James Conway - In Cold Blonde

And in the three weeks they had been together, he had never come on to her, never touched her inappropriately; he’d been the perfect gentleman. Because if Syd was going to fall in love with him, Eric wanted the clean and sober Syd, not the drug-addicted girl who would glom on to the closest hero figure.

But Eric had made a mortal enemy. Ernesto. He didn’t like having his girls taken from him, especially not one of his favorites. So while Eric was nursing Syd back to health, Ernesto and his minions were combing the streets, asking questions, doing whatever they could to find Syd.

They came on a Monday night. Syd had made dinner, macaroni and cheese. Syd and Eric were just sitting down when the front door burst open.

Rodolfo and Santiago came through first. They were Ernesto’s muscle, tatted out and brutal. They were two of the men who robbed her that first night in Hollywood. Syd had been forced to fuck them numerous times when she was on the needle. They each had a .9mm pointed at Eric’s head.

Then Ernesto walked in. It was more like an entrance, the conquering hero capturing a city. He glanced at Syd then walked right up to Eric, leaned forward so they were just inches apart. Ernesto said, “I think you have something that belongs to me.”

Syd knew there was only one chance to save Eric’s life and she took it. “Thank God,” Syd said, rushing to Ernesto, throwing her arms around him. “Take me home, baby. I’ve had enough of this goody two shoes.”

Ernesto grabbed Syd by the hair, pulled back her head and kissed her. He jammed his tongue into her mouth and she responded, groaning with pleasure, pressing her body against his. “I’ve missed you, sweetie,” Syd whispered.

Ernesto turned back to Eric. “You like fucking her? You like fucking my girl?”

“I’ve never touched her,” Eric said, surprised by his own calm. He’d been shot at in Iraq, but always from a distance, faceless snipers; now he was staring directly into the face of evil. Sure he was scared, but he was also proud. He knew he was probably going to die and he didn’t want Syd’s last image of him to be that of a sniveling coward.

“It’s true, Ernesto,” Syd said. “Never once. I think he’s gay.”

Ernesto leaned in to Eric, “You a faggot?”

“No, sir.”

“Who cares what he is,” Syd said. “I’m just happy you’re here. Come on, baby,” Syd said, pulling Ernesto toward the door. “Take me home.”

Ernesto let Syd drag him across the room. The further Ernesto got from Eric, the better Syd felt. She’d spend the rest of her life with Ernesto if it would save Eric’s life.

Eric would have loved to stop them. The thought of Syd going back to the pimp sickened him. But Eric was smart enough to know if he took even one step forward, the thugs would shoot him. He’d figure out a way to rescue her later. So right now, discretion was the better part of valor.

When they reached the doorway Ernesto snapped a few Spanish words to his men. They holstered their guns and left the apartment. Syd could feel the tension leaving the room.

“Oh, just one more thing,” Ernesto said. He slipped a throwing knife out of his pocket and with a practiced flip of the wrist he sent it flying across the room and into Eric’s chest.

Syd screamed, “No!”

Eric dropped to his knees. His hands clutched the knife. He tried to pull it out, but it had pierced his heart. His strength ebbed as blood flooded his chest cavity. He was dying, and he knew it.

Syd rushed to Eric’s side, pulled the knife from his chest. “Call 911!”

“Yeah, like that’s going to happen,” Ernesto scoffed.

Syd put her arms around Eric. “I’m so sorry,” she said, crying.

Eric took one last look into Syd’s eyes. “Thanks for the best three weeks of my life.”

Syd leaned down and kissed Eric, their first kiss. And last. He died in her arms.

“Let’s go, Syd,” Ernesto said. “Time to boogie.”

Syd stood, the bloody knife in her right hand. She looked at the malevolent smirk on Ernesto’s face and charged him, the knife sweeping up towards his chest. He easily caught her hand, twisted the knife free.

But Syd wasn’t really trying to stab him; she was using the knife as a diversion. As Ernesto concentrated on getting the knife, Syd slipped her other hand into his jacket and pulled out the Beretta he always carried there. She stuck the .9mm under his chin and pulled the trigger.

The top of Ernesto’s head exploded and his blood and brains sprayed the ceiling.

Syd heard footsteps, then Rodolfo and Santiago appeared in the doorway. They looked at Ernesto’s corpse, the gun in Syd’s hand now pointed at them, and the crazed look in her eyes. Wordlessly they spun on their heels and ran.

Syd was surprisingly calm. She knew the gunfire would bring the cops, but she had a few things to do first. She picked up the knife and dropped the gun and knife in her purse. Then she dug out Ernesto’s wallet, it was filled, as always, with hundreds. She took most of them, leaving a couple for the cops to find. Then she put the wallet back, took a last look at Eric, and walked out the door.

Syd was two blocks away when she heard the sirens. She was clean, had a little money and the hope that Eric had instilled in her. Heartbroken, yes, but instinctively she knew that this was truly the first day in the rest of her life.

Back in the Ivy restaurant, Syd took Ryan’s other hand. “Worry not, Ryan. I’ve had a blessed life.” Then she sealed the lie with a kiss.

Anne Rogers sat behind her massive mahogany desk in her plush corner office nestled fifty stories high in the L.A. skyline. On a clear day, she could see from the Hollywood sign to the Pacific Ocean. She cherished the view, loved her office and well, hated everything else about her life.

“Dad’s refusing to help,” Anne’s husband, Rick Rogers said. “He can be such a self- righteous bastard. He even threatened to go to the D.A.”

“The payment’s due in two weeks, Rick. What do you suggest we do?”

“Fuck ‘em. Send the keys back to the bank and we’ll move into a hotel until I can sort all this out.”

A balloon payment was due on their Santa Monica condo, one point one million dollars, just the latest catastrophe in a three-year financial disaster. It started when Rick got a stock tip from one of his clients, a biotech firm that was about to announce a new wonder drug. Rick talked Anne into investing everything they had in the stock, ride it up, then cash out with a big profit. But the FDA discovered the research data was rigged, banned the drug and fined the company. The stock tanked.

Anne and Rick lost everything. They had no money for the beach house mortgage, owed tens of thousands more to credit card companies and were on the brink of declaring bankruptcy when Rick’s father stepped in to bail them out.

They sold the beach house, downsized to the condo and were put on a strict budget. But Anne and Rick were so humiliated by being saved by Rick’s father, and suddenly having to report to him about every nickel and dime they spent, that Rick convinced Anne they should take a final shot at financial independence. They secretly mortgaged the condo, forging Rick’s father’s signature, took the money and gambled it on a tip Rick got on a new stock — and lost it all. They were broke, penniless; Anne’s worst nightmares come true.

“Sort this out?” Anne said, furious. “Rick, there is nothing to sort out. We’ll be forced to declare bankruptcy. And if the D.A. finds out we forged your father’s signature, we’ll be disbarred.”

“Dad’s agreed not to report the forgery but his silence did come with a price — he wants us to resign, quit the firm.”