Sins of Innocence (45 page)

She rolled off the bed, wondering how many others Jess had told. Ginny had long since discovered that nothing was sacred, even among friends. Especially among friends. They acted as though they’d never judge you, then they turned around and tried to run your life, tried to tell you what was best for you. The only one who’d never done that was her mother.

Ginny stared at the bottles. Within a year after moving her out to the coast, her mother had started puking blood. Ginny had found out by accident when she was dumping the trash one night. There, among the piles of empty pints, fifths, and fewer used boxes of frozen dinners, were the blood-soaked tissues. God only knew how long it had been going on. There had been, of course, no medical insurance, but Ginny was determined not to let her mother die. Yet doctors, hospitals, even the surgical implant of a shunt around her liver, could not save her mother. Ginny ended up not only losing her, but also going through all the money from her stepfather’s estate. In the end she was nineteen years old, alone, and broke.

But she had made it. She smiled wryly now. Ginny Stevens had survived.

It hadn’t been easy at first. Ginny didn’t, she knew, have the kind of face that would stop a truck. Acne scars, no visible cheekbones, and boobs that were a little too big for the Twiggy era hadn’t helped. But her body was good, and she knew what to do with it.

Al Rosen was a fat, cigar-chomping agent who did everything but demand her to lie down at her first interview. Ginny had held out, not that she was a prude—Christ, no—but because she sensed he would also be the kind of
man who wanted only what he couldn’t get. She’d dangled her thighs in his face and cock-teased him into getting her her first part—a walk-on in a B-grade horror flick. She only had three lines, but they paid the rent that month. Two movies later, Al threw out his overweight, thin-lipped wife, got a quickie divorce in Vegas, and dragged Ginny off to a justice of the peace. She moved into his tacky chrome-and-glass house in west L. A., and on the first night of their marriage, she had him begging her to stop. What the hell, it had been worth it to have somebody else pay the bills. Two weeks later Rosen dropped dead. He left her the house, a five-year-old Cadillac, and his next-to-worthless business. Overnight, Ginny became a widow and a talent agent. She was twenty years old.

Gator Smith was a Texas boy who sauntered into the office one day looking for work. He had a huge smile and great loins, and looked like the kind of guy who could make it big. Ginny sold the house, moved into a cheaper apartment, and invested in a knock-’em-dead wardrobe. Then she began courting the big guns. Within a month she’d landed Gator a supporting role in a Clint Eastwood western; when he was halfway up the ladder to success, Ginny convinced him to marry her. She knew he had a star-studded future, even if he was too cowboy-dumb to see it for himself. And shit, a little financial security would be nice. They lasted three years. Gator became a box-office draw, and the money rolled in. Then one day she dropped in at his trailer on location and caught him red-handed, poking another Texas boy. Ginny could stand a lot of things in her life, but being married to a homosexual wasn’t one of them.

It wasn’t until she was thirty-one that Ginny met Stan Levesque. She had given up being an agent and gone back to acting. It was 1982, and parts for has-been and never-were actresses over age twenty-five were few. Ginny was still living off the money she’d made off Gator, but it was going fast. Stan stepped in just in time. He was a successful soft-porn writer with a hard-core imagination. His greatest thrill was having Ginny make it with another
woman while he sat on the bed, stroking his prick. She wasn’t really into women, but what the hell, it was the eighties. They were married on the beach in Malibu and celebrated at an orgy. Things were okay, but after a couple of years Stan found religion, and that was the end of Ginny. He’d been fair, though, giving half his money to her and half to the New Life Church in repentance.

She was on her own again after Stan, pounding the pavement, looking for work, when she answered a cattle call for a documentary on the Gold Coast. It was being done for PBS—not exactly her style but it was work, and she landed the part. The producer was Jake Edwards, and less than a year later he told her she’d never have to work again. It was the best idea Ginny had heard in a long time.

Yes, Ginny had survived it all.

She swayed a little on the bed. Her smile turned to a frown. She
had
survived. And now this asshole Jess was trying to force her to relive the worst nightmare of her life.

“Well, honey,” she said to the wall, “it ain’t gonna work.”

She got up, swigged down three aspirin, and jumped into the shower. As the steamy spray pelted her, Ginny scrubbed herself with the loofah mitt, trying to erase the reminders of the past, trying to rub away those dark thoughts of a tiny, unwanted baby.

