Chapter 1
Noah Patrick sat on the beach. He'd slept here last night,
under the pier with a couple other bums. They'd built a
fire, illegal as hell, but only if you got caught, and
offered him rotgut wine. He'd declined. He told them his
name when they asked. They'd grinned and asked for his
autograph. Neither of them had pencil or paper so he'd
written his name with his finger in the sand and watched
the surf wash it away.
That's what gave him the idea.
He hadn't had the brains to quit drinking till it was too
late, till he had nothing left. No career, no money, no
place to live. Hopefully, he had guts enough to simply sit
here and let the tide take him.
The sun was almost gone, just a thin orange smear on the
horizon. He heard the murmur of the surf, could see the
tidal surge beginning to lift toward shore. Wouldn't be
long now. Wouldn't be easy, either. He was California–born
and bred, raised on a surfboard, swam like a dolphin.
His instinct was to fight.
Noah closed his eyes and focused on how he'd do it. Just
lie down. Pretend he was floating on his board like he
used to when he was just another sunburned, bleached blond
kid on the beach. Before Hollywood came knocking and made
him a TV star.
He did fine till the breakers started booming and slapped
spray in his face. He kept his eyes shut but he panicked.
He was doing this wrong. He should've swiped a board from
the idiots surfing in wet suits and paddled out past the
break- ers. It was December. Hypothermia would kill him
before he drowned.
He had to force himself to lie down, shivering on the wet
sand, his teeth clacking like the one and only time he'd
had theDT's. He'd really fucked that up. If he hadn't
checked himself into detox, he'd be dead already instead
of lying here freezing to death.
He drew a breath, bracing himself for the next wave. No
one would miss him. He'd fucked that up, too. Hadn't
bothered to make himself likable when he'd had looks and
money. Nobody bothered when they were on top—only when
they hit bottom.
Maybe he'd wash up someplace snazzy like Malibu, where
paparazzi were as thick as starlets sunbathing without
their bikini tops. If the fish didn't chew him up too bad,
somebody might snap his picture, run it in the tabloids.
Dead, he might attract enough attention for a movie of the
week. Four-hankie dramas about tormented celebs doomed to
die young were hot. They wouldn't be hot forever, though,
so the next breaker had better gets its ass moving and get
up here and get him.
Noah opened one eye, saw the surf roiling and curling back
on itself for another crack at him, shut his eye and
thought about his movie. His former network might snap it
up for old times' sake. The rights belonged to his
parents. He'd signed them over in his will.
His will. Fuck. Noah opened his eyes and blinked at the
first stars popping out in the sky. Where was it? And
where the hell was that goddamn breaker? He was freezing
his balls off here waiting to drown.
If his mother had any say, they'd cast Brad Pitt to play
him. Not his first choice, but he could live with it so
long as they made him shave that scraggly, sorry-ass
beard. They wouldn't need a leading lady. He'd never
gotten around to marriage. He'd been too busy drinking
himself half to death.
If the fucking tide didn't hurry, he'd have time to finish
the job. What the hell did a guy have to do around here to
drown? Noah pushed up on one hand, swung his head toward
the water, and took the six-foot breaker that came
crashing ashore full in the face.
It knocked him flat, drenched him in cold seawater and
rolled him like a ball up the beach. Body-slammed him onto
the sand and slid away with a sigh. He gagged saltwater,
and over the pounding in his ears heard the building roar
of the next breaker coming and a scream in his head.
Get up and run, you dickhead!
What if they couldn't find his will? Or refused to make
Pitt shave? The network would screw his parents and every
Nielsen family in America would think he couldn't grow
facial hair. That wasn't the way he wanted to be
remembered.
And this wasn't the way he wanted to die.
Noah struggled up on his hands, his feet dug into the sand
like a runner taking his blocks. He'd lost his left shoe,
flung his head over his shoulder to look for it and saw
the next breaker rushing toward him, white capped and
thundering ashore. Fuck the shoe. Noah pushed off,
stumbling and falling, racing the breaker up the beach.
