Which was scarier, murderers or pregnancy test? After my mini van vision, that was a no-brainer.
I tossed the Coke stained test in the trash and threw on a pair of butt hugging jeans with my favorite red mules, mentally picking up my suspects list again. The only one I had left was Carol Carter. And the only thing the L.A. Informer had mentioned about her was that she was an aspiring actress. If she was anything like Dana, she probably spent her Sundays at the gym, toning and shaping for the coming week of auditions. It was a long shot, but I hopped in my Jeep and pointed it in the direction of the Sunset Gym.
Twenty minutes later I was showing my membership card to the steroid gatekeeper and trying hard not to inhale the stale eau d’ perspiration as I scanned the crowded workout room for Dana’s perky blonde ponytail. The place was packed with film execs trying to sweat off their weekly diet of doughnuts and wanna-be starlets shaking every silicon body part imaginable in hopes of being discovered as the next Baywatch babe. I finally spotted Dana coaching a dark haired man covered in veiny muscles on the leg lift machine in the corner.
Feeling conspicuously out of place in my heels, I picked my way over the medicine balls and stretch mats to the leg lifter.
“Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen… and rest. Okay, check your pulse, Sasha. You shouldn’t let it get over one-sixty.”
Sasha nodded, sweat trickling off his forehead as he applied two fingers to his neck.
“Dana?” I made a little one finger, come here sign.
She saw me and waved. “Hey, what’s up?” Dana looked down at my heels and frowned. “You can’t work out in those.”
I rolled my eyes. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
“Shoot.”
I glanced at Sasha.
“Oh, sorry,” Dana said. “Maddie, this is Sasha. I told you about him, he’s the pyramid bottom for the Cirqué Fantastique. Sasha, my best friend, Maddie.”
“I have been pleased to met you,” Sasha said in a heavy accent.
“Me too. Uh, Dana, can I talk to you?”
“Sure. Sasha, do two more sets and we’ll move on to something else.”
Sasha nodded and went back to his leg lifts as Dana followed me out of earshot.
“What’s with the Russian?” I asked.
“Isn’t he hot?”
I glanced over at him, veins popping out on his neck as he lifted a stack of metal weights. “I guess, in a steroid-happy kind of way. But what about your roommate?”
“Who, Mr. Asshole the Stripper?”
Uh oh. Trouble in the Actor’s Duplex.
“What happened? You two were all over each other last night.”
Dana snorted. “That’s what I thought too. Only when we got back home I put the bridal bouquet in the freezer and he freaked out. He said he couldn’t understand why I’d want to keep it. And I said, ‘Well duh, I caught the bouquet.’ And he said, ‘Well, what’s so special about that?’ And I said, ‘Well duh! It means I’m the next to get married.’ And he totally freaked out. I mean, I didn’t say I wanted to get married to him, right now. But he flipped. He said that he was suffocating. That he wasn’t ready for a ball and chain. Do I look like a ball and chain?”
“Typical man.” I really was beginning to hate the whole gender.
“No shit. Anyway, I was like totally crying and Sasha called and he took me out for a cocktail, and, well, we ended up back at his place.”
Dana has got to be the only woman I know who can start a story out getting dumped by one guy and end it in some other guy’s bed.
“Anyway, what’s up with you?” she asked. “How goes the Charlie’s Angels search?”
Apparently Dana hadn’t seen the news yet, her attention being consumed by a limber Russian all night. I quickly filled her in on last night’s disaster as she gestured Sasha through two more rounds of cybex torture. It took longer than I thought because the sight of Sasha’s muscles straining proved to be a little distracting for Dana, but as we moved on to the rowing machine, I produced the printout from the library, showing her Carol Carter’s picture.
“Do you recognize her?” I asked. “She’s an actress and I thought maybe she worked out here.”
Dana and Sasha both leaned in to look.
Sasha let out a low whistle. “She is having the boob that are big like cantaloupe.”
“They’re fake,” I pointed out.
Dana squinted at the photo. “What did you say her name was?”
“Carol Carter.”
“I never see boob like this. Boob back home, flat. Like pancake food. Like biting of bug.” Sasha looked up at me. “Like you.”
Yep. I hated all men.
“The name sounds familiar,” Dana said, still staring at the photo. “Oh! You know, what? We were both up for the role of Bikini Girl in that teen movie last month.”
“You be very good Bikini Girl.” Sasha looked Dana up and down. “Very good.”
“Thank you! I thought so too. But I never got a call back.”
“Those director blind. You are very good body. You have the curvy boob.”
“Oh, you’re so sweet!” Dana leaned down and kissed Sasha. I looked away before I got a glimpse of Russian tongue.
“Back to Carol Carter,” I interrupted. “You don’t happen to have her number, do you?” I asked.
“No, sorry. But I do know who her agent is. Charlie Platt. He’s in that big building on the corner of Le Brea and Hollywood.”
“Dana, you’re a goddess.” I could have hugged her if she wasn’t covered in gym sweat.
“You sure boob is fake?” Sasha was still staring at the photo of Carol Carter. “Is very bouncy looking.”
“Trust me, nature does not come in those sizes,” I said.
He nodded. “Yes. Maybe true. Not so curvy, like Dana.”
Dana giggled and kissed Sasha again. This time I definitely saw tongue. Ew.
“Well, I’ll, uh, leave you two to your workout…” I trailed off as I backed away, but I was pretty sure no one was listening to me anymore.
I ran back to my Jeep and called information for the number of the Platt Agency. Unfortunately I got a recording saying they would be closed until four. I glanced down at my dash clock. Noon. I decided Mc Donald’s was as good a place as any to wait it out and put my Jeep into gear, hitting the drive through. Fifteen minutes later I was making my way through a Big Mac, large fries and a strawberry milkshake. Which unfortunately reminded me of Strawberry Shortcake. And my ever more tenuous employment with Tot Trots. I still hadn’t called them back and I had a feeling if I didn’t get those high top designs done soon, unemployment would be edging its way closer to the top of my list of problems.
With a sigh, I finished off my fries and pointed my Jeep toward home. If I put in a good hour of drawing before going to find Carol Carter, at least I could call Tot Trots back with a clear conscience. I even made myself stop by Rite Aid on the way home and bought a new pregnancy test. This time I got the deluxe digital version, which the pharmacists assured me was virtually indestructible.
Only as I pulled up to my studio, there stood the one thing in the world I wanted to see even less right now than two baby pink lines. Ramirez.
Chapter Seventeen
His arms were crossed over his chest and his hair was wet, like he’d just showered, as he lounged against my front door. I had a bad feeling that if I got too close I’d smell that fresh Ivory and aftershave mix that had me sniffing my futon cushions like a bloodhound last night.
I told myself not to breathe any of it in as I got out of my Jeep. I’d pretend that he had no effect on me. He didn’t. So what if he’d seduced me, met my family and then used me to get to Richard. I was not going to lose it. I was not an emotional girly girl. I was tough. I was Demi Moore in G.I. Jane. I was Uma Thurman in Kill Bill. I was cool. Calm. In control.