After she’d showered, Ginny layered on makeup and slipped into a white trapeze dress that was cut with a deep V neckline and rested halfway up her thighs. Although it was a departure from her usual formfitting attire, the fact that she wore no underwear was subtly revealed beneath the folds of the silky fabric. Ginny liked her body: With the advent of the perfect-body-for-sale business, she’d had her breasts enlarged to a full 34D, and the aging flesh of her stomach and thighs pulled taut, thanks to Jake’s indulgence. Best of all, she loved the way it felt when loose-fitting fabric skimmed across her nakedness.

“You wicked bitch,” she said into the mirror, as she checked her hair for the last time. “Time to fuck this shit and go out, and get down.”

She waved at the mirror, stuffed a pack of cigarettes into a silver clutch, slid into white high-heeled sandals, and left the house.

Where to go hadn’t been a tough decision: Club Le Monde was the hottest place on the Strip, filled with tourists who thought the stars hung out there. And tourists were just what Ginny wanted—not people who might know her, who might know Jake. It was time to be anonymous, time to forget everything about the present, and the past.

Ginny tossed the keys to the pretty-boy valet and strutted through the open chrome-and-brass door. Inside, the hum of voices was veiled by the electronic sounds from the stage. Ginny couldn’t see who was performing but knew it was probably a group of tanned blondes in tight white clothes. Anything to keep the tourists humping till closing.

She wove her way toward the bar, where those who weren’t on the dance floor stood three deep. She scanned the crowd. They were young: mid-to-late twenties, mostly, with a gray-haired guy sprinkled here and there looking like someone’s father, but leering as if he’d just come out of a peep show.

Exactly like your stepfather
, a cruel voice inside her mocked. Ginny felt her throat constrict again. She reached up and touched it, as if to force the ghost away. Then she shook back her hair and raised her chin. They’re not going to get me, she thought. Not Jess and not that baby.

She squeezed between two no-tit girls with Nikons around their necks and made her way to the bar.

After a few minutes the bartender nodded her way. No point in him asking her what she wanted: His voice would be dissolved in the din. She mouthed “Vodka,” then he raised the nozzle of one pump spray. “Tonic?” he mouthed back. “Soda,” Ginny said.

She felt the breath of a stranger on her neck. “Tough place to get a drink,” he shouted in her ear.

Ginny turned her face toward him. She guessed that he was about twenty-five, though it was difficult to tell in
the dim lights. His sand-colored hair hinted at a bare chest beneath the silk shirt. He was young. He was ripe. She smiled and shifted her arm to exaggerate the neckline of her dress. Yes, she thought, this is much better than thinking.

“You from around here?” he yelled.

“No,” Ginny answered. “Boston.”

The man-boy nodded as though he were familiar with the city. He pointed to himself. “Denver.”

The bartender wedged Ginny’s drink through the two seated in front of her. Before she could reach for her purse, the man-boy flashed a ten into the bartender’s waiting palm.

“Thanks.” Ginny smiled, knowing she hadn’t lost her touch. She took a long, slow sip and let the vodka slide down her throat, washing away the turmoil of the past two days. Thoughts of Jake began to dissolve. She took another drink, and thoughts of Jess followed.

“Dance?” he shouted.

She nodded, drained her glass, squeezed it past shoulders, and set it on the bar. The man-boy got his hand on her back and guided her toward the dance floor.

The music was pumping. Ginny arched her back and got into the beat, letting her dress fall carelessly to one side, practically exposing one full breast, then raising it teasingly high, hoping the man-boy would get a peek at the darkness between her legs. They gyrated and bounced, with Ginny keeping her eyes locked on his as he roamed them over her body.

The song stopped. A slow, quieter tune began. He pulled her toward him, and they swayed together. She hugged her arms around his neck and studied his clear blue eyes. He pulled her close and put both hands on the cheeks of her ass. She tightened her muscles and ground her pelvis against his. Denver, she thought, Rocky Mountain high.

He whispered something in her ear. She couldn’t hear what he said but knew the intention. Why not? she thought. Isn’t it why you came here? Besides, Ginny knew,
one good fuck would erase both Jake and Jess from her mind altogether.

