Leave Yesterday Behind

by Alexa Aston

Genres: Romantic Suspense; Romantic Suspense; contemporary romance; serial killer; New Orleans; writer; Alexa Aston; actress

Synopsis

A popular actress at a turning point in her career.

A professional athlete forging a new path as a fiction writer.

And a serial killer interested in seeing both of them dead . . .

Callie Chennault vaulted to fame on the nighttime soap Sumner Falls, but after a decade of playing the same role, she is ready for a new acting challenge. When Callie is attacked by a stalker on the streets of New York, she takes a leave of absence from the show and returns to her roots in Aurora, Louisiana, to heal both physically and emotionally and determine her next career move.

Former professional baseball pitcher Nick La Chappelle has also come to Aurora to lick his own wounds after a messy divorce. A Cy Young winner and one-time ESPN broadcaster, Nick longs for the quiet of a small town in order to write murder mysteries under a pen name.

Sparks fly when Callie believes Nick is taking advantage of her great-aunt’s hospitality, but they resolve their differences—and surprise themselves—by falling in love. Their bond is tested when both Nick and Callie become the focus of a serial killer nicknamed Lipstick Larry.

Can they outwit a murderer bent on seeing them dead and survive to build a lasting relationship?

Release date: March 29, 2022

Publisher: Oliver Heber Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

PROLOGUE

 

The realization came to him instantly. He’d had enough practice. He looked over at the girl, her eyes large with fear as she watched him cross the room and remove a can of beer from the mini-fridge. It hissed gently as he popped the top and took a swig. Then another. The cold brew slid down his throat, burning as it went.

Practice made you perfect. That was the rule. His mother became the perfect whore, thanks to all her years of practice, men traipsing in and out of their ever-changing address. She died because of all those men—the never-ending line—and the booze that she used to make herself forget that same, endless parade.

And of course, the one man that bashed her face in until there wasn’t a face left. That had been the kicker.

When no suspect surfaced, the authorities blamed him, an angry teen with a string of petty thefts and no good role model to influence him. Six years in the detention center and he’d learned, through trial and error, to be the model prisoner. He knew what to say to make them think he felt remorse over a crime he’d never committed—even though he wished he would have. He kept his nose clean and didn’t associate with anyone. A spotless record that couldn’t be beat.

And they let him out a year ago because he’d trained himself to fit in with a society that had never wanted him. Never acknowledged him. He still fit in, going to his boring job in the automotive store in Brooklyn every day, cheerfully working overtime, a smile pasted on his features, despite customer complaints over the smallest of issues. Visiting his parole officer every week, then every two weeks, and now only once a month—all because he was judged to be a reformed man. He pretended to enjoy the visits. Rehearsed what he would say so the underpaid idiot with a worthless degree in social work would think him normal.

But he’d practiced on what was important all along.

The girl tied spread-eagle to the table in the corner was proof of his due diligence.

He stood and slowly walked toward her, his eye roving up and down her naked body. She was young and ripe.

And blond.

They always had to be blond. Or else it wouldn’t count.

Like a proud father, he took in how this one favored Jessica so much. He always tried to come close, but her resemblance to Jessica was quite remarkable. Why, given a chance, she might have been the next rising TV star herself. At least that’s what he’d told her in the bar last night and she’d beamed at the compliment as she downed the tequila shots he paid for.

Although no one could truly hold a candle to his Jessica.

He tilted the beer above her slightly, allowing a small amount to spill onto her flat stomach. She flinched as the cold liquid hit its target. He leaned down and licked it from her bellybutton, dragging his tongue around it in circles that grew wider and wider.

She began to whimper behind the gag.

“Shush,” he told her, as he brushed his palm across her forehead, pushing the hair back that had fallen into her eyes. She cringed at his touch.

That angered him.

He backhanded her across the cheek, a move quick in speed and fluidity that showed the hours he’d invested in the martial arts. That, along with other skills perfected through repetition, gave him the confidence it would take to accomplish his mission.

Both of them, actually.

He poured more beer across the trembling girl’s breasts and watched as silent tears leaked from her eyes. As he bent, he pretended they were drips from an ice cream cone and licked them away.

He removed the knife from his pocket and laid it between her breasts as he drained the can and tossed it aside, the empty cling echoing in the small, windowless room.

“I need to put something on you,” he explained.

