Sympathy for the Devil Read online

  Nina burst out laughing at that comment. “Oh, don’t worry, Christa. I wasn’t attracted to you.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.” She took a bite of her burger; besides being gorgeous, she had one of those metabolisms where she could eat anything she wanted and never gain an ounce. I wasn’t quite as fanatical about my weight as a lot of people I knew, but more than two or three cheeseburgers in a month, and my pants started to get a little tight. “I hadn’t really started to explore that side of my sexuality back then, and besides, you’re my friend. I just wouldn’t look at you that way.”

  If you say so, I thought, but somehow Nina’s words depressed me even more. I mean, I’d certainly never been interested in women and wouldn’t go that route no matter how desperate I got, but still it would have been nice to know that at least she found me attractive. “Well, I’m pretty sure your solution isn’t an option for me,” I said, setting down my salad fork. The field greens and vinaigrette had suddenly lost their charms. “Do your parents know?”

  “Are you kidding? The doctor would freak. Gina and I get together at her place off Montana Avenue.”

  “What? You tell your parents you’re going over there to help her with her homework?”

  “They think Gina’s an artist we represent who needs a lot of hand-holding,” she said with a smirk.

  Was she serious? Nina and Gina? I could just see them getting matching Juicy Couture track suits with their names embroidered across their butts. I shook my head to rid it of that frightening image. “My father would probably say you were just going through a phase.”

  She snorted. “Like he would know. How’s your stepmom? Has she gone through all the Botox in Newport Beach yet?”

  “I think they had to send out to Beverly Hills for a restock,” I replied.

  If it hadn’t all happened to me, it would have been funny, in a clichéd sort of way. Successful psychologist has midlife crisis, dumps his wife, and trades up for a newer model. At least my stepmother wasn’t younger than I — I’d been spared that indignity — but Traci was still almost twenty years younger than my mother. Of course, that didn’t stop her from exploiting every cosmeceutical means necessary to prolong her late-thirties status for as long as possible. Maybe she was worried that my father would end up doing the same thing to her that he’d done to my mother. I think I read somewhere that off-loading wives got progressively easier as you moved up the food chain.

  At any rate, I’d tried to play nice as much as I could. Luckily I was already out of the house when my parents split up for good; my younger brother didn’t fare so well, since he was almost eight years younger than I am. I had to say this for my father, though: He never tried to get out of paying alimony, and he kept on sending my mother child support even though Jeff was twenty-one at that point and well past dependent age as far as the courts were concerned. My father said he’d pay for Jeff as long as he was in school. Since my younger brother seemed to be on the ten-year plan at Irvine Valley College, I wasn’t going to hold my breath on the child support going away any time soon.

  Lisa, my older sister, claimed that Jeff was just having a tough time because of the divorce, but seriously, when she made that remark it had been almost seven years since the final papers were signed, and five since Traci officially became our stepmother. After a while things stop being reasons and start becoming excuses.

  Then again, Lisa had always babied Jeff because he was the youngest and the only boy. She and I squabbled a lot as kids, probably because we were barely two years apart, but as we got older we didn’t so much make up and become friends as we just got on with our own lives. We never had much in common, since she was this uber-organized mega-sales real estate agent in south Orange County, and I’d always done all right for myself but never accomplished anything that extraordinary.

  Frankly, I was the stereotypical middle child — never causing much trouble, never wanting to make waves. Pretty, but not the sort who would stop a guy in his tracks. Straight brown hair, brown eyes, a shade taller than average, slender but not thin, the girl next door. Boring, I thought for the millionth time, as I looked across the table and took in Nina’s perfect curls and five-foot-ten-inch frame. Even the damned busboy was loitering as he cleared the table next to ours so he could get an eyeful.

  “Children of shrinks are always messed up,” Nina said. “You’re lucky you got out with just a few minor neuroses.”

  “Lucky,” I repeated, thinking of Danny, who seemed to care more about his computer and his online gaming than he did me, of my bleached stepmother and my stoner brother and especially my mother. The breakup with my father had made her go all New Age-y and spiritual as some sort of Zen coping mechanism, and lately it had been driving me nuts.

  Giving me a stern look, Nina reached for her water glass. “I smell a pity party coming on,” she said, after taking a drink. “Which I definitely will not allow. Especially with your birthday coming up next week. What do you want to do, anyway?”

  “Nothing. It’s on a Tuesday — how much partying can I do on a Tuesday?”

  “We could still go out to dinner or something.” Her eyes narrowed. “Unless Danny’s taking you out?”

  “Danny?” I laughed, but I didn’t sound very amused, even to myself. “If he actually remembers that it’s my birthday, I’ll probably fall down dead of a heart attack.”

  “Well, did you tell him it was?”

  “I might have mentioned it once or twice.” And I had, even though the last comment had been almost a month ago. Still, the guy was practically glued to his iPhone. He could have written it down and put an alarm on the entry or something so he wouldn’t forget. Unfortunately, that assumed a level of concern I was pretty certain didn’t exist.

  “So if he forgets, are you going to dump him?”

