Those Who Can, Date, page 1
Those Who Can, Date
Barbara Meyers
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THOSE WHO CAN, DATE
First edition. May 10, 2024.
Copyright © 2024 Barbara Meyers.
ISBN: 978-1951286187
Written by Barbara Meyers.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
EPILOGUE
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Also By Barbara Meyers
About the Author
Dedication
For Adrienne and Kellar
Chapter One
Day rounded the corner toward the elevators, just as a man old enough to be his father barreled into him.
Somehow, Day managed to keep his balance and grasped the other man’s arm to stop his forward momentum. “Whoa, there, buddy, slow down.”
The man gave a terrified glance over his shoulder. “Shit! Here he comes. If he’s got a gun, we’re in trouble.” He tugged on Day’s sleeve. “Come on. Hurry!”
“Hey, wait. What?” Day reluctantly let himself be led, glancing back, but he had no idea who the man was referring to. This was Vegas. Someone carrying a gun in a hotel wouldn’t be all that uncommon but using one here, where the main concourse buzzed with activity, people, and security cameras seemed highly unlikely.
They dodged through the sea of people who were streaming out after the end of a show and crossed the expanse of the lobby. Day allowed himself to be tugged into the nearest lounge. The man’s hold loosened, and he took a seat at the far end of the nearly deserted bar. Day’s lips twitched, but he was intrigued now, even though the last thing he needed or wanted was a cocktail. He’d ducked out of the launch party of yet another high-end brand of vodka, this one partnered with late night talk show host, Jamie Falcon.
All Day wanted was the king-sized bed in his suite and a decent night’s sleep before he headed back to LA tomorrow. He’d get there, too, just as soon as he could extricate himself from his new acquaintance. If nothing else, he might get a good story out of it. One he could use the next time he guested on Jamie’s show.
“We’re safe here,” the other man said.
“We?” Day looked around. Only a few of the small tables were occupied and there was a cluster of twenty-something guys good-naturedly ribbing each other at the opposite end of the bar. Pop music from two decades ago played in the background. It didn’t escape Day’s notice that his seat was between his companion and the entrance. “What am I? Your human shield?”
“Nah.” The guy glanced at the corridor. “He won’t try anything until he can get me outside... or more likely, the parking garage.”
“Is that so?”
The bartender appeared in front of them. Day decided he might need something after all. Plus, his new buddy shouldn’t be drinking alone. He decided not to mix things up and stuck with top shelf vodka and cranberry juice in a tall glass. “And for my friend?”
Day noticed the guy perked up when he heard what brand of vodka Day had ordered. He asked for an equally high-end Scotch on the rocks.
When the bartender stepped away, a lightbulb came on over Day’s head. “Wait a minute. Did Ryan put you up to this?”
The man frowned. “Ryan?”
“Ryan Grayling. This is one of his pranks, right?” Day waggled his fingers in an encouraging gesture. “Come on. What’s the rest of it? I get jumped as soon as I leave the bar? Hog-tied and left in a laundry cart?”
The guy shook his head, his expression glum. “This ain’t no joke, buddy. This is my life.”
The drinks arrived in record time. Day signed for them with his room number. He leaned back against the stool’s padding and swiveled to face the man, who stared into his drink. If this wasn’t one of Ryan’s elaborate practical jokes, he wanted to know what was going on even more. “I’m Dayman, by the way.” He offered his hand.
The man barely gave him a glance but shook the hand Day offered. “Rory.”
Day knew his longer than usual hairstyle, along with the beard he’d grown for his latest role, kept the average American from recognizing him in public which pleased him. When he’d left the launch party, he’d donned a pair of round tortoiseshell glasses to further insure his anonymity. He said, “I guess you don’t want the police involved, otherwise you would have called them. What’s this guy going to do when he gets you outside? Shoot you?”
Rory gave a bitter laugh. “Pistol whip me, more like. Break a kneecap or two. Dead guys can’t pay up.”
Just as Day suspected. “Loan shark.”
“Muscle for him, yeah.” Rory continued to contemplate his glass, though he’d yet to take a sip.
Day glanced into the corridor where a guy leaned against the wall across from the lounge entrance, studying his cell phone. Or pretending to. His gaze flickered up and caught Day’s for a fraction of a second before passing on to Rory. Seeming satisfied his quarry was in plain sight, he returned his attention to his phone.
There was something feral about the man, but Day couldn’t decide if that was due to the tailored leather jacket, the snakeskin cowboy boots, or the attitude emanating from him that spoke of violence beneath an ironclad control mechanism.
“That him?”
Rory straightened and looked past Day. “Yep.” Defeated resignation swamped his features.
“How much?”
“Pal, you don’t even want to know.”
“Try me.”
“A hundred Gs,” Rory admitted.
Day emitted a low whistle. “How?” he asked.
Rory began to explain, but Day stopped him. “Do you mind if I record this?”
