We’re not giving you a dime.”

“You might have all the money in the world—well, did anyway—but there is nothing you have that I would want, dear. Your soul is at a complete deficit, and you are, therefore, insignificant.”

“Huh! I’m worth more than you, I can promise you that.” Furious, I rammed the button on the armrest over and over with my finger, then my fist. “Come on!” It would not budge. I yanked the door, kicked it, punched it, and jerked it. Why won’t it open? I cursed, then snapped, “Do you know who I am?”

“Awe, yes. The infamous question all spoiled, rich brats ask when they somehow think they are entitled to more than they are.” She sat forward with a plastic smile that did not match her narrowed, incensed eyes. “You are Cynthia Tremaine. Born twenty-one years ago tomorrow to Jack Tremaine and a woman that I dare say, you did not deserve to have as a mother. You are spoiled, pretentious, and mostly ridiculous. Yeah, I know who you are, doll. And I am not impressed in the least.”

“Excuse me!”

“There is no excuse for you…well, your actions anyway.”

Lava gushed through my blood stream. Frantically, I shoved and kicked the door. Nothing. Solid, unmoving. I kicked it a few more times to no avail. I was seconds away from striking the window with the heel of my shoe. “Are you friends with the limo driver? Because he’s soooo fired.”

Her expression remained stoic as she slid forward with a sly smirk. “Oh, no, oh wretched one. I am your fairy godmother.”

I laughed. “Wow, I don’t remember doing any drugs, but you never know.”

She snapped her fingers, and the divider moved down and then up. She snapped again, and the door unlocked.

I reached for the handle.

But the woman snapped again, and it sealed shut.

Hallucinations. What was happening? I rubbed my eyes and shook my head side to side. Someone must have put something in my drink. I just didn’t remember having one yet.

“The sooner you accept this, the sooner we can get on with it.”

Has to be a dream. Maybe I still slept in my bed. I squeezed my eyes shut, then peeked through my lashes.

The woman waved.

I tried again. The same thing happened. Giving up, I opened my eyes, crossed my arms, and glared. Fine. Better play along, get this over with, so she’d get out of my limo, and I could get to the bar. “Okay, you’re my fairy godmother. Are you here to make me a princess?”

“While some women deserve to be princesses, well, some deserve to be maids.” She smiled an obnoxious grin.

It was the kind of sneer I gave women I didn’t really like but wanted to belittle. “This is pointless. Whoever put you up to this is so dead.” I rolled my eyes. “We all know which I deserve.”

“Yes, dear. We all know which you deserve.”

“So, who put you up to this?”

“A simple birthday wish, oh rancid one. Just a simple blow of the candles, and poof, here I am. Ready to change your destiny.”

“Birthday wish?” That landed like a kick in my stomach. “My dad? There was no way he would wish this.” Or would he?

“Um, I’m afraid it’s all he wanted. Do you not listen to anyone but yourself? He said it like half-a-dozen times.”

I stared, not sure what to say.

She folded her hands and shifted forward in the seat. “Listen to me closely, Miss Tremaine. If you do not accept what is about to happen to you, if you fight this, if you ignore any lesson that might be learned, it will become permanent. Do you understand? So, be a good, little Cindy, and do what you’re told. Evolve. Morph. Become something”—she waved a hand over the space in front of me with a disgusted expression—“anything better than this.”

“I’m sorry, but people don’t talk to me like that.”

“Maybe they should,” she sneered. “Now hush, I wasn’t finished. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that it’s impolite to interrupt someone when she is talking?”

My eyes widened, my nostrils flared, and my lips puckered. Fast, rapid breaths pressed from my lungs. I wanted to punch this woman, but I would likely break a nail. Or worse, sprain my wrist. It happened to a girl in high school when she slapped some guy. Violence wasn’t really my thing, anyway, but for this woman, I could make an exception.

“The only way to get out of what’s about to happen to you is to change. Seriously change. You need to show you’ve become a better person by the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve. If that doesn’t happen, well, let’s just say you will not be happy with the outcome, my dear putrid. Do you understand?” She held up a red, bedazzled cell phone.

My cell phone! “Hey, where did you get that?” I leapt forward to grab it.

But she pushed me back with her foot. “Not important.” She glanced at the screen. “Oh, wow, time flies. Almost midnight now. I don’t want to turn into a pumpkin. Must be flying, kind of like this cell phone.” She snapped, and the skylight slid open. She chucked the phone out the gap. A splash could be heard at the fountain nearby.

“Are you crazy?” I grabbed the handle on the door and jiggled it with all my might, unsuccessfully. I dropped to my knees, crawled to the skylight, stood on my tiptoes, and faced the fountain. The one lamppost did little to light the driveway, and I couldn’t see anything. I knelt back, but the woman had disappeared. Good riddance. I tried the door again. It didn’t budge. I slipped back into the opening in the roof, placed my elbows on the edge, and propelled myself up and out. I scraped my thigh on the edge of the opening and cursed. I would get even with this woman. So, help me. Well, as soon as I found out who she was.

I slid down from the top over the back window, to the trunk, and onto the driveway. Not an easy task. Once standing, I ran in the direction she had tossed my phone. It lay at the bottom of the fountain. I tossed out a few more choice words, leaned forward, and scooped it out of the water. The cracked display bubbled underneath and would no longer turn on. Wait until Dad hears about this. I glanced around the circular driveway but saw no one. All the cars had left. I walked toward the house and tripped on something. I hit the ground hard.