He did this every time. It was part of the ritual. The ritual soothed him. He knew when the time came and it really counted, he wouldn’t have the privacy he had become accustomed to. Jessica was never alone. She was older and would never want to come with him as all the others had before. No, when her time came, it would have to be different from the others he practiced with.

But the end result would be the same.

He removed a tube of lipstick from his shirt pocket and opened it, rotating the bottom until the color peeked above the gold rim.

“I would like you to wear this. It’s Jessica’s favorite.”

The girl’s confusion didn’t matter. Only the ritual did.

“You must be very still and quiet. I’ll put it on and you’ll be very pretty. Even beautiful.” He shook his head sadly. “But not as beautiful as Jessica, I’m afraid.”

His knife cut through the cloth handkerchief that had kept her fairly silent after the Rohypnol wore off. He pulled it away, taking time to dab her lips with it before he dropped it to the floor. He hoped the knife atop her was intimidation enough. She shouldn’t speak through this part. Silence was important.

He brought the lipstick to her mouth and concentrated as he brushed it across one side of her upper lip, then the other. As he began to trace her lower one with the vibrant color, she gagged.

“Be still,” he warned. “It has to be perfect in order for me to release you.”

He always tried to give them a glimmer of hope.

But the blond choked until a spew of vomit roared from her and landed directly onto his shirt. His favorite shirt.

He glanced down and studied the trail running down him, the smell of last night’s tequila overwhelming. With lightning speed, he took the knife and plunged it into her stomach. The comforting, tinny scent of blood assaulted him.

He knew he would be all right.

Yanking the blade from her, he repeated the action several times until her gasps subsided. Until the blood bubbled up and spilled out around her. Until the look of horror was frozen in place for all time.

He frowned. “You ruined my last practice session, bitch,” he complained to the college coed who had only wanted a few free drinks, served with a dash of compliments on the side.

Still, he took the knife and cut a large lock of hair from her head. He would add it to his growing collection.

He sighed. He was ready.

Jessica would be his.

Soon...

 

 

CHAPTER 1

 

At thirty-two, Jessica Filch Karris Richmond Faulkner Morrison Taylor had been married six times. Five if you counted one husband married twice in a row. She’d divorced a foreign race car driver; an egotistical actor; a temperamental chef; and a stodgy banker. She was now the recent widow of a renowned art dealer more than double her age that she swore was the love of her life.

Like all the rest had been.

Callie Chennault had given up trying to understand Jessica. After ten years, she was tired.

And beginning not to care.

“Callie? Hustle, girl! You’re late again. Marvin is shitting bricks.”

She pushed up her sunglasses to rest atop her head and grinned wickedly at Sandra, her favorite makeup artist. Sandra grabbed her arm and pulled her along the narrow corridor to her dressing room. She passed Husband Number Three and blew him a kiss. Ricardo was about to marry an heiress that was secretly conducting an affair with her son’s best friend. Jessica knew all about it and was going to tell Ricardo later today.

That is, if she could pull herself together enough to do so.

Sandra removed Callie’s sunglasses and pulled the navy T-shirt over her head and gave her a push. Callie landed in a chair. Sandra immediately grabbed Callie’s yoga bag from her shoulder and tossed it and her purse onto the sofa. Margaret, their best hairdresser, began to comb Callie’s long, honeyed locks with a brisk motion, twisting sections and clipping them atop her head.

“Hey, take it easy,” she complained good-naturedly.

Margaret made eye contact with her in the mirror. “If you’d been here half an hour ago, things might be different, hon.”

Sandra already had her palette in front of her and began slathering on the thick foundation that the TV cameras required. Callie knew she was in good hands. She closed her eyes, thinking about how Jessica would approach Ricardo today with her news about his heiress and her illicit affair, one which could land the woman in jail, considering the age of her young lover.

Jessica had never quite gotten over Ricardo. She’d even shared a one-night fling with her ex-husband during her marriage to the boring banker. Callie thought their chemistry was too good to limit the affair to a single session of fierce lovemaking, but the actor who portrayed Ricardo came down with walking pneumonia and looked like hell for six weeks. Why would Jessica be interested in a man who resembled death warmed over when she could have any man in Sumner Falls?

Still, Callie understood why Jessica felt the need to share such sizzling news with her former husband and lover. The naughty heiress was about to lose all her money to the IRS and Ricardo needed a lot of cash to keep his new restaurant afloat. Without his new wife’s fortune, the moody chef would have no need of her. He was much too good-looking to be stuck with her when she had money, let alone if she were broke and jail-bound.