He pulled her through the crowd toward the front door. Under the lights of the foyer Ginny could see she’d been mistaken. He couldn’t be more than twenty-one.

“I’ve never done this before,” he said, with a Cheshire grin that showed healthy, straight teeth.

Ginny stopped. “You’re a virgin?” she asked, but even as she said the words, she felt the excitement rise. She’d never had a virgin. Not that she knew of.

He laughed. “Hell, no. I just never did it with somebody older than my mom.”

Ginny’s face went taut. Blood surged to her temples. Before she knew what was happening, Ginny raised her silver purse and smacked the look of pride off his cherub face. “Don’t flatter yourself, asshole,” she snapped, then bolted through the door.

It wasn’t until she marched into her house that Ginny realized she’d cried all the way home. She kicked off her shoes and headed for the bar in the family room. The teakwood bar was Jake’s favorite piece of furniture in the house—he had purchased it when he and Ginny had honeymooned on the big island of Hawaii.

Ginny looked for the tallest tumbler she could find and filled it half full with vodka. She mechanically cracked ice cubes from the small refrigerator and added a touch of soda. By the time she heard the front door open, Ginny had nearly finished her drink. Her head bobbed in the direction of the door.

“Who the fuck is it?” she slurred.

Footsteps sounded across the slate foyer.

“Just somebody come to keep you company.”

Brad walked into the living room.

“How’re you doin’, Mommy?”

Ginny turned her head. “What the Christ are you doing here? Old Jake wouldn’t be too happy about it.”

“Well, ‘Old Jake’ ain’t gonna know, is he, Mommy?”

“Stop calling me that. I’m not your mother.”

Brad laughed and strolled to the bar. He inspected the bottles a moment, then nodded in Ginny’s direction.

“Refill?”

Ginny finished her drink. “Why not?”

Brad fixed two drinks and carried them over to the sofa. He handed Ginny one and sat beside her on the low cushion.

“I’m surprised to find you home,” he said, raising his glass in a toast. “What with the old man gone, I figured you’d be out looking for a little action.”

“Fuck you.”

“Sorry. Guess I should’ve expected you’d be home knitting.”

Ginny didn’t answer as she took a big swig. Her senses were getting dull—the way she liked them. She looked at Brad: His face was a little out of focus.

“So, are you going to help me?” he asked.

“Help you what?”

“Help me get the money out of the old man.”

Ginny laughed. “Help you get the money? Sweetie,” she said, as she leaned across the sofa and pinched Brad’s cheek, “I don’t even like you.”

“Sure you do, Mommy.” His voice suddenly became lower, sexier. “I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

Ginny pulled back. “Up yours,” she said, and took another drink.

“Hey, that’s no way for a mother to talk.”

“Look, pal, I’m not your mother. I happen to be married to your father, that’s all.”

Brad stared into his glass. “Ginny, I know I’ve been an asshole.…”

“No kidding.”

“But I want to go straight now, believe me, I do. This restaurant could make it happen for me.”

“Do yourself a favor. Never depend on anyone. Not your father, not anyone.”

“Experience talking?”

Ginny half smiled and took another drink.

“Do you hate my father?”

She shook her head. “Sometimes he’s a jerk. But no, I don’t hate him. I just hate the way he wants me to be somebody I’m not.”

Brad leaned closer. “And what are you, Ginny?”

Ginny laughed. “I’m the asshole.” She rubbed the rim of her glass, barely able to see it through cloudy eyes, then lowered her voice. “I’m the asshole,” she repeated.

“What happened? Did Jake catch on to your little bartender games?”

Ginny snapped her head around.

Brad laughed. “A friend of mine was tending bar at the party you and the old man were at the other night. Heard you gave him quite a shock.”

“Jesus.”

“Hey, no big deal.”

They were quiet for a moment.

“Don’t tell to your father either,” Ginny slurred. “Lying sucks. It only comes back to haunt you.”

“I’m not lying. The restaurant deal is for real.”

“Like your other ‘deals’?”

Brad shrugged. “I told you, I’m going straight.”

“And I told you not to lie. Give it up, Brad, it’s not worth it.”

“Experience talking again?”

“Yeah.”

He whistled softly. “Sounds like you’ve been caught in a good one.”