  “I might,” I said evasively. “Look, something is better than nothing, isn’t it?”

  Nina sighed. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. You were doing fine before Danny came along, and you’ll be fine when he’s gone. I think he’s more of a distraction than anything else. If you’ve got a relationship going on, even a half-assed one, you’re not going to work very hard to find someone else.”

  “Maybe there isn’t anyone else,” I argued.

  “There’s always someone else,” she said calmly. “All this stuff about there being only one perfect person for everybody is crap. Don’t tell me you’ve started reading romance novels in your spare time, ’cause that’s the only way I can see you starting to think that’s how the world works.”

  “No romance novels.” I held up a hand in a mocking imitation of the Girl Scout salute. “I solemnly swear that there are no Nora Roberts or Barbara Michaels books lurking under my bed.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  The conversation drifted off into other matters after that, and then it was time to head out and get in a little more shopping before the early dark of a January afternoon fell. Rather, I got to watch Nina create havoc with her platinum card as we wended our way down the Third Street Promenade. She’d landed a cushy gig as the manager of an extremely high-end art gallery in Santa Monica, and her paychecks were a lot fatter than mine. But I didn’t mind watching as she shopped; at least it kept me occupied and away from my apartment for a few more hours. I didn’t even have a cat to go home to. My apartment building didn’t allow pets, and besides, I had a mortal fear of turning into the crazy cat lady. Anything but that.

  Eventually, though, I had to go home. Once there, I shoved my iPod in its dock and turned up the volume on my stereo to drown out the silence. Then I got to work on laundry and bills and all the other fun stuff I inevitably put off until the weekend. It worked a little; I actually had stretches of a half-hour or so where I didn’t feel completely alone.

  As it turned out, my birthday ended up sucking even more than I thought it would. Not only did Danny completely forget that Tuesday, January 23,
held any special significance, but Nina came down with a nasty cold that was making the rounds and couldn’t possibly be expected to go anywhere except maybe the local drugstore to pick up more tissues and Nyquil.

  “Sorry,” she told me. I winced as a particularly piercing sneeze came through the earpiece of the hands-free unit on my cell phone. “I’ve been sucking zinc lozenges like there’s no tomorrow. I haven’t noticed much of a difference.”

  “It’s all right,” I said miserably. Someone behind me honked, and I realized the light I’d been sitting at had finally turned green. I took my foot off the brake and slowly moved forward. “I’ll figure out something.”

  “What about Jennifer or Micaela?” Nina asked, naming the only two from our group of friends at UCLA that we’d continued to hang out with after graduation.

  “Jennifer’s up skiing in Mammoth, and Micaela’s production schedule just got bumped ten days. She’ll be lucky if she gets home before midnight.” A film major, Micaela was actually doing what so many people only dreamed of — she was a production assistant at Warner Brothers. Unfortunately, her dream job meant her schedule was beyond screwy. I repressed the urge to heave a world-weary sigh and said, “It’s all right. My dad sent me a huge check — guilt money for being in Hawaii on my birthday, I guess — so I’m going shopping.”

  “Good girl.” Nina sneezed again. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

  “I won’t,” I promised. “You go lie down. You sound terrible.”

  “You should see how I look. It’s even worse.”

  Somehow I doubted that, since even with a head cold Nina always managed to look fabulous, but I didn’t argue. I just made some more sympathetic noises into the phone, assured her I was fine, and hung up.

  My father really had sent me a birthday card with a check for five hundred dollars in it. While I had no intention of blowing even a third of that money tonight, I thought a little shopping at The Grove might make me feel better about being completely abandoned on my birthday. Oh, I supposed if I had really wanted to I could have driven down to Orange County to see my mother, but the traffic was so bad by the time I got off work at five that it would have taken me at least two hours to get there. Besides, we already had plans to get together on Saturday. No doubt she’d take me to some “fabulous” new organic place she’d found in Laguna Beach, and I’d have to pretend I was happy eating something covered in sprouts and suspiciously lacking in meat. But if it made her happy, I’d survive. I figured I could always get a burger on the way home if I felt particularly starved afterward.

  The Grove was located near the old Farmer’s Market at the corner of Third and Fairfax. While it had considerably expanded the shopping possibilities in the area, its presence also increased traffic to the point where it was practically gridlocked during peak drive times. Although my company’s offices were a scant mile and a half from the shopping center, it took me almost fifteen minutes to get there, crawl up to the top level of the parking structure, and finally drag myself out of my Mercedes C-class, feeling vaguely homicidal. I reflected it was a good thing I didn’t have to do much driving. For some reason, being in a car really brought home to me how overpopulated Southern California actually was. When you start to sympathize with serial killers because at least they’re reducing the surplus population, you know you’ve got a problem.

  By the way, the car was a graduation present from my father. I sure as hell couldn’t have afforded it on my salary. I had to give him that — he definitely wasn’t stingy. And in L.A., where what you drive is just as important as what you do, having something better than the tired Honda Accord I’d been piloting since tenth grade was a definite relief.