Besides, Jessica was a meddler. She thrived on manipulating the lives of those around her, just like Jane Austen’s Emma Woodhouse. That part Callie deeply understood. She herself grew up in a small town, where everyone knew everybody’s business. She’d gotten involved in the personal lives and loves of too many people in Aurora and could empathize with Jessica’s need to stick her nose into the brewing storm.

“Finished, doll,” Sandra said, patting her shoulder.

Callie opened her eyes and studied her image in the mirror. Her honeyed mane was swept into a chic chignon, her skin dewy, her mouth a sinful red. She smiled and stood.

She was almost Jessica.

She slipped off her soccer sandals and yoga pants. Sandra spritzed her with Jessica’s signature fragrance while Margaret fastened a pearl necklace around her neck. She eased into a royal purple silk blouse and slim black cigarette pants. Sandra fastened the faux diamond bracelet around her wrist as Margaret held out the three-inch black stilettos that would put her at an even six feet.

She looked into the mirror again and smiled.

Now she was Jessica.

She took her time walking down the hall. Jessica wouldn’t mind keeping people waiting. She ran on her own schedule, which was interrupted by unscheduled romps of wild sex. She was fickle and flirty and a bit snobbish at times.

In other words, Jessica was the total opposite of Callie.

Callie favored jeans and sneakers, a light gloss or lip stain as her only makeup, and was friendly and outgoing and always on time. She’d been in only two serious relationships in her twenties, but nothing came of either. She hadn’t had sex in almost two years, making her thirties tame. Her friends considered her too finicky when it came to her taste in men. Besides, Callie wouldn’t know how to flirt if her life depended upon it.

But Jessica did. Sometimes Callie thought of her alter ego as The Evil Twin. Yet primetime soap fans loved the bad girl who sometimes showed glimpses of vulnerability. At any rate, the role had kept Callie in a steady job for just over a decade. Unfortunately, she’d finally hit the point where portraying Jessica had her bored stiff. She yearned for more of a challenge. She thought Jessica needed to grow up finally. Change. Develop some lasting relationships with her family and one man.

Nope. Not according to the head writer of Sumner Falls. Jessica was much too interesting as she was, flitting from bed to bed, meddling in everyone’s business. Even TV Today agreed, naming Jessica the most watchable character on primetime television for seven years in a row. Why would Callie want to mess with a good thing?

Jessica arrived on the set. A quiet descended. The gentle buzz of a moment ago stopped abruptly at her entrance. It was funny how even the cast and crew had come to think that she was Jessica. They spoke to her in a different way when she was ordinary Callie Chennault in no makeup, her hair in its customary ponytail. They would tease with her, joke with her, and even tell her about their families.

But whenever she came out all done-up in the Jessica duds, things changed. Confidences were no longer shared. From the gaffer to the cameraman, everyone gave her a wide berth.

Frankly, she was tired of it. She wondered if she had it in her to play another role after being identified for so long with one character. Many actors left television with a dream to work in film. Most came crawling back within a year or two, broke and scared. Sometimes, fans accepted their return; other times, they became has-beens, waiting tables or modeling shoes in industrial films, their brush with fame gone.

She didn’t care. She missed the live theater of her high school and college days. She would love the chance to tackle a small, meaty role in some indie film. Anything, as long as it was far-removed from Jessica Filch Karris Richmond Faulkner Morrison Taylor.

Her contract was up in another month. She’d put off her agent regarding renegotiations. Harry assumed she would be bucking for a hefty raise and told her she would get it. He promised he’d pull off a sweetheart deal, where she’d work for several weeks at a time when involved in a major storyline and then get a stretch of weeks off in which to vacation or even pursue another acting job.

If she could find one. She didn’t want to be typecast as Jessica 2.0 for the rest of her career.

“If we can’t find a film for you, you could think about made-for-cable movies, like on Lifetime. Or even jump to a streaming series on Netflix or Hulu. Maybe something off-Broadway. You could step into a long-running show for a limited guest run. When All My Children was on the air years ago, the famed La Lucci did other things. She even had a nightclub act and did some spots with Regis Philbin.” Her agent had eyed her appraisingly. “You don’t sing, do ya?”

She assured him she didn’t unless it was in the shower and her dog, Wolf, was her audience of one.

