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  For my grandmother,

  Frances Schifano Rozyla

  (1921–2010)

  and

  My friend,

  Adam Bascomb Ross

  (1972–2010)

  Acknowledgments

  Hollywood Strip is a product of various themes that dominated my life in 2009 and 2010—loss, turmoil, and awakening. Writing a novel was a daunting experience, and I sometimes thought I would never overcome the self-doubt and block that came along with it. All in all, though, this proved to be a most cathartic experience. Many creatures inspired and supported me in my journey. A shout-out to the following is in order:

  Walter Mosely—This Year You Write Your Novel was incredibly helpful. Thank you for penning a gem of a tutorial.

  Mona Gable—Several years ago I took one of your courses and learned valuable advice, such as to “make every word count.” I often thought of your plethora of tips while writing and appreciate the knowledge you shared.

  George—I’m grateful you introduced me to the proper people and helped push this project forward.

  Dr. Freedman—It was in your office that the idea for Hollywood Strip was born, at a time when I was going through a metamorphosis. Thank you for keeping me focused and believing in my creativity.

  The crew at Vigliano Associates and Tor/Forge, particularly David Peak, David Vigliano, and Bob Gleason—I’m thankful you saw the potential in both me and my “baby.”

  Last, but certainly not least, a special thanks goes to Z., my Hemingway cats, Grandpa, Aunt Paula, Toby, and the neurotic, always amusing devotees of the Four Seasons.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  About the Author

  Copyright

  1

  Callie stared at her semi-nude reflection in the makeup room and exhaled. Lord, these lights are harsh. Calm yourself; Coquette magazine is known for its stellar lighting. She shifted her weight to her left hip and scrutinized her backside. Was that a dimple of cellulite? Impossible! Cellulite at just twenty-three wasn’t logical. She adjusted the band of her lace thong and squinted. Well, even if there were trace amounts of cottage cheese, the editors would make her skin cherub-smooth. Digital retouching was as common as bark on a tree trunk. It was just last week that she met December’s cover model and was stunned to see the girl’s face was as dewy as a slice of freeze-dried pineapple. In her photos, though, she appeared supple and luminous. Yessiree, it was all just a matter of retouching and lighting, a goof-proof formula.

  “You look fabulous,” she told her reflection. Her concentration was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Callie? You ready, babe?” Hannah, one of Coquette’s long-term makeup artists, poked her head in the dressing room.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, and tied a silken robe around her waist. Her heart rate soared but she managed a smile. “Let’s do it.”

  Hannah clapped her hands. “Now, that’s what I like to hear, my kind of girl. Everyone’s ready for you. I’ll do touch-ups on set.”

  “Sounds good,” Callie muttered. Maybe they keep a supply of Patrón nearby.…

  Hannah strode through the winding hallway with Callie trailing. Framed life-size photos of girls who had been in the magazine over the past four decades adorned the walls—maddeningly lush creatures who beckoned with parted, lacquered lips and eyes steeped in lust. Callie’s skin tingled. I can do that. That’s going to be me. I’m going to be up there with all of you bitches.

  “We’re doing the classic fairy-tale bedroom setup. It’s the easiest way to get in the mood. Trust me, after twenty-two years, I know. Can’t go wrong with it,” said Hannah. She tapped the shoulder of a man peering through a tripod-propped camera. “Phil, our girl has arrived.”

  Phil, an affable sixty-something man with a cropped white beard, looked up from his lens. “Wonderful. How are you today?”

  Callie dug at her cuticles. “Good, thank you.”

  “Go ahead and step into frame.”

  She tiptoed to the middle of the room next to the four-poster bed. The satin sheets were perfectly rumpled. Perfume bottles and pearly trinkets covered the vintage-looking vanity. Airy curtains masked a mock bay window.

  “Watch out, coming through!” A scruffy assistant narrowly missed bumping into her with an armful of cable cord.

  “Yep, let’s start by the bed,” said Phil in response to Callie’s questioning look. “We’ll take it easy, let you get comfortable. I work slower than most photographers. I like to make sure I’ve got the shot; that could mean twenty frames or five hundred frames. We’ll shoot till I’m certain we’ve got the right look.”

  “Gotcha,” she chirped while Hannah teased her roots.

  “And don’t be nervous—I know you’ll be great.” Easy for him to say; he wasn’t about to balance in five-inch stilettos stark naked. “Don’t be afraid to move and mix it up, I’ll follow you. We’ll start off with some lingerie shots and gradually move into nudes. I want you to feel comfortable. Hannah, can you smooth that little piece behind her ear? That’s it … perfect.”

  “I’ll take your robe,” Hannah said. Callie slid out of the garment and draped it over the older woman’s arm.

