didn’t really know what to say to her, alone, one-on-one.
“Thanks, Sheila. Save me a piece.”
The two cops got up, grabbed their jackets from the coat tree in the corner by the door and headed out. In twelve hours, they’d be back on duty.
Chapter 14
SO WHAT DID YOU DO FOR THE HOLIDAYS?”
Fallon Malone’s BlackBerry emitted a sound like a tiny tinkling bell being played in the distance. Another text message.
Malone looked down from one of the two TV screens directly in front of her elliptical machine. She was right in the middle of a Lifetime movie and didn’t want to be bothered. But maybe it was her agent . . . finally.
It had been years since she got a script worth reading and now, due to her dwindling bank account and penchant for beautiful clothes, cars, and jewelry, she had to work.
She’d even consider TV. She’d be great on a prime-time soap. What did the Desperate Housewives have that she didn’t? Ridiculous. They should be kissing her feet.
Even though she was in her mid-fifties, in her heart she knew she didn’t look a day over forty-one. She’d managed to scam the tabs about her true date of birth with a fake birth certificate, and lived in mortal fear that somehow, they’d dig up the truth.
Maybe some sort of a reality series, focusing on her finding just the right Hollywood script, the right vehicle to showcase her talents.
Ever since the role where she soaped down a red Vette on camera without the benefit of underwear, most of Hollywood believed her “talents” lay beneath her belly button and above her knees.
The business was cruel. She had been stereotyped in the worst way. It was clearly a case of misogyny. They all hated her because she was beautiful. A beautiful woman has a hard time making it in the business world, Malone reminded herself as she reached for the BlackBerry.
Oh, hell. It was that kid again. Jonathon. How in the hell had he gotten her number to start with? It had all begun when he said he was collecting stars’ autographs to fund some sort of Boy Scout charity. Or something like that. Maybe an illness was involved? Or a school project? Or the school band? He went on and on about the band.
Whatever . Now the kid texted her fifty times a day, it seemed. She usually didn’t write back. And wouldn’t you know that if she ever wrote him a nasty note cutting him off, it would end up in the tabs that she was an evil shrew. More of what she didn’t need.
She wrote back brightly, “Nothing much! Just enjoyed the holiday! Tried not to eat too much turkey!” She’d long ago learned not to ask him any questions like, “How’s school?” “How’s your family?” Or even “How are you today?”
Even the most general and innocuous questions resulted in reams and reams of text messages back that totally clogged her BlackBerry. She dropped it into the elliptical’s magazine holder and got back to her movie. It was all about a marriage that went bad and the husband turns out to be a stalker. Again.
She must have seen this one, or one just like it, before. But now she was invested in the characters and wanted to see the end. Damn Lifetime. That network sucked up every daylight hour.
Bling-ding-ding. The BlackBerry tinkled again.
“I thought you were a vegetarian!”
Damn! Busted by a fifteen-year-old boy sitting at home in his room. What? Had he read every single article ever in existence about her? You could dig up twenty-year-old articles on the Internet, and apparently this kid made her his own personal research project.
She’d told the press for years about all her healthy eating habits, how she did yoga for hours, went “clean” vegetarian, and only ate organic vegetables. No dairy, no gluten, no meat, no chicken, no fish . . . You had to live like a food monk to be “in” in this business. She had to hide if she even ate a French fry. If they ever got wind she ate cheeseburgers whenever she wanted, she’d be a laughingstock.
“Oh, just joking!
“Thanks, Sheila. Save me a piece.”
The two cops got up, grabbed their jackets from the coat tree in the corner by the door and headed out. In twelve hours, they’d be back on duty.
Chapter 14
SO WHAT DID YOU DO FOR THE HOLIDAYS?”
Fallon Malone’s BlackBerry emitted a sound like a tiny tinkling bell being played in the distance. Another text message.
Malone looked down from one of the two TV screens directly in front of her elliptical machine. She was right in the middle of a Lifetime movie and didn’t want to be bothered. But maybe it was her agent . . . finally.
It had been years since she got a script worth reading and now, due to her dwindling bank account and penchant for beautiful clothes, cars, and jewelry, she had to work.
She’d even consider TV. She’d be great on a prime-time soap. What did the Desperate Housewives have that she didn’t? Ridiculous. They should be kissing her feet.
Even though she was in her mid-fifties, in her heart she knew she didn’t look a day over forty-one. She’d managed to scam the tabs about her true date of birth with a fake birth certificate, and lived in mortal fear that somehow, they’d dig up the truth.
Maybe some sort of a reality series, focusing on her finding just the right Hollywood script, the right vehicle to showcase her talents.
Ever since the role where she soaped down a red Vette on camera without the benefit of underwear, most of Hollywood believed her “talents” lay beneath her belly button and above her knees.
The business was cruel. She had been stereotyped in the worst way. It was clearly a case of misogyny. They all hated her because she was beautiful. A beautiful woman has a hard time making it in the business world, Malone reminded herself as she reached for the BlackBerry.
Oh, hell. It was that kid again. Jonathon. How in the hell had he gotten her number to start with? It had all begun when he said he was collecting stars’ autographs to fund some sort of Boy Scout charity. Or something like that. Maybe an illness was involved? Or a school project? Or the school band? He went on and on about the band.
Whatever . Now the kid texted her fifty times a day, it seemed. She usually didn’t write back. And wouldn’t you know that if she ever wrote him a nasty note cutting him off, it would end up in the tabs that she was an evil shrew. More of what she didn’t need.
She wrote back brightly, “Nothing much! Just enjoyed the holiday! Tried not to eat too much turkey!” She’d long ago learned not to ask him any questions like, “How’s school?” “How’s your family?” Or even “How are you today?”
Even the most general and innocuous questions resulted in reams and reams of text messages back that totally clogged her BlackBerry. She dropped it into the elliptical’s magazine holder and got back to her movie. It was all about a marriage that went bad and the husband turns out to be a stalker. Again.
She must have seen this one, or one just like it, before. But now she was invested in the characters and wanted to see the end. Damn Lifetime. That network sucked up every daylight hour.
Bling-ding-ding. The BlackBerry tinkled again.
“I thought you were a vegetarian!”
Damn! Busted by a fifteen-year-old boy sitting at home in his room. What? Had he read every single article ever in existence about her? You could dig up twenty-year-old articles on the Internet, and apparently this kid made her his own personal research project.
She’d told the press for years about all her healthy eating habits, how she did yoga for hours, went “clean” vegetarian, and only ate organic vegetables. No dairy, no gluten, no meat, no chicken, no fish . . . You had to live like a food monk to be “in” in this business. She had to hide if she even ate a French fry. If they ever got wind she ate cheeseburgers whenever she wanted, she’d be a laughingstock.
“Oh, just joking!
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