FORTY MINUTES LATER, they walked into Bill’s Venice apartment, located on the third floor of an old brick building on Ocean Front Walk, the famous paved beach path that ran the length of Venice Beach. The windows were open, filling the place with the scent of the ocean. The distant sounds of laughter and bongo drums could be heard from the ever-present partiers along the walk.
She looked around his perfectly ordered room, which looked more like an office than a home. Against the far wall sat a metal desk and its swivel chair, bracketed by a bookcase and a large metal file cabinet. Over the scarred wooden floor lay a faded rug, its corners at precise angles to the walls. A black leather couch sat opposite an entertainment center that looked like a guy’s dream world—oversize TV, video game player, an XM radio setup.
On the clean white walls were some framed certificates, a few film posters. No photos.
Bill stood in front of the entertainment center. “What would you like to hear?”
“Got Lou?”
“Lou Reed, eh? That’s right, you like his music. The former glam rocker, current rock and roller, right?”
“Close enough.” She was pleased he didn’t sound critical. He’d taken what she’d said to heart the other day.
He picked up the XM radio. “But you have to admit, that guy’s had more styles than a Macy’s department store window. Let’s see what we can find.”
“Lots of people go through different styles. Look at Madonna.” She wandered over to one of the film posters. The background was a man’s face in blue, in the foreground was a dancing woman. Frederico Fellini and La Dolce Vita were in big yellow letters. “Do you like Italian films?”
“Not Italian films as a genre. More I like Fellini for his inventive filmmaking.”
“La Dolce Vita. That means—”
“The Sweet Life.”
“Remember how they used to call the hood la vida loca—the crazy life? Now with all the new businesses and money moving in, people are calling it la dolce vita.”
“That’ll be the day,” he muttered. “Hey, can’t find anything Reed-like. If you don’t mind groovy beach music, how about Jack Johnson?”
“Sure.” She crossed to his bookcase, checked out his collection of books on film, a shelf of bounded scripts, a slew of Kellerman, Hiaasen, Patterson novels. Funny to think of him directing a Baywatch clone when his tastes ran to more complex stories and characters.
The moody surf tones of Jack Johnson started playing. A song about a guy wanting to make love to his girl.
Bill’s arms wrapped around her from behind, his body swaying in time to the beat. He hummed along with the tune.
She leaned against his warmth, her concerns fluttering away. Being with Bill, listening to sexy, sultry music was definitely la dolce vita.
“If I don’t eat something soon, I might collapse before we get to the good part.” He straightened, turned her around. “Like pastrami?”
“Pastrami.” She gave a breathless little laugh, struggling with the quick switch from hot to mild. “I like. Yes.”
“Good. Remember when I told you I make the best sandwiches this side of New York? Now I’m going to prove it to you. You can wash up while I get it ready.”
“Wash up?” She touched her hand to her face, realizing what their heated beach interlude must have done to her makeup. “Please tell me I don’t look like a Rorschach test.”
He chuckled. “Bathroom’s down the hall. There’s cleanser in my medicine cabinet, hand towels underneath the sink. Dinner, my sexy lady, will be served in bed.”
Moments later, she stared at herself in the mirror, groaning at the black smudges around her eyes, the smeared red on her mouth, the mottled white on her face. Fortunately, it’d been dark all the way from the beach to his building, so he’d only had a few minutes to see her like this.
She found the cleanser, wondered if it was Vi’s, but so what? If she’d found other girlfriendlike stuff it would have felt weird, but the bathroom was all male—no extra toothbrush, no makeup, no tampons.
Smearing the cream over her face, thinking of all the other times she’d spent hours putting makeup on and taking it off, for the first time she wondered if she really wanted to keep doing this. Not that she wanted to stop cold turkey being a glam goth, but maybe like Lou Reed, she could shift a little, ease up on her style, on her life, on herself….
She swiped the towel across her forehead, down her cheek, her glowing tan-in-a-can skin showing through. She was starting to feel like an archaeologist, digging through the layers of Ellie. What was underneath the glam goth makeup, the fake tan, even below the pale skin, was, she realized, a mystery even to her.
SETTING THE PASTRAMI, mustard, pickles on the counter, Bill doubted she did things like this for herself. After a day of making coffee and serving food, he imagined her collapsing into a chair with a nuked meal, listening to…Lou Reed? He shook his head, smiling. Marilyn Manson, Siouxsie Sioux, Lou Reed. Other women were often too predictable, too cookie-cutter. They worked out at the same places, ate the same things, shopped for the same clothes. Eventually, predictability led to boredom and he bailed.
