and brought him home for a one
night stand. He’d been so good at it that the one night turned into several
months. Tierney had been caught in his snare; she wasn’t sure then if she
wanted to be but she hated being alone. Lately, though, that didn’t satisfy
her. She needed more than a lover – she needed love. The real kind, that lasted
forever.
The afternoon cameraman, gruff but
handsome Bodey Gillette, entered, nodding his hello.
“Got any drama going, kiddies?”
“Yes,” Istvan huffed. “Start filming.”
“No! I’m tired of being this year’s
pet monkey!” Tierney stood, gathered her Louis Vuitton purse and car keys and headed for the door.
“Where are you off to, Baby? We’ve
got six more episodes to tape!”
“Stuff it, Bodey !
I’m out of here!”
Istvan shrugged, began to play a funeral
dirge. Bodey eyed them both strangely, switched on
his camera, urged the young man to emote into the lens; he eagerly obliged.
Tierney hopped into her red Ferrari
convertible; shot it out into the street and straight over to Santa Monica Boulevard . It was slow going through a crowded
freeway or two until she found the Ventura Highway . Then she rammed the gas with her
spiky heel and flew over the pavement, ignoring a busload of tourists who
squealed at her from the top of a double decker .
“There’s got to be more to life than
this!” she said out loud.
She flicked on the radio. Tina Turner
was singing What’s Love Got To Do With It? Tierney didn’t think love had anything at all to do with her situation. The
lack of it, maybe, or some mislabeled emotion that people were mistaking for
love.
She followed the highway out to Pierpont Bay , hoping to make it to her retreat in Santa Barbara before Istvan turned on his charm and convinced her parents she needed counseling – again. He
was obsessed with pouring out his most minute miseries and sorrows to any fake
TV therapist who came along, and had her family believing it was the best thing
for all concerned.
“No more!” she shouted over the hum
of the engine. “I want to be me now! I am not some spoiled little rich bitch
who needs a reality show to prove her worth to the world! I want to be loved,
God Damn It! I want a real man who knows what a real woman needs!”
She began to cry, hard, the tears
flying from her eyes and out the top of the convertible, marking the sky like
tiny raindrops. She thought she heard a strange buzz, clicked off the radio,
listening. The sound was louder, frightening her.
Tierney eased off the highway;
stepped out of the car. She trailed the sound down to the back wheel, peered
underneath the fender and gasped. There was a bomb, a real, ticking, flashing
bomb, like you’d see in an action movie, and the numbers on it were closing
down on zero, fast!
Tierney glanced round – the cars
zinging by might not get hit in the blast but she couldn’t be certain. And she
was way too close to a restaurant full of customers. She took a strong breath,
jumped into the car and steered it out as far away from people as she could,
finding a narrow stretch of beach to park on. Then she leapt out of the
driver’s seat and began to fling her arms like warning flags.
“Get back!” she screamed to the
gathering crowd. “There’s a bomb in my car!”
Panic broke out; people scattered
like bugs. Tierney sprinted towards the shelter of a line of boulders just in
time. The bomb exploded, showering fire and smoke and bright red car parts all
over the beach. She watched them fall; ducked to miss her radio as it sailed
by.
“Who would do this?” she wondered
aloud. “Who would want me dead?”
People were closing in, smothering
her. Some had recognized her. They were pulling out their phones, hoping no
doubt to get some good footage they could sell to one of those sleazy online
celebrity news sites.
“Can I help you, Tierney?” one guy
asked, reaching out his left hand – his phone was in his right.
“That’s not my name,”
night stand. He’d been so good at it that the one night turned into several
months. Tierney had been caught in his snare; she wasn’t sure then if she
wanted to be but she hated being alone. Lately, though, that didn’t satisfy
her. She needed more than a lover – she needed love. The real kind, that lasted
forever.
The afternoon cameraman, gruff but
handsome Bodey Gillette, entered, nodding his hello.
“Got any drama going, kiddies?”
“Yes,” Istvan huffed. “Start filming.”
“No! I’m tired of being this year’s
pet monkey!” Tierney stood, gathered her Louis Vuitton purse and car keys and headed for the door.
“Where are you off to, Baby? We’ve
got six more episodes to tape!”
“Stuff it, Bodey !
I’m out of here!”
Istvan shrugged, began to play a funeral
dirge. Bodey eyed them both strangely, switched on
his camera, urged the young man to emote into the lens; he eagerly obliged.
Tierney hopped into her red Ferrari
convertible; shot it out into the street and straight over to Santa Monica Boulevard . It was slow going through a crowded
freeway or two until she found the Ventura Highway . Then she rammed the gas with her
spiky heel and flew over the pavement, ignoring a busload of tourists who
squealed at her from the top of a double decker .
“There’s got to be more to life than
this!” she said out loud.
She flicked on the radio. Tina Turner
was singing What’s Love Got To Do With It? Tierney didn’t think love had anything at all to do with her situation. The
lack of it, maybe, or some mislabeled emotion that people were mistaking for
love.
She followed the highway out to Pierpont Bay , hoping to make it to her retreat in Santa Barbara before Istvan turned on his charm and convinced her parents she needed counseling – again. He
was obsessed with pouring out his most minute miseries and sorrows to any fake
TV therapist who came along, and had her family believing it was the best thing
for all concerned.
“No more!” she shouted over the hum
of the engine. “I want to be me now! I am not some spoiled little rich bitch
who needs a reality show to prove her worth to the world! I want to be loved,
God Damn It! I want a real man who knows what a real woman needs!”
She began to cry, hard, the tears
flying from her eyes and out the top of the convertible, marking the sky like
tiny raindrops. She thought she heard a strange buzz, clicked off the radio,
listening. The sound was louder, frightening her.
Tierney eased off the highway;
stepped out of the car. She trailed the sound down to the back wheel, peered
underneath the fender and gasped. There was a bomb, a real, ticking, flashing
bomb, like you’d see in an action movie, and the numbers on it were closing
down on zero, fast!
Tierney glanced round – the cars
zinging by might not get hit in the blast but she couldn’t be certain. And she
was way too close to a restaurant full of customers. She took a strong breath,
jumped into the car and steered it out as far away from people as she could,
finding a narrow stretch of beach to park on. Then she leapt out of the
driver’s seat and began to fling her arms like warning flags.
“Get back!” she screamed to the
gathering crowd. “There’s a bomb in my car!”
Panic broke out; people scattered
like bugs. Tierney sprinted towards the shelter of a line of boulders just in
time. The bomb exploded, showering fire and smoke and bright red car parts all
over the beach. She watched them fall; ducked to miss her radio as it sailed
by.
“Who would do this?” she wondered
aloud. “Who would want me dead?”
People were closing in, smothering
her. Some had recognized her. They were pulling out their phones, hoping no
doubt to get some good footage they could sell to one of those sleazy online
celebrity news sites.
“Can I help you, Tierney?” one guy
asked, reaching out his left hand – his phone was in his right.
“That’s not my name,”
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