Brenden looks doubtful that his father was a hero.“You did what you had to do. How did Rufus hear about this doctor, anyway?”
“I don’t know. He never told me anything. He just did what he wanted—to anyone, with anyone.”
“What if the treatment had killed you? He was willing to take that chance without any research to substantiate?”
“Dr. Lemarchal had kept the cells of a chicken alive for over thirty-four years. And he was a Nobel Prize winner. That was enough for Rufus to roll the dice.”
Brenden shakes his head, studying me from across the car. A look of admiration fills his eyes. “There’s so much I want to know,” he murmurs. “This seems like the wrong place to talk about all that’s happened to you.”
“We’re talking about it, that’s what matters.”
“But we’re in my car, on Wilshire Boulevard.“ He downshifts, and we slow to stop at a red light. “I feel like we should be somewhere else. Like a park. Or the beach. Or in the private corner of a restaurant.”
I like that he’s thoughtful. I’ve only dreamed of moments like this, to be alone with someone I want, sharing my life. “This is spontaneous. I like that.”
He looks at me and his expression is too guarded for my liking. “It’s going to take me some time to…wrap my head around all of this—who you are and everything. I’m not going to lie, I came to you because Dad sent me. And I was angry.”
“I know you were.”
“I was angry at you—who you were to him. What you meant. And here we are now, you know? It’s…crazy.”
“Because I’ve been alive for eighty-plus years?”
“Stop.”
“No, Brenden. I can’t change that I’ve lived decades longer than you have. But I’m still seventeen, just like you.”
“How can you be? How is it possible?”
“Research has changed since I got my degree in Biological Sciences, but—”
“Wait. You have a degree in Biological Sciences?”
“And botany. Interior design. And literature. And history.”
His expression shifts to amusement. “Wow.”
“Did you think I sat around knitting and watching television?”
He shakes his head, smirks. “I don’t know what to think about any of this.”
“When I was in school, I was able to do some tests on myself. I wanted to try and figure out what the doctor had given me. I discovered my telomeres weren’t where they were supposed to be.”
“Telomeres?”
“The end of the DNA strand that allows for DNA to reproduce. My telomeres have an abundance of telomerase. Telomeres help protect genetic data and make it possible for cells to divide. But every time they divide, the telomeres shrink. When the telomeres get too short, the cell can no longer divide and you have aging, sickness, and ultimately death.”
“Interesting. And your telomeres?”
“Are like a teenager’s.”
“So you really are a teenager.”
I nod. “I found out that, what Dr. Lemarchal had given me was a form of a unique yeast infection via a fermented extract from the root of the astragalus plant. This unique infection continually rejuvenates my body’s cells.”
Brenden cocks his head back. “Trippy.”
I laugh. I hope I’m not imagining that he appears more at ease, that he appears to be accepting what I’m sharing with him. We drive in silence for a few moments, with Brenden deep in thought.
“Over the years, nobody recognized you?”he asks.
“Jonathan had put together a trunk full of disguises for both Oscar and me along with passports and new identifications. We used them for years. As time passed, the threat of discovery faded, like all things in show business ultimately do.”
“Did you ever miss being an actress?”
“Acting had been my reprieve. I’d wake up and count the hours until I was at the studio, on set, pretending. I hated what Rufus made of me. But if I could have chosen my own roles—I would have picked much grittier work. Rufus wanted me to be an ornamental actress. I only regret that Oscar could never fulfill his dream of being a director. I can never repay either of them for what they’ve done for me.”
Brenden glances over, and I see a change in his eyes. Less anger when Jonathan is the subject of conversation. He struggles to believe that his father was a decent man. I hope that his mind will gradually open to embracing Jonathan. And forgiving him.
Brenden takes a left, and we’re traveling the 405 freeway onramp. “Did Oscar ever regret his decision to stay with you?”
“He’s never said, but…”Emotion fills my chest, my eyes. “But I’m certain he’s had his moments.”
Brenden scrubs his jaw. “All these years…I can’t believe no one discovered you.”