Unlike Ellie, who had a habit of shaking up his world, keeping him on his toes. He liked that.
Layering the meat on a slice of bread, spreading the mustard on another slice, evening it out just so, he thought she needed somebody to do this for her. Maybe she surprised him, but he surprised himself even more realizing he wanted to be that somebody. As he selected the best pickle in the jar for her because only the best would do, he finally admitted to himself how deeply his feelings for her went.
It seemed funny to have these epiphanies while making a sandwich, but on the other hand, he took great pride and care in making sandwiches. Not so odd that other things he cared deeply about would float to the surface.
He remembered a bag of chocolates he kept in the back of the cabinet. He set one, wrapped in shiny gold foil, on the edge of the plate. It stood out, nearly perfect, bringing that special extra touch to the ordinary.
Carrying the plates to the bedroom, he realized he would love Ellie Rockwell until he drew his last breath.
“DINNER’S SERVED!” he called out, rounding the corner into his bedroom. He stopped cold, his breath halting in his throat.
Ellie, naked head to toe, smiled shyly. “Hi.” She looked at the plate. “That’s an awesome-looking sandwich.”
He looked her over, from her dark glossy hair, over her heart-shaped face, lingering a moment on her lush, pear-shaped breasts, quickly dropping over her tummy to a final stop on the curling hair at the dark apex between her thighs.
“I have legs, too,” she whispered teasingly.
He ducked his head with a laugh, feeling like a schoolboy caught with mirrors on his shoes, as he scanned her legs.
“Very nice legs,” he agreed. Looking back at her face, he murmured, “All in all, you’re awesome-looking, too.”
She laughed, pleased.
He set the plate down on his dresser. “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. For food anyway.”
As he approached, that simmering look in his eyes leaving no doubt what was coming next, she felt her nipples tighten as a sweet, liquid heat permeated her body.
“I thought you said if you didn’t eat first,” she whispered teasingly, “that you’d collapse.”
“I did.” He stopped right in front of her, his gaze melting into hers. “And I will.”
Ellie gasped with delight as he dropped out of sight, collapsing to his knees in front of her.
He cupped his hands around her bottom, and tugged her to his mouth. Gently opening her folds, he inhaled deeply, emitting an animal sound of pure pleasure at the scent.
“You smell so sweet,” he moaned, planting kisses on her mound, flicking teasing licks along her opening. He nudged her legs farther apart, his pulsating tongue slipping inside, a man on a mission, going after exactly what he wanted.
“Oh, yes!” She grabbed onto his head, teetering slightly as he delved deeper, stroking and licking. His lips were a marvel as they lapped at her tight knot, made her crazy, on fire, her hips and thighs quivering with the exquisite torment.
Just when she didn’t think she could take more, he delved a thumb into her wet core, settling it masterfully alongside his relentless tongue.
The combination was like a torch to jet fuel, shooting her heat and moans sky-high.
Keeping his thumb going, he looked up at her, an unholy grin on his face. “I love seeing you like this,” he murmured.
“Good,” she gasped, pushing his head back into place.
The vibrations of his muffled laughter only added more exquisite sensation to his wickedly talented tongue and thumb, making her delirious with need, her body shaking like a missile on a launch pad, ready to blast off any moment. “Oh yes…right there…”
She suddenly sucked in a breath, holding it as her entire body froze, suspended, on edge….
Tears stung her eyes as the first orgasm rocked her, hard and fierce and swift, the sensations crowding each other, one hitting before another ended. She clutched his hair, back, shoulders, her body undulating, pulsing.
His thumb working her, he looked up. “Want another?”
“Are…you…crazy?” She blinked, looked down. “Yes!”
He drove her pleasure on, giving her another climax…and another…until, exhausted and spent, she grasped his hand and pulled it away, her core still spasming from his touch.
He kissed her tummy, her breasts, her cheek, then nuzzled her neck as he held her quivering body.
“Wow,” she murmured, “that’s the best I’ve ever had.”
A throaty chuckle. “That’s what you said the last time.”
“Yeah, but this time I really mean it.”
He led her to the bed, helped her lie down.
“We’ll see about that,” he said, positioning himself over her.
AN HOUR LATER, they sat up in bed, naked, munching on the sandwiches.
