Married Lovers Read online

  “Gotta use the john,” he said.

  On the way to the bathroom he stopped off in Evie’s bedroom where he took a stack of tens and twenties from his jacket pocket and artfully distributed them around the room. That way it didn’t look like a hand-out; hopefully Evie would think she’d left the money lying around.

  It was ridiculous that she wouldn’t allow him to help her out. There he was living in a ten-thousand-square-foot mansion in Beverly Hills, making an excellent living, while she was stuck with her dead-beat husband in Silverlake barely able to pay the bills.

  The three boys were happy to devour their In ’n’ Out burgers along with cartons of unhealthy French fries and scads of tomato ketchup. After watching them stuff themselves, Ryan took them to the park where they ran riot, and on the way back to the house he stopped at Best Buy and bought them each Sony PSPs. They were beyond excited.

  By the time he delivered them back to Evie he felt as if he’d taken a five-mile hike.

  “Your kids have worn me out,” he complained. “Dunno how you do it.”

  “You’re not as young as you used to be,” she remarked with sisterly candor. “Face it, big brother, you’re getting up there.”

  “I’m thirty-nine,” he objected.

  “Soon to be forty,” she pointed out.

  Jesus! Was it true? Was he about to score the big four O? Crap! No longer the hot shot young producer in town, he, Ryan Richards, was hitting middle age. He could hardly believe it.

  He started thinking about his earlier conversation with Don. Deep down he knew Don was right, he wasn’t as happy as he should be with Mandy. She was always on a rant about something or other, always complaining and nagging. And for the last year their sex life had been practically non-existent–ever since the stillbirth of their son. Whenever he made a move, Mandy shied away from him, coming up with yet another lame excuse. This from a woman who’d once prided herself on giving the superlative blow-job.

  Perhaps they’d both be better off if they weren’t together.

  Suddenly the word “divorce” slipped into his head.

  No. Impossible. His mom would be so disappointed if he couldn’t make it work. Before his dad had passed, his parents had been married for forty-five blissful years. Divorce was not a situation his mom would take lightly. And as for Hamilton J. Heckerling–Jesus! The old man would probably put a hit out on him.

  Ryan smiled grimly as he imagined himself running around L.A. scrutinizing every other person as a potential assassin, while checking under his car to see if there was a bomb planted there.

  Your imagination is out of control, he told himself as he kissed his sister goodbye.

  “Take care,” Evie said, squeezing his arm.

  “No, you take care,” he responded. “When’s Marty getting out?”

  “This week.”

  “Is he going to A.A.?”

  “He says he doesn’t need to.”

  “Evie—”

  “I know, I know,” she said, refusing to look him in the eye. “Please don’t lecture me. It’ll be fine.”

  But they both knew it wouldn’t be.

  She touched his arm again. “Is everything okay with you and Mandy?” she asked as they walked toward the front door.

  His sister had excellent instincts when it came to him, but he didn’t care to get into it.

  “Yeah, sure, everything’s great,” he said breezily. “Why?”

  “I don’t know, you look tired.”

  Hmm…reminding him of his upcoming birthday wasn’t enough, now he looked tired. Great!

  Today was not turning out to be the best of days.

  ANYA

  Life in the city of Magas was harsh. With so many refugees pouring in–over two hundred and fifty thousand–food and housing was short. Anya soon found herself separated from the mother and children she’d traveled with. Before long she ended up alone with only the clothes she was wearing and a chunk of stale bread a kindly old woman had given her. No money. No identity. But still, nobody could take away her delicate beauty.

  The refugee camps were filled to bursting, nowhere to go, nowhere to settle. Anya hovered on the perimeter, shivering, half-starved, her thin body trembling, unable to speak as she remembered the horrors she’d witnessed.

  This was how Sergei found her. A resident of Magas, he’d been given a job to do by his boss, fat old Greedy Boris Pinski, a man of many trades. Greedy Boris dealt in arms and black-market goods. He also dealt in women, and his young henchman, Sergei, was dispatched to the refugee camps to see if he could come up with any strays Greedy Boris might put to good use in the underground brothel he ran in the middle of the city.