She walked across the set and sat in a gold brocaded chair and glanced up so she could see her director in the control room. Marvin rarely kept his temper contained, reaming out actors left and right, but he usually exercised caution when Jessica arrived. If she were Callie, she would have apologized to him for her tardiness and explained how her washer flooded her apartment and the one next to it this morning, else she never would have kept the crew waiting like this.

Jessica simply raised her chin a notch and coolly awaited her instructions. Not that Marvin really told her what to do anymore. She’d been Jessica long before he came onboard Sumner Falls. Besides, the writers understood how she turned a phrase and wrote accordingly for her. Callie knew instinctively when to pause, when to arch her brow, when to turn up the heat—and when to freeze someone out.

She was good. Four Emmys said so. Marvin earned three, riding her coattails.

“Let’s go,” the director said brusquely.

All vestiges of Callie Chennault vanished. Jessica picked up the phone, moistened her lips and said breathily, “I need to see you, Ricardo. No. It can’t wait. Now. My place.”

***

Callie dried her face with a fluffy towel and hung it back up. She loosened the tight chignon, which often gave her a headache and shook out her hair, combing her fingers through it as it fell about her shoulders. She picked up a tinted lip balm and smoothed it over her lips. They were always dry after she scrubbed away Ravenous Red, the flaming color that was Jessica’s trademark and available for purchase at finer department stores. She slipped back into her street clothes and grabbed her yoga backpack.

Sandra popped her head into the dressing room. “Tomorrow’s script, Cal. Lotta lines for you, girl. Beth stopped by earlier and highlighted them for you.” She tucked the pages into Callie’s messenger bag. “She said do not, do not, be late to yoga. Or she’ll never forgive you. Ever. That is a direct quote.”

She chuckled. Beth got her into yoga three years ago and they both were totally addicted. Callie lived for the seven o’clock twice-weekly class they attended and used a yoga fitness app once she arrived home other nights. Yoga helped her maintain her sanity in the crazy, stress-filled world of television dramas.

“Anything promising? Or did you actually not read ahead for once?”

The make-up artist shrugged. “All I’ll say is that you and Ricardo end in a clinch, romance-cover style.”

She grinned. “I suppose our next scene I’ll be given the choice to eat him up, spit him out, or push him away. I know you know. Dating one of the show’s writers does have some perks.”

Sandra drew a line across her lips and tossed away an imaginary key. “I like it better when you don’t know what’s coming. Besides, it depends upon if you re-sign. Like that wouldn’t happen.” Sandra rolled her eyes. “See you tomorrow, Cal.”

She nodded, picking up her bag and backpack. Good old Callie. Always predictable. The good girl who did what everyone expected and would naturally roll over her contract for another two years, no questions asked. Harry was bucking to set things up for three. She knew it was so he could buy that weekend place on the beach his wife always nagged him about.

Yet, why did she feel so unhappy? She was still fairly young. Single. Rich. Beautiful. She had one of the highest Q ratings around. What more could she want? Especially today, with so many network TV series biting the dust, replaced by reality or talk shows, which were more cost-effective. Sumner Falls was the second-longest running drama on primetime television. It was safe because it was a huge moneymaker for the network and had a rabid fan base.

Why would she even toy with the idea of not re-upping? For an actor to have a steady gig, much less one so successful and lucrative, was pretty much unheard of. No one in her right mind would opt out for the unknown.

Or would they?

She headed out of the studio. Only three fans awaited her outside tonight. She posed for selfies with them and signed autographs for everyone, even scrawling her name across a tennis shoe. That was a first. She started down the Midtown street at a rapid pace. Her class began in less than ten minutes. She couldn’t afford to be late. She needed every minute of that deep breathing to cleanse away all the mess that was Jessica.

***

“I love you, Jessica,” the man whispered under his breath as he watched her from across the busy lanes of traffic. He fell into step, matching her stride for stride. It was the fifty-ninth time he’d followed her to her yoga class.

He planned for it to be the last.

 

 

CHAPTER 2

 

Callie took a last swallow of her chai tea and stretched lazily. She glanced around the coffeehouse and was surprised to find how few people remained.

“It’s already after nine,” she exclaimed. “I am dead meat.” She began grabbing her things, standing to throw the yoga bag over one shoulder as she reached for her purse.

Beth laughed as she gathered her items. “Only TV folks would understand why you’re in a tizzy, Cal.”

“People think we lead such glamorous lives. Little do they know we have zero social life. Come home, learn your lines, hit the sack. Repeat.” She sighed. “I can’t remember the last time I was awake to see the eleven o’clock news, much less Kimmel or Fallon. If they’re even still on.”

