Page 34 of Rastor

Chloe's voice drifted over my dark thoughts. "I'm sorry." She paused. "Really."

I shook my head. "It's alright."

But it wasn't. All this time, Chloe had been different, untouched by all of that ugliness. She'd been kind to me when I was a nobody. There I'd been, lying on the sidewalk, half-dead and headed for a crash. She'd picked me up, maybe not physically, but close enough. And then, she'd pulled me from the darkness.

And for years afterward, she'd been the thing that kept me going when a different kind of darkness crept around the edges. It was a funny thing. Thanks to Chloe, I knew there was sweetness to offset the sour, goodness to offset the bad, and somewhere in the world, a girl who liked me for all the right reasons.

Or so I thought.

"No," she said, her voice softer now. "It's not alright. I don't want to be like everyone else. At least, not about this."

At the regret in her voice, my anger evaporated. "That's the thing," I told her. "You'renotlike anyone else." I reached for her hand. "Not about anything."

Her hand was small and soft, and this time, she didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned closer and asked, "So what happened then?"

She knew. Everyone knew. But I said it anyway. "So we had sex. Obviously."

And not just once. The tape was what, three hours long? Longer than most Hollywood productions.

When Chloe said nothing, I kept on talking. "So a few days later, the footage of it hits all these Web sites, and Brandy's gone." I made a scoffing sound. "To Hollywood, L.A., whatever. Big surprise, huh?"

"What about your friend?" Chloe asked.

Oh yeah. Glenn. My so-called friend. Turns out, he orchestrated the whole thing, right down to the bed itself, which he'd bought on credit. But hey, he got his investment back, didn't he? And then some.

"The next time I see him," I said, "he's driving a Jag."

"Did you confront him about it?" she asked.

I'd done more than confront him. But that was a different story. So all I said was, "You might say that."

"So what about Brandy?" she asked.

"What about her?"

"You ever see her again? I mean, I read about that thing in Beverly Hills."

Oh yeah. That. I'd seen how it played in the media. It wasn't good, especially because the real story played out a whole lot differently.

Chapter 17

The story, according to the tabloids and all those Web sites, had me screwing Brandy in the men's room and then going on an ass-beating rampage afterwards. Only half of that was true, and it wasn't the screwing part.

"Yeah. About that," I said. "Her acting career? It wasn't exactly taking off."

"It seemed like it was going alright," Chloe said.

"Yeah. She had a few parts. But she wanted something bigger. So I'm at this dinner – some promo thing for a celebrity endorsement. And she corners me in the men's room."

"Seriously?"

In my mind, I could see it. I'd come out from a bathroom stall, and there she'd been, sitting on the restroom counter, with her skirt hiked up and her blouse unbuttoned. There was no bra, no panties, and no hesitation to flaunt it.

Her thighs were spread and her back was arched. She wore red high heels and matching lipstick. She was the perfect picture of a centerfold, but all I felt was disgust.

"Yeah," I said to Chloe. "And the way it looks, she's ready for a sequel."

Apparently, the sequel involved me nailing her next to the bathroom sink, or letting it play out a different way – the way itdidplay out. Either way, Brandy got what she wanted, plenty of attention.