Ellie wiped her mouth, picked up a pickle. “This is the best sandwich I’ve ever eaten.”
He nearly choked as he swallowed. “Ellie, c’mon, the best sex…but also the best sandwich? You’re going to give me a big head.”
She snapped a bite of pickle, giving him a lecherous look. “Speaking of which, I’d like to do that next….”
He held up his hands in a sign of surrender. “Rain check, okay? This man needs his sleep before the alarm goes off in—” he looked at the clock and groaned “—five hours.”
“What time is it?”
“Midnight.”
They looked at each other.
“So,” he said, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. “Is the carriage turning into a pumpkin?”
She looked intently into his eyes. “I’d almost forgotten about that. No, it’s not. But maybe Cinderella’s dress is turning into sackcloth.”
He frowned. “What?”
She thought this would be easy. Especially after his softening on the topics of Marilyn Manson and Lou Reed, he didn’t seem judgmental about how people looked. Because that’s all that her confession was about, right? How she liked to dress and wear makeup differently, like the way she had tonight…no big deal, really.
But her throat had tightened, and her nerves felt hopelessly tangled. Because this was more than how she looked. On a deeper, visceral level that she didn’t completely understand, she needed to know Bill accepted her no matter what she looked like.
“I’m not who I’ve been pretending to be.”
He set down his sandwich. “You’re married.”
She rolled her eyes, fighting the urge to laugh. “No. As I told you, there’s nobody else.” She took a breath, released it. “Remember a few days ago, before the festival opened, you were at the beach trying to get a Benz moved?”
A funny look crossed his face. “Yes, but how did you know that?”
“I was the goth chick reading the Sin on the Beach festival poster.”
He stared at her.
“You called out to me. Asked if that was my Benz.”
Awareness dawned. He blinked, feigned a double take. “The spiky black hair?”
She nodded.
He looked at her black hair, which fell softly about her face. “No wonder you asked if I’d like your hair to stay black. You were…testing me.”
An edge had crept into his voice. “Bill, I’m really not a manipulator, if that’s what you’re thinking. Yes, I tested you, but…can you cut me some slack here? Maybe I liked that you liked what you saw, and I didn’t want…to lose you.”
God, she felt pathetic. She felt like the twelve-year-old Ellie again, idealistic and dreamy and angst-ridden over Bill Romero, who could squash her world with just a look.
I’m better than that, dammit.
Outside on Ocean Front Walk, somebody whooped, followed by a clanging sound like a bell.
Bill glanced at the window. “That’s Venice Beach for you, never a dull moment.”
“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?” she said sarcastically. She picked at a spot on the bedspread. “Look, as silly as it might sound, I’ve been freaked out ever since we got together about admitting my goth self to you, and after my confession tonight, I would have appreciated the respect of a Bill Romero truthful answer, like ‘I hate glam goths so get out of my life,’or ‘glam goths are better than French women’or even ‘I don’t care let’s go to bed.’”
He grabbed her arm. “Whoa, Ellie, let’s not make this bigger than it is.”
She met his gaze dead-on. “Then if it isn’t bigger than it is, what is it?”
He shoved aside their plates and drew her into his arms. “I want to laugh, but I’m afraid you’ll take it the wrong way. The truth is, I work in a business where people look different every day. And of the women I’ve dated, some have changed their styles so often, they make you look like a stick in the mud.”
“Like Vi?”
“Vi, yes, she changes her style. Not such a surprise as she runs a clothing shop.”
Clothing shop. As though the sexually charged, overly perfect French woman wasn’t perfect enough, she now had a business that rivaled Ellie’s fledging clothes-design business.
“So, after this week, can I visit you at Dark Gothic Roast, see you in your element?”
Visits? Is that what their future held? She clutched at the bedspread, needing something to hold on to, forcing herself to stay cool, composed. “Sure, come visit.”
“You said it’s moving soon? To here?”
“Plan is to move into a storefront near Boyle Heights.”
“East L.A.?” he said, incredulous. “Ellie, why in God’s name would you want to return there?”
She was starting to feel as though she were on an emotional roller coaster. One moment she was tied up in knots making the big confession that she thought would be a fireworks display, but instead sizzled and sputtered into nothing but smoke.
Now she was suddenly embroiled in the topic of her upcoming business move, a discussion that for her was harmless, boring even, but it had suddenly exploded in her face.