  “And just remember, most importantly, Callie—don’t forget to have fun.” Phil’s smile crinkled the skin around his bright eyes. He couldn’t be any more different from what she had envisioned. Surely a man who photographed naked women for a living mu
st be a lecherous pig, yes? But no. The complete opposite, in fact. She breathed a sigh of relief and her shoulders loosened. Perhaps she wasn’t going to need a shot of tequila after all!

  She positioned her rear toward Phil, feet apart, breasts lightly pressed against the bedpost.

  “Nice, dear, very nice. Tush out more, twist your upper half towards me … show me more of your breasts. Perfect. Hold that.” Click, click. “Flip your hair back for me.”

  The tendrils cascaded down her back like curled ribbons and she gazed at him over her shoulder. This wasn’t so difficult.…

  “Let’s lose the thong,” he said.

  Already? She swallowed and timidly removed the garment. Screw it. What have I got to lose? All or nothing, baby. She faced Phil head-on and her eyes bored into the lens with laser-beam intensity. Hands cocked on hips, stark naked. The unanticipated adrenaline rush made her nipples erect. Coquette had found its next great sex symbol, she was certain.

  Hours flew by at jet speed and by the end of the shoot she felt like a seasoned pro. Not that she was a novice to modeling; before moving to Los Angeles, she had posed for clothing catalogs and bridal ads in her hometown of Troy, Michigan, and filmed a commercial for a hair care company. But those jobs were for local and regional companies. And the biggest difference—she had been fully clothed.

  Coquette was a global phenomenon. Founded in 1964 by French-born entrepreneur Yves Rousseau, the magazine was a clever mix of celebrity interviews, self-help, and fashion tips for the modern man. Each month a young woman was featured in a multipage layout in various states of undress. Though not considered smut by the majority of the public, the periodical grew racier with each passing year—legs became farther spread and pubic hair reached extinction—and the more Rousseau pushed the taste level, the farther Coquette slipped on the relevancy meter. Its heyday of the 1970s was long gone, but still, public interest remained and there was never a shortage of women hoping to be the next discovery.

  The day she discovered Coquette was seared in Callie’s brain. “Come look at this,” Susannah, her next-door neighbor, had whispered, and pulled a stack of magazines out of a cardboard box. Two twelve-year-old girls on a Saturday afternoon in February. Snooping in Susannah’s basement. Virginia, Callie’s mother, allowed her to play at someone else’s house, for once. (Usually her chums had to come over to Callie’s. “It’s safer that way,” Virginia reasoned.) The models’ hips, breasts, and windblown tresses mesmerized the sixth-graders. “I hope I’m this beautiful when I grow up,” Callie sighed, and Susannah nodded her pigtailed head in agreement. Neither of their prepubescent bodies were developing fast enough for their liking. Callie especially desired a figure like her mother’s, a Jayne Mansfield build to replace her coltish shape. But the hips and breasts never fully sprouted. Her body remained several inches shy of the va-va-voom frame she craved.

  Five cups of coffee and a can of hairspray later, Callie exited the set and gathered her belongings in the dressing room. Caffeine combined with adrenaline made her euphoric—high. She had given Phil her best and her poise hadn’t faltered during the entire shoot. Spot on. The come-hither smile (despite the agony of the back-snapping poses), the pout, the attitude … it all felt so right, so on. She eased her sore feet into a pair of Havaianas and rummaged through her purse. Where had she placed her car keys? Girlish chatter echoed from the hallway and a young woman entered the room. Her wheat-blond hair was pulled high in a ponytail and her nose was sprinkled with freckles. Without a speck of makeup, the girl was radiant. Callie’s confidence plunged several rungs.

  “Hi, I’m Callie.” Better to break the ice.

  “Rachel.” The girl snapped her chewing gum and threw her oversized tote on the makeup chair.

  “Are you doing a test shoot, too?”

  “Yeah, but I feel like hell. I do not want to be here. My head is killing me and I’m sore.” Rachel stretched her neck from side to side.

  Wait until you’re under a slew of hot lights in skyscraper heels for hours, your body contorted in positions you never knew were possible, thought Callie. You want to talk about sore! “I hate photo shoots when I’m sick, too. The makeup artist has some Advil—I saw her taking some earlier.”

  “What, are you, like, in kindergarten?” Rachel said. “Why don’t I just munch on Flintstones chewables and call it a day? Only a bottle of Vicodin could cure the way I feel. I’m so fucking hungover, I can’t even see straight, but what else is new. Welcome to the raw and randy world of Rachel O’Connor.” She looked Callie over with a curled lip and plopped on the floor. She drew her thighs up tight against her chest to shield any light from her face.

  Must find keys ASAP.… She spotted them next to Rachel’s small but shapely derriere.

  “Good luck,” Callie said, and darted out the door.

  Rachel’s raspy reply came when Callie was halfway down the hall: “Yeah, whatever…”

  2

  The sun singed Callie’s forehead as she whipped her Mustang convertible into Casa Vega’s parking lot. Four o’clock happy hour with Candice. She scanned the dining room for her friend but the muted lighting made it difficult to adjust her eyes.