They walked toward the door and Beth added, “I do believe you got in a yoga class and had a wonderful hour of gossip tonight. Isn’t that worth getting home a little later than usual?”

Callie groaned. “You’re the one that highlighted my lines for me, Beth. There’s gotta be a ton. Jessica and Ricardo are alone at her place when we open tomorrow.”

Her friend sniffed. “Thank God she’s spilling the beans to him about Little Miss Rich Heiress. I just hate that two-timing bitch.”

She laughed. “You hate her because she always took up all the dressing room with her crap thrown around.”

Beth said, “Cal, it’s been years since you had to share space with another actress. That woman was like a fifteen-year-old. Her stuff was always everywhere. And she would take my makeup and my designer clothes and dump them on the floor and push them under the sofa. She is the reason I left Sumner Falls.”

Callie pushed open the coffeehouse door. The cool March night had turned windy. She zipped up her jacket and gave Beth a knowing glance.

“You chucked Sumner Falls when Mr. Right came along and you know it.”

“Speaking of Mr. Right. Are we still on for this weekend?”

She grimaced. “Blind dates are not my idea of fun, Beth. You know that.”

“It’s a freakin’ dinner party, Cal. Lots of people around. It’s not as if you’ll be stuck with Ted all night.” Her friend grinned. “Besides, he’s single, a plastic surgeon, and hot. Emphasis on the hot part. I think you’ll be a terrific match.”

“Then why hasn’t Saint Ted, the-appointed-hot-one, already been snagged? Maybe I just have a suspicious nature but you’re making him sound too good to be true.”

A loud boom of thunder echoed through the dark night.

“I won’t take no for an answer.” Beth turned her eyes toward the sky. “I think it’s about to pour. I’m going to catch a cab.” She smiled at Callie. “The faster I can get home, the sooner I can send out an e-blast to all Callie Chennault Fan Club members to be sure and tune in for a fatal showdown with Ricardo coming up in the near future.”

She laughed. “Yeah, right, Ms. President. And here I thought you were just good at helping me with my lines and answering my fan mail.”

Beth hugged her and then raised a hand to hail a passing cab. “Wear the red dress on Saturday night. You’ll knock Saint Ted’s eyes from their sockets.”

“Great, a true blind date,” she quipped.

Beth flipped her the bird and jumped into the taxi that pulled up.

Callie waved goodbye as the cab pulled away from the curb. She didn’t know what she’d do without Beth’s friendship.

Except for this dating thing.

Her friend was extremely happy, with a toddler and a loving husband, and she wanted Callie to be just as satisfied. She’d lost count of the number of times Beth set her up with acquaintances from church, Mark’s hospital, various cousins, neighbors, and even a guy from Beth’s dog’s obedience class. She played along gamely. Half of her secretly hoped she would find her Prince Charming this way. The other half just wished Beth would wave the white flag of surrender and leave her in peace.

Because when it came down to it, what man wanted a woman who worked long hours, came home and stuck her nose in a script, mumbled to herself as she memorized lines, and then dropped into bed before ten every night? The men who wandered into her life for a short while found out how boring her regimented life was and left the relationship without a backward glance.

She hitched her yoga bag higher and started walking as a light mist began to fall. Hey, she was still single. Would this set-up guy think something might be wrong with her? Maybe Dr. Ted, the-appointed-hot-one, had as many misgivings about Saturday night as she did. Maybe he would think she’d been married half a dozen times like Jessica. Most people did. Or maybe he would be one of twelve men left in America with no clue as to who she was.

She doubted it.

“Forget about it,” she muttered to herself.

She had more important things to worry about, such as calling Aunt Callandra when she got home. Her great-aunt couldn’t seem to shake this flu going around. Callie worried about her. She wasn’t getting any younger at eighty-two.

Then a strange feeling washed over her, a sense of foreboding so strong that she quickly turned and glanced around to see if someone followed her. A man brushed by, jarring her without a word of apology. A couple in their mid-forties was about thirty yards behind her, turning the corner away from her. No one else shared her sidewalk. It was a late, dark, and rainy weekday night. In this neighborhood, all sensible people had already found their way home.

Spooked, Callie pulled up her hood and clutched her purse and bag more tightly as the mist turned to a steady rain. She couldn’t help but shake the feeling that someone still watched her so she picked up her pace.