“What for?” Rory asked, looking around as if he might spot hidden cameras.
“I’m in the movie business,” Day explained. “I’m always looking for stories. Yours sounds like an interesting one.”
“You’d pay me?”
“Maybe.”
“How much?”
“I can’t say. Could be enough to save your kneecaps. This time anyway.”
Rory dropped his head.
“I don’t want to talk here,” Day said. “Let’s go up to my suite.”
Rory eyed the muscle, who behaved as if he had all the time in the world to wait. “He won’t let us get by. Me anyway.”
“Sure, he will.” Day signaled the bartender. After a brief conversation with him out of Rory’s earshot, Day used his phone to send a text message.
Minutes later, two of the hotel’s security guards arrived. Day used his chin to indicate the guy who’d already pocketed his phone, straightened away from the wall, and took off. “You requested an escort to your suite, Mr. MacDay?” the older of the two said.
“Yes, thanks. Along with my companion here.” He signaled to Rory, who looked at the three of them and checked the corridor, before he downed the rest of his drink.
Rory stood, adjusted the belt at his waist, and smoothed down his shirt. “Let’s do this.”
FOR THE NEXT FOUR HOURS, Rory talked while Day and his assistant, Chazz, listened. Day only interrupted when he had a question or needed clarification. Day’s text to Chazz earlier was to make sure a video recorder was available. He wanted to be able to reference everything Rory said, including his agreement to sell his life’s story. He also wanted quality reference material for when he played the character, capturing his various nuances and mannerisms. Day introduced Chazz to Rory as his creative director, which wasn’t far from the truth.
Day began to see what Rory described—the family he left behind to follow the siren’s call of Vegas, the new family he’d begun, only to have it disintegrate before his eyes, ups and downs from glory to despair, the trail of destruction left in his wake. Day could see how Rory’s story would unfold on screen. This was exactly the kind of vehicle he needed to launch his production company. All he needed was the right to tell it.
Day and Chazz stood. “We’re going to step into the other room,” Day said, “and when we come out, we’ll have a decision.”
A bleary-eyed Rory waved them off. “Go ahead. I’ve got nowhere to be.”
Chazz followed Day to the far side of the bedroom and into the luxuriously appointed bathroom. Day closed the door. “What do you think?”
“It’s got possibilities.”
Day loved how low-key Chazz could be. He probably had a better poker face than Rory. Even after the years Chazz had spent as Day’s assistant and closest friend, Day sometimes still found him hard to read.
“My gut says go for it,” Day told him. “While he talked, I kept visualizing scenes. I’ve already got most of it shot in my head.”
Ch
“Destructive.”
“Destructive and clueless about how destructive he is.”
“A lot of facets there.”
“Exactly.”
Back in the living room, he pitched the idea to Rory. “We make contact with your loan shark,” Day said. “Tell him to back off until tomorrow. I call my legal team. They get a contract to us. You sign it. We go to the bank, get the money. Pay off your debt. And you’ll have some left over.”
“You really want to make a movie about me?”
“Not about you, per se,” Day corrected. “A guy like you. Who’s lived a life similar to yours. Who’s ended up where you are right now.”
Rory lifted an eyebrow. “Two hundred thousand, you said?”
“That’s what I said.”
“How about you up the ante to two-fifty?”
“Nope. This is a one-time offer. No negotiation. Take it or leave it. You’re welcome to walk out of here and take your chances with the muscle downstairs.”
Rory slid a glance to the door before he offered Day his hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Chapter Two
One Year Later
Kellar Kennedy fought the urge to lick her lips, a habit she’d been trying to break for years. It wasn’t her fault that God had gifted her with the driest lips in the world. She’d tried balms, moisturizing lip gloss, every treatment under the sun, but nothing seemed to work as well as good old petroleum jelly. She kept tubes of it in every purse and piece of carry-on luggage she owned and jars of the stuff in both bathrooms in her townhouse.
But after the hair stylist and makeup artist spent over an hour making her look presentable enough to be a guest on Jamie Falcon’s late night talk show, time had taken its toll. She refused to be seen in anything less than pristine condition, so the urge to chew off the lip color that had been so carefully applied five minutes ago would have to wait. Even if it drove her crazy.
“Here’s the green room,” the production assistant said. She opened a door. “We’ll call you in about thirty minutes to get you mic’d up before your segment, okay?”
Kellar nodded. The assistant took off and all Kellar could think was thirty minutes? Already she wanted to take a damp paper towel and wipe off the lip stain the makeup girl had so painstakingly applied.
But Kellar was in the big leagues now, so she’d have to suck it up and act like she belonged there.