He beat it by inches, felt icy water curl around his
ankles, slide harmlessly past him as he fell on his hands
in a pool of hissing foam, exhausted and breathless, black
spots swimming in his vision. When he could, he reared
back on his knees and sucked air into his lungs. His eyes
and his throat burned with salt, but he was alive. Alive,
by God.
Now what?
Find the winos, build a roaring bonfire, and get arrested.
Spend a warm, dry night in jail and get shipped to a
shelter in the morning. They'd give him clothes and shoes,
a hot meal and a few bucks if they had it to spare. He'd
scout a place to flop and get a job. Not that he could do
anything but look good for a camera, but he'd figure
something out.
He already knew he wouldn't try this again. Next time he'd
fling himself off an overpass. A nice, dry overpass. If he
tried this again. Maybe he'd give sobriety a shot first.
The guys at AA said if he could make it five years he had
a chance. He was going on two. Jesus. No wonder he'd
wanted to kill himself.
Noah staggered to his feet and up the beach, bruised and
aching from being slapped around by the surf. His soaked
clothes weighed a ton and goose bumps the size of boulders
popped on his skin.
It wasn't dark yet but it was getting there, the orange in
the sky fading to violet. There was twilight enough to see
the low wall edging the beach and the strip of shoulder
beyond it that ran along this stretch of highway between
L.A. and Malibu. A car, a Mercedes he thought, was parked
there and a woman smoking a cigarette sat on the wall.
A woman he knew but hadn't seen in . . . shit. A lotta
years. It took him a minute to recognize her. She was
older and she'd cut her hair. Changed the color, too, he
thought, but the memory was vague.
"Oh Christ," he said. "You."
"You were expecting your fairy godmother?"
Noah wheeled away and wobbled back toward the water.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
He swung around to make sure it was her. Fuck. It was.
"Seeing you makes me think I do have the guts for this
after all."
She laughed and got up, flipped her cigarette in the sand
and went to the car. Came back with a blanket she tossed
on the wall as she sat down and unscrewed the cap of a
stainless steel thermos.
"Come have some coffee."
"I'd rather get arrested."
"Say the word and I'll call 911 on the car phone."
She would in a heartbeat, but she had coffee and a blanket
and he was so cold his bones were chattering. On the set
of Betwixt and Be Teen, the TV series that made him a
star, he used to say if you looked up the words stone cold
bitch you'd see Vivienne Varner's picture next to the
definition. A number of the crew said you could find Noah
Patrick's autographed publicity shot below the description
of soulless bastard.
"I had a car phone once." Noah snatched up the blanket.
Three-inch thick merino wool with a silk-stitched hem that
made him shiver as he wrapped it around him. "I had a car,
too."
"At one time, as I recall, you had six."
Noah dropped onto the wall beside her. "Thanks for
reminding me."
Vivienne filled the thermos cap and passed it to him. He
raised it to his mouth with both hands and drank. Straight
from Rodeo Drive, blended, freshly ground, and scalding.
Just the way he liked it.
"What are you doing here, Vivienne?"
"I've been looking for you. Not personally, of course. The
detectives I hired. Had to turn over a lot of rocks to
find you."
"If I owe you money you'll have to see my accountant. This
time of day he's usually passed out under the pier."
She smiled, leaning forward on the wall with the heels of
her hands on the edge, her narrow face turned toward him,
her head cocked to one side. "I see you haven't lost your
sense of humor."
"But you can see I've lost everything else. What do you
want?"
"A better question is what do you want, Noah?"
A drink, he almost said, because he did. He always would,
they'd told him at AA, but he didn't claw the walls for
tequila anymore.
"The coffee will do me fine, thanks," he said and took
another slug.
"You were never a great actor, Noah, but you're a natural
in front of a camera. You play guitar and you have a
pretty good voice. You're no Gregory Hines, but you can
hoof it if you have to and not fall over your feet. Those
are your good qualities. On the negative side, you're a
miserable excuse for a human being."
