1
Maggie
I love turning invisible.It’s a definite perk as an investigative journalist. I mean, it’s part of the reason I am an investigative journalist; it’s a chicken-egg thing.
Being naked to get invisible? That part? Don’t love that so much.
Right now, for example, I’m freezing my lady bits off in the closet of a swanky hotel suite waiting for a break in the story that’s been driving me for the last four years. Four. Years. Of creeping around LA in only what-God-gave-me to bring down one man.Thereason I’ve transformed from caterpillar Maggie May to the butterfly of revenge Miss Mayday, whistle-blower on the biggest scumbags in Hollywood.
As if on cue, Marty Zebulund strides into the suite. He lowers himself onto a blue velvet couch and runs his hand over the back like he owns it. The room is upscale and modern with a large arrangement of costly-looking flowers, about the size of a Fiat, sitting on the table in the foyer. Flowers that will be thrown in the trash at the first sign of aging. If that isn’t a metaphor for this town, then I don’t know what is. I’m trying not to shiver in the coat closet watching through the crack in the partially opened door. I lose my battle when the sight of him through the flowers makes me shudder.
Naked, cold, and disgusted. That could be the name of my memoir.
As much as it sucks to see Zebulund, it’s why I’m here, not for the actor, though it is his press junket. James Roe doesn’t interest me. Not his small-town wholesomeness or those expressive eyebrows that seem to say, “Watch out ladies, I’m sensitive.” Sure, he has old-school Hollywood good looks, and yes, he does seem to have a presence that naturally lights up every room he enters with just enough mischievous glint in his eyes to hint at good times, but pfft, whatever. That don’t impress me much.
I care why Zebulund is here wanting to talk to him at all.
The assistant that just brought Zebulund into the living room area stands with hands clasped. “Mr. Roe will be right out,” she says with a quick, polite smile. She’s tall, thin, and blond. She could be my twin. We come a dime a dozen in this town where the standard of beauty starts a lot higher. Her pencil skirt and white silk blouse are professional and flattering. I have clothes envy.
“Thankfully, I have your lovely company until then.” The moment he starts speaking the hair on my neck prickles. That voice, deep and jovial with an undercurrent of bile.
My stomach reacts like missing the bottom step of a staircase. I’m naked. He’s right there. I wrap my arms tight around myself as a horrible, familiar feeling of helplessness sets in. My nails dig into my palms. Think of the other girls. Think of the girls he hasn’t… corrupted yet. Find the focus. I swallow down a lump.
The assistant is quiet as she mumbles a response. I can’t quite hear so I glide out from my hiding spot, slippingUnderas I go. Going Under is what I call disappearing. It drains me so best to do it in small bursts.
“Can I get you anything while you wait?” the assistant asks as she stands in front of Zebulund, hands clasped. Zebulund’s thick arm and expensive watch draw my attention as I avoid looking directly at him. She studies the wall in the way all women have perfected while having their bodies analyzed by lascivious men.
“Fantastic legs,” he says as though she should feel complimented.
She clears her throat. “I better get back to work.”
“Oh, come on, smile. It was a compliment.” His voice is casual and yet pressing. “Sit down. I’m sure this has been a long day.” His finger taps the back of the couch. There’s no semblance of a question in his tone.
I know this. I’ve heard it. Those exact words, in fact. He must have a little black book of go-to harassment phrases he finds charming. I step around the vase of flowers wanting to protect her—to do something. My knees tingle as I look fully at him for the first time in years. He’s aged some. He’s always been an imposing man and time has not diminished that. His features refined are framed by silver hair over his ears, proving there’s no justice. There was a time I found him attractive and this knowledge makes it difficult to look at his face, except in discreet glances that cost me.
“I need to get coffee for Mr. Roe. I’d be happy to get you something,” she says still standing.
The only sign of irritation is the quickening of his tapping fingers along the back of the couch. People do not deny Zebulund. “I thought Mr. Roe would be interested in this meeting, but maybe he’s too busy.”
The assistant keeps a cool demeanor but inside there’s bound to be an explosion of mixed emotions. Stay and play nice with the man that could help her boss’s career or protect herself?
He’s a class-A manipulator. Anger and panic war within me and to my disgust I freeze. Incapacitated. Just like the first time I was in a hotel room with him.
“You don’t want me to get bored, do you?” A smooth grin transforms his strong features as he waves to the seat next to him on the couch.
She hesitates, glancing where he indicated.
It breaks through my fear and I step forward, imagining my bony knee slamming right into his junk. Exposé be damned. I will not watch her be forced into the same position I was. This will not happen again.
A voice cuts through the air. “Rachel, where’s that coffee I asked for?”
Rachel and I both back up a step. She smoothes her skirt. “Yes, Mr. Roe.” She angles toward the door. “I’m going to get it right now.”
The relief is instant in me and in the released tension of her shoulders.
James Roe walks into the room from a bedroom so his back is to me. The fibers of his gray tee are stretched to their maximum capacity around his torso. It clings tightly to his expansive and highly defined shoulders then tapers down to his trim waist. Hollywood is an equal opportunist when it comes to crippling body image standards.
“Hey now, there’s no rush.” Zebulund’s beefy paw runs up and down his own thigh. “I was just getting to know… Rachel is it?”