Stepping into the green room was like walking into a bachelor pad circa 1995. A black leather sofa and two matching chairs faced a large wall-mounted flat-screen TV. A wet bar, complete with an ice maker, small fridge, cabinets, and drawers occupied one wall. The adjacent countertop was set up as a buffet and held a variety of pre-packaged snacks: crackers, chips, pretzels and peanuts; as well as a tray each of sliced fruit (strawberries, pineapple and kiwi) and one of vegetables (carrots, celery sticks, broccoli florets and grape tomatoes). A bowl of gummy white dip sat in the middle of the tray.
Kellar had no intention of eating. Anything could happen if she did. Seeds in her teeth. A dribble down her carefully selected navy blue knit dress. Plus, it would put her lips at risk of losing their carefully applied color. She had so much makeup on, she felt as though she was wearing a mask, but she had to trust the people running the show. The last thing she wanted to do was make a fool of herself in front of a national audience. This was her make-or-break golden moment of opportunity.
A bottle of water would be harmless enough, however, especially if she could find a straw. Otherwise, she’d have to wait until after the show. Her mouth became as dry as her lips just thinking about it.
She approached the wet bar and opened the refrigerator. Sure enough, an entire shelf of bottled water greeted her. She took one and set it on the counter. Straws...now where would they be? She opened the overhead cabinets and saw an array of glasses in one and an assortment of drink mixers in another. Jars of olives and cocktail onions, small bottles of tonic and soda water. Another cabinet held the makings for coffee and tea.
She tried the drawers and found utensils. Strainers, corkscrews, bottle openers.
In another drawer she found a supply of cocktail napkins with the Jamie Falcon Show’s logo on them.
“There must be straws here somewhere,” she said when she located swizzle sticks in a smaller drawer. Finally, in what was probably the last unopened drawer in the room, she found what she was looking for.
“Ah hah!” She opened the water, stuck the straw in and sipped carefully with pursed lips before she caught sight of herself in the wide, full-length mirror.
She took another sip, puckering her lips as she sauntered toward her reflection exaggerating her imitation of a model on a catwalk. She studied herself critically.
“Ooh, baby, you look fantastic,” she purred. Her hair was her natural mahogany, enhanced with a few honey-colored highlights. It fell in thick layered waves to her shoulders. She considered her hair one of her best features. She rearranged the ends, but otherwise it looked perfect.
She checked the flawless makeup, the liner, shadow, and mascara showcasing her hazel eyes. The foundation covered every freckle or tiny blemish she might have. The coating of blusher enhanced her cheekbones.
A silver necklace, which she’d carefully chosen, complemented the neckline of the dress which plunged into a vee that showed enough cleavage to be alluring but still leave plenty to the imagination.
She was never going to be runway model thin, nor would her proportions qualify her for a plus-size gig, either.
She was what she looked like. A well-fed girl from Indiana who’d grown up on meat and potatoes. She had the sturdy frame and the curves to prove it.
Daily she said a prayer of thanks to Kim Kardashian and Nicki Manaj for making curves cool. Kellar had firmed up every one of hers with regular workouts in the gym, hiking in the summer and skiing weekends each winter. There were no jiggly parts except where they were supposed to be. Her breasts were a hundred percent natural, and she’d been told they were awesome by male admirers.
All in all, she was pleased with her appearance. She set the water aside and smoothed her hands along her thighs. She bent and lifted the hem of the dress. Even though it fit perfectly, and she had no body image issues, she adjusted the edges of the body-shaping undergarment.
A voice behind her said, “Why do women wear those?”
She whirled, allowing the dress to fall back into place, to discover a man stretched out full-length on one of the sofas. He was dressed in black. Perhaps that’s how she’d missed him before. He had his arms crossed under his head and a lazy, but amused smile on his lips. And she knew that face.
“From what I can see, you really don’t need anything at all under that dress. Explain it to me.”
Kellar was rarely at a loss for words, but none came immediately to mind. Instead, her brain flooded with a memory dating back to her senior year of college when she’d first met this man.
Her small college town had been the setting for his second movie, and she’d been given the honor of interviewing him for the school newspaper. They’d clicked, or so she thought when he made a date to meet her at a local pub. Then, as now, she’d dressed carefully. She’d wanted to look her best. Make herself memorable. To impress him.
Only he hadn’t shown. She’d waited an hour, thinking she knew how unpredictable the movie business could be. He could have got held up for one reason or another. She fended off the unwanted attention of the bartender who’d hit on her previously before she’d walked back to her dorm alone. But along the way, she’d passed the best restaurant in town. Laughter and light spilled from inside. She saw her date at a table, surrounded by movie people, his gorgeous blonde co-star, Willow Thorne, whispering in his ear. Kellar stalked back to her dorm, the lines of her next blog writing themselves in her head.
Certain he had no memory of their previous meeting, she watched him unfold himself from the couch and come toward her. “Sorry if I startled you.”
It wasn’t something she normally did upon introduction to a man, but she backed up a step. She bumped the edge of the countertop behind her, where she’d set her bottle of water.