Maybe she should take a cab home. But her subway station was only a block and half away. It would be foolish to stand out in a downpour after nine at night when she could duck inside and be on her way downtown in a couple of minutes. She liked that people left her alone on the subway. A few sometimes stared at her and frowned, wondering if they’d ever seen her before. Most turned away, not quite able to place her.

After all, she left Jessica behind at the studio every day. No chic clothes, Ravenous Red mouth, or fancy hairstyle. She didn’t often get recognized in real life unless it was a die-hard fan. Even then, most New Yorkers were cool about it and simply ignored her, while the paparazzi had lost interest in her years ago. The press declared her boring and turned their attention to other stars who liked to stir the pot.

The weird feeling washed over her again.

Chill out. Just move.

She took a few steps and stopped when her foot hit gum. “Great. That’s what you get when you’re not watching where you go, Cal.” She stopped and lifted her shoe for inspection, swearing softly under her breath.

“Jessica?”

She turned automatically and thought it was sad that she answered to two names as she saw a man standing behind her. He was probably the reason she’d had the feeling of being followed. He seemed a little out of breath, as if he’d raced to reach her. It had happened before. She knew it would happen again.

And always with this type.

He was non-descript in every way—average height, average build, brown hair, glasses. Harmless looking. Dopey grin on his face, like he’d hit the lottery because he’d actually had the balls to speak to the crush of his daydreams. She knew enough to be firm. Give him a brief little personal moment, a smiling selfie, and her signature on something so she could get back to her life.

Then a quick flash of John Lennon signing an autograph for Mark David Chapman zipped through her brain. He’d been average, too.

And he’d killed Lennon hours after someone snapped a photograph of them together.

“You don’t look like Jessica up close.” His voice was silky, almost caressing, yet the tone was definitely disappointed.

Her pulse quickened. She took a step back to put a little distance between them and brushed against a brick wall.

“I like to give my skin a rest away from the studio. All that heavy make-up and hairspray can cause a girl some damage. I like to let my skin breathe.” She kept her tone calm and friendly as she glanced over the man’s shoulder.

No one was in sight.

“I want to see Jessica.” His mouth turned into a pout that would put Ricardo to shame. “She’s my favorite, you know.”

He pulled something from his pocket and held it up. “Put this on. It’ll help. It’s the perfect shade.” He smiled shyly. “I’ll even let you do it. You’re the expert.” He reached out and grabbed her wrist and laid the item in her hand before letting go.

Chills ran through her as she opened her palm. In it lay a gold tube of Jessica’s signature Ravenous Red. This one meant business.

“I’m afraid I can’t without a—”

A knife appeared, clutched in his left hand. Her heart beat erratically for a moment. Her words died in her throat.

“Don’t worry,” he said softly. “You know how to be Jessica whenever you want to.”

Her palms grew damp. The lipstick almost slipped from her hand.

“Jessica always likes to be seen wearing this color. Put it on. Now.” His voice was quiet but the underlying threat hung in the air all the same.

Callie brought a shaking hand to her mouth and realized the lid was still on. She removed it and twisted a few turns before she lifted the lipstick close again.

Oh, God, she was so nervous. She stroked color onto her upper lip and then across the bottom. Her hand slipped, though, and a searing red line jutted across her lower cheek.

“You made a mistake. Wipe it off and do it again. It has to be perfect.” The tone was deadly calm.

“I’ll need some cold cream. Red stains pretty badly.” She gulped air, trying to calm herself. She couldn’t let this guy see how rattled she was. “And I know you want this to be perfect. So do I.”

“I can fix it.”

She watched him pull a tissue from his jacket pocket. He gave it a lick and then stroked it down her cheek to her jaw several times.

“That’s better,” he said, dreamily smiling as he inspected his work. “Now, try again.”

Her eyes met his and Callie prayed her hands would stop shaking enough for her to get it right this time.

Why me? her brained screamed.

She’d never seen the need to use any type of bodyguard. For God’s sake, she was just a television actress. Usually, TV fans were always friendly. They didn’t really treat you like a movie star because you came into their homes every week. They thought they knew you. Fans considered you family.

But fan was short for fanatic. She knew she’d just run into the motherfucker of all fans.

Do not cry, she told herself, wondering what would work to get away from this creep with a knife.

He said he wanted Jessica—so Callie would unleash her alter ego’s persona in all her glory. Maybe Jessica could get her out of this situation.