“You sound angry,” she said, surprised.
He exhaled sharply. “I don’t know if angry is the word. Astounded, perhaps.”
“Critical?”
“Critical, you bet your ass! Moving back to the hood is just plain dumb. Gangs aside, you’re a businesswoman, or so you’ve told me, and you want to move into a region where nearly thirty percent live below the poverty level? Where the hell do you expect to get customers to buy your products?”
With a sickening jolt, she realized this issue, not the one of her looks, was the lack of acceptance she’d been so fearful about. His jaw was tight with tension, his eyes were cold with disbelief and anger.
It’s none of his business, she told herself. But as soon as she thought that, her insides caved in because deep down, she’d hoped the two of them would return to their community, their roots, together.
“I don’t want to explain my reasons,” she said quietly, collecting the plates to give herself something to do. “I already told you and Jimmie the reasons why. Suffice to say, the neighborhood is changing for the better, and I want to be part of that change. Mom’s going to be the bookkeeper for my business, hopefully for the others I rent to, as well. It’s an opportunity for her, too, because she’ll own stock in the business, be a part of something that’s growing.”
He nodded, a smirk on his face. “You should talk to Jimmie about renting some of that space for his indie company.”
“The company he wants to partner with you?”
“An independent film company is a small dream, Ellie, with small returns. Just like your moving back to the hood is a small dream, Ellie, with even smaller returns. I dream big. That’s the difference between you and me.”
She felt raw and exposed, resentful and hurt. The plan she’d been nurturing for months—frightened but excited at the venture of expanding not only the coffee business, but other ventures—had just been unilaterally trashed.
She slid off the bed, picked up the plates. “I’ll, uh, take these back into the kitchen. It’s late, and you have to get up early, so why don’t you get into bed.”
As she left, she remembered Magellan’s words that day she and Bill had been on the stage—Cinderella didn’t make it home before midnight, but the story didn’t end there.
Boy, did he have that wrong. Cinderella didn’t make it home before midnight, but she should have because the story didn’t just end, it had just come to a grinding halt.
AT SIX THE NEXT MORNING, Ellie slipped inside the beach house, trying not to make any sound so as not to wake anyone.
“El, is that you?” Candy, dressed in a white bikini bottom, a white shirt tied around her waist, did a double take at her hair. “You dyed it black again?”
Ellie nodded, shutting the front door behind her.
“Wearing your burlesque skirt with a Sin on the Beach T-shirt?”
“Yeah, it’s the new goth beach look. Part Sandra Dee, part Elvira.”
Candy laughed, then gave her friend a saucy look. “So if you’re sneaking in, that must mean…”
Ellie wandered into the kitchen to make coffee. “Bill and I had a date, yes.”
“You sound a little—”
“Just tired, that’s all.” She didn’t want to talk about it. Not yet. As she filled the coffeepot, she glanced at Candy. “And unless you’ve started sleeping in your bikini bottoms, I think you just sneaked in, too.”
Candy blushed. “Yeah, but it’s not serious, of course. Just—”
“I know. Sensible sex.” Maybe she should have tried that plan with Bill. Made a lot more sense than her midnight one, that’s for sure. “How’s our Sara? Did she sneak in, too?”
“Not yet.” Candy sat at the kitchen counter, grinning like a kid. “Pretty good vacation, eh?”
“Sure is.” Ellie busied herself pouring coffee into the filter, getting down the mugs.
“I have a business luncheon today. Do you have another call on the set?”
She did, but she didn’t want to go. “Yes.”
“Cool. I bet Bill drools every time he sees you in one of your killer bikinis.”
“Yeah,” she said softly, thinking how he was anything but drooling when he’d dropped her off. This morning they’d been pleasant to each other. Quite civil, actually, in an aren’t-we-being-grownup-despite-our-devastating-tiff kind of way.
But it had sucked all the same.
He’d given her a quick kiss on the lips goodbye, she’d said something casually cheery like “Have a great day,” but her move to East L.A. had definitely built a cold wall between them.
“Well,” Candy said, heading off, “gotta hit the shower, get ready for the luncheon. It’s so cool you and Bill got together after all these years. I swear, El, it’s like one of those Disney movies, where despite seemingly insurmountable obstacles, true love wins out.”
“Yeah,” Ellie muttered, “a real Cinderella story.”
She flipped on the coffeemaker, not sure whether to laugh or cry.