  Serge drove a dusty American station-wagon his boss had won in a card game. By the time he came across Anya the wagon was already filled with two sisters, a scrawny girl with lank red hair, and a short fat woman who Sergei knew Greedy Boris would reject–but what could he do? The pickings were not exactly abundant.

  He almost didn’t stop for Anya. Such a skinny little thing and much too young. Then he caught a glimpse of her face, and for a moment he was lost in her pale blue eyes–so filled with pain, so expressive. He pulled the wagon to a sharp stop. “Get in,” he ordered, jerking his thumb.

  She did as she was told and climbed into the back of the station-wagon. The other women ignored her; they had their own problems.

  Sergei drove his carload of women to the center of the city and delivered them to Greedy Boris, all of them except Anya, whom he hid in the trunk. “Stay quiet,” he warned her. “If you behave and give me no trouble, you’ll get food and a place to sleep.”

  She stayed quiet. She was fourteen. She didn’t know what else to do.

  At first Sergei decided he would keep Anya for a few days, have his way with her, then hand her over to Greedy Boris. But this was not to be, for twenty-year-old Sergei, who’d lived most of his life on the streets using his wits to survive, fell in love with the child.

  He took her to the room he rented in a run-down house, made her strong tea and pieces of burnt toast with thick black pudding spread on top, then after washing her in a communal bathroom, he allowed her to sleep in his bed, while he settled on his one ratty chair with loose springs and a torn cover.

  He considered himself mad to do this, but there was something about Anya, he didn’t quite know what it was. She refused to speak, not one word; all she did was look at him with those big sad blue eyes and that was enough.

  He realized she must have been raped, for when he’d washed her he’d discovered dried blood stuck to her thighs. It was obvious that the girl had suffered a terrible ordeal.

  Yes, he could have left her with Greedy Boris, but why would he do that? She looked at him with such longing, a yearning in her eyes that begged to belong, to be close to someone.

  Sexually he forced himself not to touch her. He wanted to, but somehow he felt it wouldn’t be right. In a way he was afraid. This was strange, as Sergei had never been afraid of anything.

  Every day he tried to persuade her to speak. She steadfastly refused.

  When he had to go out to work, leaving her alone in the room, he sternly instructed her that under no circumstances was she to answer the door.

  She nodded her head.

  “One of these days you will say something to me, yes?” he asked her in the Russian language they shared.

  She nodded again.

  “I can be patient,” he said.

  He thought about all the whores he’d screwed, all the women who’d passed through his life. He thought about his stepmother, who’d forced him to have sex with her when he was twelve. His stepmother’s best friend had also used him for her own pleasure. And then a procession of women all shapes, sizes and ages. Those women he’d used for his own benefit.

  Sergei had developed a tough exterior. He’d had to.

  After two nights of sleeping on the chair, he decided it was okay to move into the bed next to her.

  She immedia
tely shied away from him, those sad eyes of hers filled with fear.

  “I will not touch you,” he promised. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

  He turned his back to her and slept fitfully.

  Early in the morning she leaned over and whispered in his ear. “My name is Anya.”

  “Oh,” he said, startled. “You can talk.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “Thank you for your kindness.”

  The girl was thanking him. Nobody had ever thanked him before. He was filled with a strange feeling.

  Now he could never hand her over to Greedy Boris. It wouldn’t be the right thing to do.

  Meanwhile, Greedy Boris was on his case. “Is this all you bring me?” Greedy Boris screamed, eyes bulging with fury, fat arms waving in the air. “Two sisters who aren’t worth shit, and a ratty girl with bad teeth. Go back to the refugee camp and get me more girls. There must be plenty of pussy. Get it for me and bring it here.”