Immediately, her posture changed. With confidence, she applied the lipstick, tilting her head slightly as she pressed her lips together, sealing the color. The Jessica juices began to flow through her. The flirtiness. The sexiness. The pout.

“You are a very interesting man.” She ran a slender hand along the arm without the knife. Don’t think about the knife. “I’m convinced we need to get to know one another a little better,” she said huskily. Whenever Jessica wanted something, she turned on all her charm. “What’s your name? I want to know all about you.”

She observed the uncertainty flash in his eyes. He’d been calling the shots a moment ago. Yet in the space of seconds, Jessica was now in charge. This jerk may have thought he wanted Jessica but he had a tiger by the tail.

“Simon,” he whispered.

“Oh, I just love that name. Simon,” she purred. “It sounds so strong. So masculine. So sexy.” She ran a manicured nail slowly down his chest. He flushed and shuffled uncomfortably.

Good. She’d hit the right button. She was in Jessica’s element. She couldn’t worry about not having a script. Flying by the seat of her pants with some knife-wielding fanatic. She was in full-blown character. Be charming. Stay in control. Keep in the zone.

Be Jessica.

She moved into him, away from the wall. She became the aggressor, the one wanting something, the tables turned. He was the nervous one now.

“I’m glad we ran into one another, Simon. Would you like to get a drink? I’m mad for whiskey sours these days. They make me... lose control.”

“No,” he said unsteadily. He stepped back but Jessica moved right back into his space.

She placed a hand on his arm. “Then what do you want to do, sugar?” She ran the back of her other hand along his cheek.

“K-k-kiss you,” he stuttered.

The thought revolted her but she realized the hand with the knife had totally gone limp, as if he’d forgotten it was there. Keep going with the flow.

But without a script, who knew where this train wreck was headed?

She bit her lip and studied him a moment. It’s not as if they’d start having sex on the street. She’d just suck it up and kiss the bastard. Then somehow she’d get away. Maybe she could knee him in the groin to disable him. Or lightning would strike Stupid Simon dead. Really, really dead.

“We barely know each other, Simon. Don’t you want to go somewhere quiet? Out of the rain. We could talk a while.”

He frowned. “You barely knew Alec or Ricardo. That never stopped you before, Jessica.”

She smiled seductively as she played with his lapel. “You know so much about me. I don’t know a thing about you.”

“Would it make a difference?” he asked, a sad look haunting his eyes.

She let Jessica consider his question. “Sometimes,” she answered. “I’m awfully fond of money. I won’t hide that fact, Simon. Power. Knowledge. Position. I like a man with all those things.”

“I can take care of you,” he said earnestly. “I want to. I can do it better than anyone because I love you more than all the others ever did. Let me love you.” He put a hand along her nape and pulled her close.

Warning bells blasted in her head. The survival instinct of fight or flight kicked in, pouring adrenaline into her bloodstream as if she’d just snorted cocaine. She willed herself to keep improvising. She’d done something like this a thousand times before in acting class. On the set. She could do this.

He lowered his head and she automatically shut her eyes.

Don’t think. Just do.

He smelled of spearmint gum and Old Spice. She didn’t know they still made that. Her dad had worn the cheap aftershave for years. The scent threw her for a moment. Then his lips touched hers. They were dry. She tightened her mouth as he clamped his arms around her.

Where the hell was a cop in New York when you needed one?

And then he pulled away. She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until she gulped at the air.

“No. No. This isn’t right,” he said to himself, as if she wasn’t there. “It’s not supposed to be this way. I need to feel your love. I need to feel you.”

Callie popped off, “It’s not like we can do the dirty right here on the street.”

Immediately, she knew it was a mistake. She could tell by the shock on his face that she’d blown it. She’d had him believing for a few minutes that she was Jessica. Then big-mouth Callie Chennault blurted out from nowhere and ruined everything.

She licked her lips and stepped smoothly back into Jessica. “We could go somewhere more private, Simon. I love a bed with satin sheets.”

A hard look crossed his bland features. The non-descript little fan turned angry. Very, very angry.

She knew all about angry. She’d run more times than she knew when this same light came into her father’s eyes.

Callie took off without thinking, automatically letting things slide from her shoulders to hit the pavement behind her, hoping they would trip him up.

“Bitch!” he roared above the rain.

She ran no more than fifteen yards when he caught her. His hand locked on her upper arm as he swung her around and smacked her hard. Her cheekbone exploded in pain. Before she could call out, he’d punched her hard in the gut, knocking the wind from her.