He snorted into his coffee. "Takes one to know one,
Vivienne."
"That's why I'm here."
Noah shifted on the wall to face her. She looked good for
an old broad. At least one facelift, but that was drill in
L.A. She had on dark leggings and ankle boots, a burgundy
turtleneck and a white cashmere jacket. Gold on her
wrists, diamonds in her ears and a glint in her eyes that
Noah might have mistaken for tears if he didn't know her
so well.
"You aren't dying, I can only hope?"
"Not yet. Not by a long shot." She laughed, took a gold
cigarette case out of her pocket, opened it, and offered
it to him.
"I quit," Noah said. "I think."
Then he shrugged and took a cigarette. She lit another one
for herself and slipped the case and her gold lighter back
in her pocket.
"If you had a phone," she said, blowing smoke through her
nose, "you'd probably be the only person in L.A. who would
take my calls."
"I've been out of touch, but let me see if I can guess
why." Noah dragged on his cigarette, waited till the
nicotine rush passed and said, "Your mean-as-cat-shit
disposition and your piranhalike charm."
"My best qualities ten years ago," she said with a wistful
sigh. "Nowadays Hollywood is so politically correct you
can't say shit even if you have a mouthful. My clients are
bailing like rats off a sinking ship. I need an image
overhaul and Christ knows you do."
"I've killed a lot of brain cells, Viv. Where are you
going with this?"
"Everybody in this town knows you're a drunk and I'm a
ball breaker." She swung around on the wall to face
him. "They know you hate my guts as much as I hate yours,
that for the entire six-year run of Betwixt and Be Teen,
when you and Lindsay weren't fighting—"
"Lindsay?" Noah interrupted. "Lindsay who?"
"Lindsay Varner. My daughter. Your costar on BBT."
"Oh, Lindsay. I thought you said Leslie." Noah smacked the
side of his head. "Must have water in my ears."
"As I was saying. When you and Lindsay weren't fighting,
you and I were. I bad-mouthed you all over town. You lost
jobs because of me."
"Goddamn it, Vivienne!" Noah leaped to his feet, sloshing
hot coffee over his hand. He was so chilled it felt
good. "Thanks a lot!"
"Oh, stop it." She grabbed the blanket and yanked him down
beside her. "You knew all this before you pickled your
brain."
"I did? Oh. Well, sorry then," he muttered into the
thermos cap.
"You quit boozing two years ago." She edged closer, hands
raised and gesturing, her cigarette swirling excited smoke
rings into the near darkness. "So all we have to do is
clean up your act and put the word out that you're
starting to get parts again, that you're doing good work—"
"Parts?" Noah's ears pricked. "I'm getting parts? Where?"
"In a minute. You're getting parts, you're doing good
work. You're responsible and you've lost the attitude."
"If no one will take your calls, Viv, how do we get the
word out?"
"We give them a story they can't ignore. You and Lindsay
teamed up again. BBT was the hottest show on TV. You two
were on the cover of every teen mag in the world. The
Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears of the eighties."
"We were?" Noah asked uncertainly. "Did we like, date?"
"Hardly," she snorted. "I wouldn't allow it. You were half-
lit most of the time and you went through women like you
went through tequila. Studios are screaming for remakes.
Networks want reunion shows. The timing is perfect."
Noah remembered the tequila, every golden drop of it. He
wished he could remember the women and Vivienne's
daughter. He remembered her Jessie to his Sam, the boy and
girl next door who grew up together and fell in and out of
love. A few pawnshops on Hollywood Boulevard still stuck
TVs in the window and turned them on. He knew from the
reruns of BBT episodes he caught while he panhandled that
Lindsay Varner had been blond and slim and pretty, but
that's all he knew.
"I thought tear-jerker biopics were hot," Noah said.
"Five minutes ago. Now it's Return to, Back to, whatever."
Noah stared at the tide whooshing up on the beach. If he
hadn't chickened out, he would've drowned himself for
nothing.