  Greedy Boris’s clientele was not of the highest caliber. Mostly they were married workmen who came by at all times of the day, stayed five or ten minutes and went on their way. Greedy Boris worked his girls hard; sometimes they were forced to service fifteen or sixteen clients a day.

  Sergei did not want this fate for Anya. His Anya. His little bird. For in his heart he knew they were destined to be together.

  One day he decided they had to make an escape from the ravaged war-torn city. They had to get away from Greedy Boris and everything he represented.

  It was time for them to run.

  Chapter Five

  “Hi,” Cameron said, when Don Verona flung open his front door. “I’m Cameron Paradise, Jill Khoner set this up. You must be Don Verona.”

  “Whew!” he exclaimed, slowly checking her out. He saw a tall natural blonde in a white tracksuit with long legs and intoxicating green eyes. “Jill told me you were a beauty, but I wasn’t expecting perfection.”

  “Not only is he famous,” Cameron murmured, tongue-in-cheek, “but he has the corny lines to go with it.”

  Don threw her a quizzical look as Butch came bounding over, making a fast run for her crotch. The dog excitedly stuck his nose between her legs and began sniffing.

  “Easy, boy,” Don said, pulling back on Butch’s collar. “Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t worry,” Cameron said, bending to scratch Butch’s neck. “I have Labs of my own. They’re overly friendly, but that’s cool.”

  “You have a Labrador?”

  “Two,” she said, as Butch started licking her hand. “They’re incredibly loyal dogs.”

  “They sure are,” he said, taking a step back. “So–Miz Paradise–you’d better come in.”

  She entered his immaculate house.

  “Paradise is quite a name,” he remarked. “Where did you make that one up?”

  “Actually, it’s my mother’s maiden name,” she said, glancing around. “Jill told me you have your own personal gym. Where is it?”

  “Straight to business, huh?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” she said, unimpressed with his handsomeness. Good-looking famous men were a staple in Hollywood, especially when you worked at a high-end sports club. She’d had many a Hollywood hot shot make a play for her, it was not unusual.

  “You come highly recommended,” he said, heading for the circular all-glass staircase custom designed by himself. “Jill says you’re the best.”

  “I work hard for my reputation,” she answered coolly. “I expect all my clients to do the same for their body.”

  Don was not used to people–especially women–who didn’t fawn all over him. After all, as Ryan had pointed out earlier, he had his own extraordinarily successful talk show and made megabucks. However, in spite of her acerbic attitude he found himself liking Cameron immediately, for not only was she knock-out gorgeous, she had a grittiness about her that appealed to him.

  “Here’s the deal,” he informed her over his shoulder as she followed him upstairs to his gym. “I’m used to working out with male trainers. Fewer distractions, y’know what I mean?”

  “Should I leave now?” she shot back, thinking that he was pretty full of himself.

  He stopped on the stairs and she nearly ran into his back. “Only if you want to,” he said.

  “You’re the client,” she responded. “If you care to work with a male trainer I can easily fix you up.”

  “You can, huh?”

  “Most definitely. I have two male colleagues, both gay.” She paused for a moment. “Would that be a problem?” she said, challenging him.

  “Not for me,” he answered smoothly. “But y’know,” he added, shooting her a half-smile, “right now I think I’ll stick with you.”

  “We’ll see,” she answered.

  He raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see?”

  “This is a test run,” she said. “I only work with clients I feel I can help.”

  “Well,” he said lightly, “let me know when you make your decision.”

  “Oh, I will,” she assured him.

  By noon Cameron was back at Bounce.

  “You worked out who?” Lynda asked, after Cameron had filled her in.

  “I told you, this guy–Don Verona,” she said, repeating herself.

  “Man!” Lynda exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “You couldn’t tell me earlier so I could’ve come with you.”

  “To do what?”

  “Enjoy the view!” Lynda said with a lustful sigh. “Watch an’ wish. That man is hot hot hot!!!”

  “Who’s hot?” Dorian inquired, appearing right on cue as usual.