  Intellectually I knew that you shouldn’t have your identity wrapped up in your car, and I didn’t (mostly), but the change in people’s attitudes after I started driving the Mercedes told me there was a very good reason why people here were so car-obsessed. Besides, I felt safe in it, the gas mileage was fairly decent, and it hadn’t given me a moment’s trouble in the almost four years that I’d been driving it. I couldn’t say that much for my Honda, which by the end was making piteous groaning noises and leaking oil. It had practically been begging to be taken out behind the barn and shot. Not knowing what else to do with it, I’d donated it to charity. The tax write-off was helpful at least, although I came out of the transaction feeling as if I’d done something vaguely illegal.

  I pulled my coat more closely around me as I hurried over to the elevator and pushed the button. Some people might claim that Southern California doesn’t have seasons, but they must not have ever lived here. Sure, it doesn’t snow in L.A., but it can get pretty darn cold during the winter. Okay, maybe not cold compared to say, Quebec or something, but certainly cold enough to require a warm coat if you’re going to spend any more time outdoors than simply walking to your car.

  It had rained the night before, but at least by the time I got to The Grove it was dry. Shoving my chilled fingers into my pockets, I stepped out of the elevator and moved into the open plaza in the center of the mall. The Grove was always fairly crowded, but that night it was more maneuverable than usual. January was sort of a dead season for retail sales, and the cold weather wasn’t helping much.

  I didn’t have a real game plan; I just wandered in and out of several stores, thinking something would catch my eye. Having that much spare money burning a hole in my pocket certainly wasn’t my normal experience. Usually I had to budget and figure out if I’d really have enough extra cash to buy that great pair of shoes I’d been lusting after, or whether it would be better to just put it away in case of any real financial emergencies. I’d say my better nature won out only about half the time, but at least I had some killer shoes.

  Eventually I came to Victoria’s Secret. Part of my brain tried to instruct me in the futility of buying fancy underwear when I didn’t have anyone around to give a damn about how I looked in it, but I’d always had a weakness for girly stuff. Besides, they were having a sale, and damn it, it was my birthday.

  I suppose it was my musing over the matching red satin bra and panties I’d just purchased that made me a little absentminded. Then again, maybe that was just what he wanted me to think.

  Whatever the reason, I was peering into the bag as I left the store (I tended to get paranoid about dropping a store receipt and having someone somehow steal my identity from the four digits of my Visa number printed on it), and I walked right into him.

  “Sorry!” I said automatically. Then I looked up to see who I had collided with.

  It was him.

  He smiled at me.

  “Hello, Christa,” he said.

  Chapter Two

  For a second, I just goggled at him. Then I remembered to shut my mouth. At first I wanted to demand how the hell he could possibly know my name, and then that thought got twisted up in bemusement at the fact that he still looked exactly the same.

  My tongue tripped over itself, and all that came out was a strangled, “Wha — who — ”

  Again that smile. “Call me Luke.”

  If someone asks you to “call them” something, then you can be pretty damn sure it’s not their real name. I clutched my Victoria’s Secret shopping bag against my chest like a shield and tried to gather whatever shreds of my dignity might be left. Not knowing what else to say, I asked, “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Perhaps? Who says “perhaps” these days? “I know I saw you,” I said firmly. “About seven years ago, on the campus at UCLA. Or maybe we should go a little further back...say, to my eighth-grade graduation?”

  “You are observant, aren’t you, Christa?” He glanced around us, at the people hurrying in and out of shops and restaurants. “Not a very private place for a conversation, is it?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Why would we need to have a private conversation?”

  “You’ll see.” He stuck his hands in his coat pockets, still smiling that enigma
tic smile, and then suddenly we were someplace else.

  The whole world seemed to tilt around me, and I let out a little shriek. Not very dignified, I know, but you try standing in the middle of a shopping center one second and then being — well, I didn’t know exactly where I was, but it certainly wasn’t The Grove.

  My first impression was of a panorama that glittered in the darkness, and then I realized I stood in the living room of a house that must have been built up against the Hollywood Hills or someplace like that. Los Angeles lay spread out beneath me, a moving carpet of light. After I caught my breath and looked around a little more, I realized the place looked oddly familiar.

  What the hell? “Is this the Charlie’s Angels house?” I demanded. I was kind of obsessed with that movie back in high school. Kicking ass while wearing a progression of crazy disguises looked like a lot of fun.

  “The what?” he asked.

  “In the first Charlie’s Angels movie, the computer genius who turns out to be the bad guy had one of those houses up on stilts in the hills. This one looks just like it.”

  The stranger appeared nonplused. “Aren’t you even going to ask how we got here?”

  Well, my brain had sort of skipped over that part, probably because if I’d stopped to think about it, my head would have exploded. But the rationalizing had already kicked in. Maybe he’d injected something in my arm when we bumped into each other, and he’d dragged me up here while I was in a drugged state. Or maybe I only thought I was here, while in reality I’d actually fallen down and was now lying on the ground, still at The Grove, with a concussion and possibly worse.

  I shot him a wary look. “Are you going to tell me if I ask?”

  He gave me the last answer I expected. “Of course.”