“Ouch!” My hand stung from scraping against the brick. I pushed back up and brushed off my dress, then gasped at the rough cotton material. What am I wearing? I glanced in the limo window, and my vision blurred with stars. The reflection revealed a gray maid’s uniform. Gross. I turned and tripped again. What was my problem? I glanced down and gasped. My sparkly rhinestone-glass heels had been replaced by tan canvas slip-ons one can find at any bargain basement. Doubly gross. Someone needed to wake me up from this nightmare.

I stumbled forward to the driver’s side and peeked in. Vacant. I walked around the corner of the mansion. Not a soul in the backyard. Weird. When did all the party guests leave? How long was I in that car anyhow?

In the distance, a siren sounded. Red and blue lights flashed just outside the entrance. The main gate slid open, and a black-and-white car sped in.

Perfect timing. Now, I could report that woman. With her voodoo magic, she had somehow managed to steal my dress, my shoes, and… I touched my head and hmphed. And my tiara. That was from my mother. Now the old fairy fart-mother was truly going down. I walked around to the front, ready to complain.

The cop car halted within inches of my feet, forcing me to jump back. “What the heck, dude?” I screamed as the driver’s door opened. “You could have hit me.”

A corpulent man in a brown uniform stepped out with a solemn expression. His handlebar mustache twitched to the side. “Are you Cynthia Taylor?”

“Tremaine. In the flesh,” I said annoyed, then changed my tune. “Look, I’m glad you’re here. There was this woman who broke into my limo and stole my—”

“You’re under arrest.”

I laughed. “Funny.”

The cop put a hand on his weapon and approached me. “Put your hands on the side of my car and spread your legs.”

“Yeah, right.” I stepped back. “In your dreams, moron.”

“Don’t make me say it again. Hands against the front of my car, now!”

“For what?” I asked, not amused. First, that old lady destroyed my phone and now, this cop. “Whoever set me up, tell them I’m officially punked, and let’s call it a day. Okay? I’m sure this will go viral. Who is filming?” I glanced around. “Good for you. Enough though. I’m exhausted.” I turned for the house.

In a fluid motion, the policeman caught my wrist, propelled me forward, and pinned me hard against the back of his car.

Pain shot through my chest. I didn’t have a ton up-front, but I had enough that slamming my “girls” against the hood stung a bit. “Take it easy. That hurt.”

“You’re under arrest for shoplifting at Darren’s Department Store. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present. If you do not have the ability to obtain an attorney, you may have one appointed to you. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?” the cop asked.

“You aren’t serious?”

“Do you understand these rights?”

Perhaps I needed to handle this a bit more politically. “Surely, we can do something to work this out, officer,” I purred.

“Do you understand these rights as I have stated them?”

The clanking of handcuffs sounded behind me, then they pinched at my wrists. “Do you know who my father is?” I yelled. “He’ll have your badge for this.” The cop ignored my rant and tossed me in the back of his grimy car where I’m sure drug addicts and prostitutes had probably oozed filth. No shower would get these germs off my body. That was for sure.

He climbed into the car and turned off the lights.

“Do you understand how in trouble you are, mister?” I leaned forward to the crisscross bars between us. “My dad is Jack Tremaine. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. He’s like one of the biggest movie producers in Hollywood. He made like forty blockbusters and is Tinsel Town’s most sought-after guy right now. People do favors for him, you know. You understand what that means, right? People will take care of his problem for a price.” I dropped back against the seat and narrowed my eyes at his reflection in the rearview mirror. “You could benefit, or you can be a dead man.”

No response.

“You’re so dead. I do not envy you.”

Still without a word, the cop drove out of the driveway.

“Do you understand? Jack Tremaine is my dad.”

The cop chuckled. “In your dreams,” he said under his breath.

“In my dreams? Buster, you have no idea. But it’s your funeral.” I was done talking to this dork. I’d let Dad and his swanky lawyer crucify him.

Twenty minutes or so later through LA traffic, we arrived at the station. I tried threats. I tried seduction. I bawled as the officer hauled me inside. As a last resort, tears usually worked, but not today.

He shifted me in front of a wall marked with lines to show my height.

A woman cop snapped my photo, took my fingerprints, and had me wait in a holding cell. The metal door closed and locked.

I stumbled to a brick wall and reached out to get my bearings. My hand grazed something sticky, and I cringed. Nasty! I rubbed my hands hard on the raggedy gray dress and sighed.

The air smelled of spit, puke, and body odor. I tried to breathe through my mouth, but it made me thirsty. The cage had three rows of wood benches smeared with stains, some already occupied. I searched for a clean, empty place to sit and finally inched in between a brown smudge and a red mark, and stared forward, wide-eyed. I tried to avoid looking at what resembled vomit on the concrete floor to my right.

I heard whispers and giggles to my left. I peered over my shoulder.

A pair of scantily clad women glared back. One had a large Afro, smeared lipstick, and a gold tooth. The other was a petite dishwater blonde with a black eye and sullen expression.

I glanced away, trembling.

In the movies, the one phone call became the saving grace. Tonight, it sucked. Only the stupid limo driver answered. He said he would “see what he could do.” What did that even mean? Could this day get any lamer?

I hugged my legs close to my chest and willed myself not to cry anymore. Feasibly, this nightmare would end with me back in my bed. I closed my eyes and exhaled, but when I opened them again, I still lay in the dank cell, and the prostitutes had moved closer.