  “Hey, girlie!” called a girl from the bar. She bear-hugged Callie and slid a drink in front of her.

  “Thanks, but I don’t like salt on mine,” said Callie.

  “Perfect. More for me.” Candice called to the bartender and ordered a salt-less margarita. “What’s the latest? Have you heard back from Coquette?”

  Callie shook her head. “They said I’d hear a yea or nay within a month but it’s been six weeks. I thought the shoot went so well, but now I don’t even know.”

  “Of course you’ll get it. You’re hot and I recommended you.” Candice swirled her tongue along the salty rim.

  Callie shrugged, unconvinced.

  Candice had been featured in the May issue that year. As stunning as her pictorial was, she was more striking in person. On the short end of the stick at five foot four, she boasted 36-24-35 measurements, the kind of curves Monsieur Rousseau was partial to. She had hair so black, it was almost blue, and her personality was equally intense. Candice Boyd was a dynamo with energy to burn and keeping pace with her was often draining. She walked and talked with dizzying speed and gobbled life in giant mouthfuls, be it men, drugs, alcohol, or bucketloads of Jimmy Choos. Her adventurous spirit (“After all, I am a Sagittarius”) attracted admirers at the dry cleaner’s as easily as at any nightclub. It was during high school French class of freshman year when Callie first fell under her sassy older classmate’s spell. (“Excuse me, do you have a pencil I can borrow?” she had asked Candice. “Tell me you love me and I just may let you keep it,” Candice snickered.) Her brashness was—most of the time—infectious.

  “I almost forgot. Look, can you tell?” Candice tipped her head in the light and pursed her lips.

  “I spotted that pucker before I even saw you. I kid. They look great, plump but natural,” said Callie.

  “Thanks. He used two cc’s. They’re still swollen.”

  “I was wondering why you wanted to meet in the Valley,” laughed Callie. “And in a dark place, too. Now it all makes sense.”

  “Of course. You know me, gotta keep up appearances.” Her light eyes turned cloudy. “Actually, I need to ask you something. If you say no, I completely understand. But I could really use your help.”

  “Candy, you and I both hate beating around the bush. Spill it.”

  Candice polished off her margarita and slammed the glass down. “As you know, Lars and I have been fighting like cats and dogs. I’ve had a burning suspicion he’s been whoring around so I played detective and guess what? I was right. He’s been cheating on me. And with a crusty, pathetic fossil, no less.”

  Callie’s kohl-rimmed eyes widened. “Who is she?”

  “Some thirty-eight-year-old who calls herself a model,” Candice snorted. “I found all sorts of disgusting texts and e-mails. He’s a total douche bag, a dog. I
t’s not like it hasn’t been a long time coming. Our relationship has had more ups and downs than a goddamned yo-yo. But this time it’s different. I’m done with him, finished, kaput. Sayonara, pal. So, my question is this: What do you think about me staying with you for a month or two while I look for my own place? We could split the rent. No pressure.”

  Callie suppressed a groan. As much as she adored Candice, she didn’t want to live with her. She didn’t want to live with anyone in her cramped studio apartment on Orchid Avenue, be it boyfriend, girlfriend, or four-legged friend; she treasured her privacy. But she couldn’t turn down her friend in her moment of need. And besides—five hundred dollars a month in rent was leagues better than a thousand.

  “How can I resist? Absolutely.”

  “Awesome!” yelped Candice. “Thank you, mama. I really, really appreciate it. You know I wouldn’t ask this unless I was serious.”

  “I know. Lars has never been a favorite of mine and now I like him even less, if that’s possible.”

  “That’s the thing. For all of his acquaintances, I don’t know too many people who genuinely like Lars. What was I thinking? For six months, oy vey. I guess I’m just a sucker for a hot body,” Candice sighed.

  “That you are. There are far worse crimes, though, that’s for sure.” Callie dipped a tortilla chip in guacamole and crunched. “Needless to say, you’re not going to his birthday party tomorrow night at Skybar.”

  “Are you kidding me? But of course I’m going. And you better bust out a sick-looking dress because you’re coming with me.”

  3

  Callie lay curled on her couch and shuffled through Friday’s mail: an electric bill, a flyer advertising a local house on the market, a preapproved credit card from Caring-Thru-Credit—and a letter from Coquette. Her pulse quickened and she tore open the envelope.

  Dear Ms. Lambert,

  Thank you for your interest in becoming a model for Coquette magazine. Regretfully, you are not what we are looking for at this time. We encourage you to try again in six months.

  She crumpled the letter and threw it across the room. Her eyes stung with shame and she couldn’t control the large teardrops that ran down her cheeks. “Try again in six months”? The nerve! Was she supposed to get prettier by then? What was currently wrong with her? Were her breasts too small? Was her bone structure not adequately chiseled? Was she too thin or not thin enough? This didn’t make any sense!