He was dragging her. She was aware enough to feel her hip bumping along the pavement. Her eye had begun to swell but she saw they’d entered an alleyway. They went a few yards into it before he lifted her, slamming her into the wall.

Panic flooded her as he pressed against her, holding her wrists as he forced his tongue inside her mouth.

She gagged and began to struggle but her claustrophobia kicked in. She couldn’t breathe. The dark, tight space enveloped her. She thought she might pass out.

The stinging was almost incidental. An afterthought in the back of her mind. Something was terribly wrong but a break in her synapses wouldn’t let her brain process the information.

Suddenly, her legs went rubbery. She slid down the wall. Simon moved away from her and the cool of the night hit her. Her butt hit the concrete and her vision started to blur as a burning sensation began along her side.

“You’re like all the rest. You’re not really Jessica. You just pretend to be Jessica. You aren’t perfect at all.”

She recognized the contempt in his voice as he walked away, his hand swinging by his side, the knife dripping. She was confused. It was blood. Her blood. It hit her. He’d stabbed her. More than once.

She reached up a hand and touched herself. Blood flowed. Sticky. Messy. She needed help. Callie had never been more helpless—alone, in the dark, the thunder rumbling angrily as the rain continued to come down now in sheets. She could hear the rats scrambling through the garbage behind her.

She couldn’t die. She wouldn’t die. She had too much left to do.

Things began to fade to black. Not good. She needed to move where she would be seen. Could she stand?

She tried and almost passed out. Okay, standing’s out. But she could crawl. She pushed herself to the alley’s entrance and then collapsed on the sidewalk. She was so tired. So cold. The warmth of Sun Burst pose no longer flowed through her. Every breath hurt and she had to force herself to do it. Breathe. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

She could hear the voice of the instructor from her yoga app, encouraging her in his quiet tone. Breathe in. Breathe out. Follow the movement of your breath.

But it hurt like hell. Bet he never tried to practice yoga while bleeding profusely. She couldn’t inhale deeply. Instead, the air came in shallow spurts, like a panting dog in the sweltering heat of a Louisiana summer.

She quit struggling. She knew it didn’t matter anymore. She wouldn’t make it. And it pissed her off to think that every obituary would shout that “Jessica Had Died.” Not Callie Chennault. Every picture accompanying every article would be of Jessica. Not her. She’d lost her identity in a character so long ago that no one knew the real her anymore.

Even if someone passed by on foot, they wouldn’t stop for a bloody, limp Callie. She was a stranger, not the sophisticated beauty on the cover of In Style or Entertainment Weekly, the cool blond with the fiery lips and temperamental attitude.

No, she would die alone on a New York sidewalk. A no one.

Callie took one last, painful breath and gave up.

 

 

CHAPTER 3

 

Nick stretched and rubbed his eyes. He’d been at it all night but he was through now.

She was dead.

He hated killing someone, particularly a pretty blond, but he had no choice. To get where he wanted, she had to be eliminated.

He’d planned it from the start. It still didn’t make him happy, though. Death never did. Especially this late in the game. He could hear the fans protesting now.

He pushed out of his seat. His eye caught his image in the mirror.

He looked like hell. All thirty-five years and then some.

The combination of death and no sleep caused the look. It was a far cry from his glory days when the money rolled in easily for what was in truth very little effort. He had natural talent; the right people always paid for it. He’d enjoyed being a player.

What he did now didn’t always come easily. And each murder had to top the last one.

But he’d gotten good. Very good. Almost too good. Sometimes, it scared him how the ideas flowed. How could one man be so cruel, inventing that many sadistic ways to off unsuspecting fools?

He stumbled down the hallway and through his bedroom, not remembering the last time he’d slept in the unmade bed. He entered the bathroom off the main suite and turned on the shower faucet. A hot shower would wash away his evil doings. It would separate him from the sin.

Nick stood and let the spray hit him for a long time as he tried to force the images of death from his mind. This murder had been harder on him than any before. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because she’d been so well loved. She had a lot of years ahead of her before he cut her life short.

Yet, he’d do it again in a heartbeat. The rush was too great.

He stepped from the shower and toweled off. Once he shaved, brushed his teeth, and combed his thick, dark hair, he felt almost human again. Murder usually put him into a funk. It was over now, though. Behind him. He would start a new chapter and put it behind him.

He always did.