Rochelle
Dr. Hauschka was one of her very best friends. It was a secret affair, of course. Sometimes, but not always, the secret ones were the best. This one was.
She carried him in the cell phone compartment of her bag for days like this, when she’d been doubting herself, feeling old and fat, and she love, love, loved him. She parked before the Santa Barbara condo she and Jesse had rented, and before she even checked her face in the mirror, she pulled out Dr. Hauschka’s translucent makeup and began applying it to the backs of her hands. She’d called Jesse from the road to tell him about Julie Larimore, but he’d already heard.
Like magic, the bluish lines and smatterings of age freckles blended into a monochromatic study in beige.If your hands are young, you are young.That’s what Jesse always said. Truth: hands were the first to go. One day you look down, and there’s your mom, the sad fingers, all those spots. Depending on your genes, the face follows, and then the butt. Or was it the other way around?
Jesse sat at a table in their room, his laptop flipped open, the television across from him playing without sound. She stopped even before she closed the door to admire him, his face tilted up from his task, the sun off the water reflected in his gray-black hair pulled back in a short ponytail. He was a man of extremes—hot looks, cold heart, easygoing outside, tough inner core—aman she had once loved with her life. And now? She couldn’t bear to think about now.
“You talk to him?” That was the extent of his greeting.
“And then some.”
A smile lit his eyes, then lingered, almost decadent. “Oh?”
“What do you want me to say? That one hand job later, I’m his spokesmodel?”
“Turn off the drama and trauma, okay? And close the door, if you don’t mind.”
She did as he instructed, then pulled up a chair on the other side of the table. “Bobbo did come up with an idea, Jesse. It might be good.”
“Good how?”
“He can’t just hand over Julie Larimore’s job to me, especially now that she’s—that she might be—”
“Dead?”
“Yeah. Dead.”
He frowned at the screen of his laptop, keyed in a few more commands. “And so,” he said, still clicking the keyboard, “since she might be dead, the old man’s afraid to give you the job?”
“Not afraid, exactly. He cares about Julie. Her safety is his first priority.”
“His profit margin is his first priority, and you know it.”
“Don’t take Bobbo for granted. He’s not that easy to figure out. And he can be cagey.”
“But he does have the hots for you. Even after all these years.”
“That would bother most men.”
He snapped off the computer and directed his gaze at her. “I trust you. Although when I think back, I don’t know why I should.”
“That was a long time ago, Jesse, before I ever knew you. Damn. It’s bad enough that you try to control my present. Don’t try to control my past, too.”
He repeated the frown, this time directing it at her. “You seeing that shrink again? You always talk like this when you’re seeing a shrink.”
“I’ll see anyone I fucking please.”
“Little girl, talking big.”
“Try me.”
He stood, unzipped his pants. Oh, no. Not now. Not with what was going on, not with this battle in her mind. “I said he can’t just hand the job to me. He has a better idea.”
Jesse’s hand stopped at his zipper. “Such as?”
“He thinks he should announce an open competition for spokesmodel for Killer Body, Inc. Invite pros and nonpros to enter. Then, after top media exposure, pick the new Killer Body.”