“An audience tends to believe whatever story they’re told.”
There’s compassion in his expression that reminds me of Jonathan. “I should be able to offer you something. A place to stay. Food. I’m as good as homeless right now. I’m sorry.” Dark shadows beneath his eyes make him look weary. I realize he hasn’t slept in over twenty-four hours.
“You need to rest.”
“Before or after we talk to Solomon?”
We aren’t talking to Solomon. If Brenden is like Jonathan at all, he’d never simply drop me at Rufus’ door. “After.”
“Okay, so…how do you want to do this?”
The look in his eye sends thrill dancing over my skin. At the same time, I’m terrified of being completely taken by him because his touch is so powerful to me. Time to let go. I hear Oscar’s voice and remind myself that if I’m going to move forward, willing to embrace what comes my way.
“Is the Roosevelt still standing?”
He laughs. “It’s the place to be and be seen.”
“Someplace else then. A nice motel perhaps?”
“I know a place.”
Before I know it we’re at a small motel that looks like a gathering of cottages on the beach. The dry sand is dusty, blown by a sea wind, melting the shore into a stormy gray ocean.
“I’ve always wanted to stay here,” Brenden says. “If only we’d been here a few minutes ago, we could have talked while watching the sun set behind the smog.” He grins.
Smiling feels wonderful. Real. I love that he stops what he’s doing and watches me laugh, that his interest and focus doesn’t scare me. His interest feels familiar, an extension of something already inside of me.
Inside the motel room, the smell of the ocean permeates wallpapered walls, lifting the scents of countless rendezvous into the air. My nerves start to bubble. Two queen beds have a nightstand between them. A chest of drawers with a plasma TV is on one wall. And a small bath and vanity area are toward the back of the room.
Brenden shuts the door.
“Are you okay?” He comes to my side. “I can sleep in the van if that’s what’s bugging you.”
I hadn’t even thought of that. Now that I’m here, all I can think of is Rufus. He’s out there. Fear and anticipation at seeing him tangle inside of me.
“It’s not that. Thank you.” Even though I know contact will make me woozy, I reach up and skim my fingertips along the line of his jaw. His eyes widen a little. He swallows. Want pounds against my skin, held prisoner by years of self-inflicted incarceration.
“You should sleep.” My fingers slide to his lips. I want to kiss him, but can’t. Won’t, until I’ve done what I came to do.
“Sleep is the farthest thing from my mind right now.” He grins, catching my fingers. On cue, my body withers beneath his touch, and I’m against him, steadying myself. My heart leaps in my chest, as if trying to burst free. “What about you?”
If I tell him that I don’t sleep, he’ll want to talk about it and he won’t get the rest he needs. “Don’t worry about me. Lie down.”
His teasing gaze lowers to my mouth. “I’ll sleep standing up.”
I realize my weak knees aren’t knocking as b
adly as they had been seconds ago. Instead of racing, my heart pounds out a sensual beat. Is it possible that my body can come under my control with enough time spent close to the fire?
I trace the dark circles beneath his eyes.”You must be exhausted.”
“You’re not helping,” he rasps.
“All right.” I retract my hand.
Brenden slowly backs to the foot of one of the beds and, once the edge hits the back of his knees he plunks down. “Just a short nap.” His voice has already dropped, and his eyelids are falling like a heavy shade.
Within seconds his eyes flicker closed.
Carefully, I crawl onto the bed and lay next to him, my gaze on his face. “I have to go see Rufus alone,” I whisper. Who knows what Rufus would do if Brenden was with me? “I’m sorry.”
I slide cautiously off the bed and reach for his backpack.
* * *
From the backseat of the cab, my view of Bel Air is reminiscent of countless rides in one of Rufus’ collected fleet. The area is mature, gorged with trees and year-round flowering shrubs fleshing out the affluent area like an aging actress clinging to beauty. Spotlights highlight swaying palms, ornate fountains, and architectural details.