  “Missy here went over to Don Verona’s crib an’ worked his gorgeous ass out. That dude is sooo sexy. I’m in love with that man!”

  “Me too!” Dorian agreed. “I sleep with him every night! His monologue rocks.”

  “C’mon, sister,” Lynda pleaded, leaning across the reception desk. “What’s he really like? I wanna know everything, no details spared.”

  “Yes,” Dorian agreed. “We want all the dirty bits. Is he hung? Did you notice? A lefty or a righty?”

  “Will you two quit it,” Cameron scolded, shaking her head in exasperation. “He seemed like a nice enough guy. A lech, but aren’t they all?”

  “Oh yes,” both Lynda and Dorian chorused.

  “I’ve never watched his show,” Cameron said. “Is it really that good?”

  “Never watched his show?” Lynda repeated, brown eyes widening in disbelief. “You’re certainly not screwing anyone, so what are you doing at eleven p.m.?”

  “Sleeping,” Cameron replied, thinking they’d both freak if they found out about Marlon.

  “Sleeping!” both Lynda and Dorian cried out in shocked unison.

  “Yes, sleeping, so I have the strength to do this every day and make enough money for us to move on,” Cameron said, thinking that the two of them should form a group they were so in tune.

  “You’re major disciplined,” Dorian said, as if it was a bad thing. “I myself like to party.”

  “No, really?” Cameron said, feigning surprise. “Who would’ve guessed?”

  “Don Verona,” Lynda sighed dreamily. “Any chance of persuading him to come work out here?”

  “Now why would I do that?” Cameron said. “He has his own perfectly set-up gym, and besides, I don’t want anyone here getting their hands on him. I’m building up our private client list so that when we leave we’re not accused of stealing any Bounce clients.”

  “When?” Dorian wanted to know.

  “Soon,” Cameron assured them. “We’re well on our way. I’m checking out a few locations next week.”

  Dorian’s next client entered the premises. He was a buff-looking soap actor who was firmly in the closet. Flashing a set of newly crowned teeth he winked at Lynda.

  “Hi Roger,” Dorian said, greeting his client with a macho punch on the arm. “Are we ready to stretch those lovely muscles?”

  Roger threw another wink–this time at Came
ron. “Let’s go, Dorian,” he drawled. “I couldn’t be more ready.” He and Dorian walked off.

  “Why does he do that?” Lynda complained.

  “Do what?”

  “Act all sexy and straight. We all know he’s even gayer than Dorian.”

  “He’s an actor,” Cameron said sagely. “It’s all about the image.”

  “I suppose,” Lynda said, adjusting a display of lotions and oils sitting on her desk. “What you doin’ tonight?”

  “Nothing much,” Cameron replied, deciding not to mention that Don Verona had invited her to dinner, an offer she’d declined. Lynda would throw a fit if she knew.

  “Here’s the thing,” Lynda said casually. “Carlos has a cousin from Mexico City in town. Apparently this dude is mucho hunky. I haven’t met him, but if my Carlos says he’s hot, then—”

  “No!” Cameron said, vigorously shaking her head. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “Tell me what?” Lynda asked innocently.

  “No! No! No!” Cameron insisted.

  “It’s not a set-up,” Lynda wailed. “Just a friendly feast at Houston’s. You know how you love the spare-ribs there, an’ you’d be doing Carlos a big favor.”

  “She’s not doing anyone a favor,” Dorian interjected, returning to collect an armful of clean white towels. “Don’t you get it–our Cameron is all work and no play.”

  “Please don’t speak about me as if I’m not here,” Cameron said. “As a matter of fact, Katie’s in town. We’re going to her boyfriend’s gig at The Roxy. I’m taking Cole.”

  “Cole!” Dorian said, pausing on his way back to his client. “How come you didn’t invite me?”

  “Because I invited Cole,” Cameron answered briskly. “Next time I’ll invite you.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Dorian huffed. “Just because he’s the most handsome black man on earth.”