The cab driver stops at the bottom of 21 Chalon Road. I stare at the brick wall blanketed in ivy that surrounds the Dollhouse property. The wrought iron gates before me are exactly the same: spiked, black. A spotlight bathes an engraved S ostentatiously at the top and center.
“Wait here for me. If I’m not back in an hour, call the police.”
He eyes me. “What is this?”
I realize what he sees: a teenage girl who could be anything from a runaway to a prostitute, being dropped off at a distinguished house in a very wealthy neighborhood.
I pull out a one hundred dollar bill, hand it to him. “I’ll double that when I get back.”
He eyes the bill before plucking it from my fingers. “One hour.”
“And then you call the police.” I hold his gaze beneath my lashes until he clears his throat and has to look away.
“One hour,” he croaks.
I get out on shaky legs. I wish Brenden was here, so I wasn’t alone. But this scene is mine to do, and I’m glad he’s safe. Rufus would probably kill him. Standing at the bottom of the brick paved driveway, I stare beyond the gates, my gaze following the winding drive, illuminated by miniature lights until it turns and vanishes from my view.
To my left is a brick tower housing a camera and phone. Five uneasy steps take me to the device. I stare at it. Sweat breaks out over my skin. I can do this. I can, I must. I almost laugh. You wanted grittier roles, here’s your first one.
Sizzle, Grace. Sizzle.
Arm quaking, I reach for the phone. A dial tone rings once. Twice. Three times. I clear my throat to loosen the knot.
“May I help you?” A man’s voice—not Rufus’. I’m sure he can see me in the camera. I face the lens—a black, emotionless, cold eye—and I breathe deep.
“I’m here to see Rufus Solomon.” There’s a long pause. I hold the eye of the lens in my gaze.
“Mr. Solomon isn’t accepting guests.”
“Tell him Grace is here.”
A longer silence now. Dense, indecipherable. I force my legs to resist fleeing. Parked at the curb, the cab driver turns off the engine of his vehicle. The night air is cold hissing over my skin. Minutes drag by. A car passes. Finally, the gates glide open. A shiver chases over my skin. Rufus. He’s looking at me through that camera, the panic and fear his gaze instilled in me years ago sickeningly familiar. A surge of fury and adrenaline rushes through my body.
I walk through the parted gates.
My head is blank. I haven’t any idea what I am going to say. He might kill me, but nothing he could do to me would be worse than what he has done.
I can’t dismiss Brenden’s face from my thoughts, or the hope I feel inside when I think of him. There’s something budding between us: a chance at happiness, at a normal life and more—real freedom.
Whatever Rufus presents, I’ll deal with. I did it before, and survived. I can do it now.
I’m not prepared when I round the bend of trees and bushes and my eyes lay hold on the Dollhouse. She’s been resurrected, only the garden and surroundings are lusher. As if she never burned to the ground. As though she, too, is immortal.
Old memories charge my mind. My gaze locks on the front door. Each step sends quavering anticipation up my limbs.
I stop in the vestibule and close my eyes. The only sound is water, trickling from the fountain. I lift my hand to the ornate, brass knocker—a roaring lion head— how did he find one exactly like the original? And pound it twice.
The thud reverberates through chambers of my memory.
The door swings open. I look into the eyes of a man with a leathered tan. The contrived look of cordiality in his eyes, the cocky way he presents himself gives him away: an actor. He wears black slacks, a crisply ironed striped shirt and tie. I didn’t expect Rufus to answer the door. He never answered the door.
A gleam of curiosity lights in this man’s eyes. He knows who I am. He tries to hide his excitement but I’ve seen that look too many times, and to my surprise, I feel the surge of an old power.
“Come in.” He steps back. I see the expanse of blood-red tiles on the floor. The curving stairway. The black iron railing. The view stretches all the way to the back of the house to French doors, the exit to the pool and gardens, purple now with twilight.
I step inside. A shiver ravages my skin. Even though I wear a khaki overcoat, fear nips every inch of my flesh and I feel naked.
“Follow me.” Without waiting for compliance, the man turns and strides left. So like Rufus to demand that his employees belittle visitors. I almost want to stay put.
I follow Rufus’ man, my eyes wide at the details Rufus has re-created with such perfection, I feel as if I’ve stepped back in time. Vases of white roses – everywhere. White throw rugs, identical to the waffle-weave pattern that had covered the red tile floors when I’d lived here. Imported Italian chandeliers whispering soft light. Photographs. Of Grace.
A rage of shudders shakes my core, making walking difficult. I continue into the step-down living room. My heart notches from a pound to thunder.
The sweet strain of Frank Sinatra’s voice surrounds me. Someone to Watch Over Me floats through the room. A sickening surge of nausea nearly chokes breath from my throat. He’s playing it for me. My gaze sweeps the white coved walls of the room where paintings and photographs of Rufus’ Grace adorn every inch of wall space, each image flashing a speck of memory.
A fire roars in the mammoth fireplace. In front of the hearth is a replica of the white sheepskin rug—Rufus had demanded sex from me there dozens of times. White lilies sit in a crystal vase on the glass coffee table. Bunches of white roses are everywhere, along with burning white candles, the scent in the room like a funeral parlor.
As if someone’s going to die.
The man crosses the wood floor until he reaches a giant black leather chair—the color matching the frames encasing Grace’s images. I catch the first glimpse of the back of Rufus’ head—hairless— peering over the top of the wing chair. I’m surprised he’s not facing me. He wants to. The air is hot and thick, as if he’s been panting. He wants to see me, yes, but he’s playing the scene, working the timing.
“Mr. Solomon, you have a guest.”
Ah, the games. I know very well Rufus is salivating, I practically feel the spit dripping in the air. He wants me, just like he’s always wanted me.
I cross to the chair. His man watches me with that thrill that lit a million faces whenever Rufus’ Grace Doll was in public. His eyes, like anxious fingers, are hungry to peel away my clothes.
The closer I get to the chair, the more I see the bubbled scarring on Rufus’ head. I slow, and stop four feet behind. Get out of that chair, bastard, and face me.
My pulse speeds out of control. Sweat coats my skin
.
An awkward silence fills the crackling air. Rufus’ man hasn’t taken his leering gaze off of me since I entered the Dollhouse. Now, he glances at his master, then at me. “Perhaps you could step closer, Miss? Mr. Solomon is—”
“He can turn around.”
The manservant opens his mouth but Rufus lifts a scarred hand. God. Seeing him. Those fingers, marred, yet still his fingers. His hands. Hands that did whatever they wanted to me whenever he wanted.
Rufus labors to his feet. I’m curious about his sluggish movements. I saw him stick the needle in his arm that night. He didn’t have the infusion as long as I did—maybe seconds, but surely he would have reaped some benefit.
His head appears first, then his body clothed in black from head to toe. Blood hurdles through my veins, anticipating his eyes meeting mine.
Our gazes lock the instant he faces me. I bite back a gasp. The creature standing in front of me looks like a mess of mottled skin over bone with eyes and mouth cut through scar tissue. One of his hands grips the wing chair, but that doesn’t stop his trembling—the ecstasy surging through him at seeing me. His breath skips.
“Rufus.”
His eyes squeeze shut, as if me saying his name is more than he can bear. He swallows, even though his mouth doesn’t close. Drool slides out one corner of his mouth.
His servant steps closer, whipping out a white handkerchief, extending it. “Sir?”
“Leave us!”
The man’s tanned face flushes deep burgundy. He nods, tucks away the handkerchief and quickly crosses to the exit.
“Take Maria with you,” Rufus commands, his eyes never leaving me. “You may have the rest of the evening off.”
His servant’s eyes widen for a moment, as if he’s surprised at the instruction. Then he vanishes through the arch that leads into the kitchen.
We’re alone.
I’m not afraid. Not of this—thing. He’s old. Withered. A moment I thought would never come is here. I’m living it, breathing it. Emotions ravage my soul. Anger. Revenge. Pity. But no fear. Determination flows through the marrow of my bones.
I remain silent.