Honey Moon (48 page)

She stood and snatched up her plate. "That's all I can do, and you know it."

"You did a pretty good job of playing a princess."

She walked over to the sink and wrenched on the faucet. She didn't want to talk to him about the

princess or what had happened between them today. The afternoon had been too wonderful, and she couldn't bear to have it corrupted.

"It's the same thing," she said, hoping to put an end to the discussion.

"It's not even close." He brought his own plate over and set it in the sink.

She shoved it under the faucet. "Of course it is. Janie was me and so is the—

princess."

"That's the mark of a good actor. Instead of trying to create a character from whole cloth, the best actors create characters from aspects of themselves. That's all you did with Janie, and it was the same thing today."

"You're wrong. Janie wasn't just part of me; Janie was me."

"If that were true, you'd never have married Dash."

She clenched her teeth, refusing to let him force her into an argument.

He walked across the trailer toward the table. "Think about all the battles you fought over the years with directors. I can remember dozens of times when you'd complain about a line of dialogue or a particular action by saying that Janie wouldn't do something like that."

"I hardly ever won those battles, either."

"Exactly my point. You were forced to say the line the way it was written. You did whatever the script required. And it wasn't you."

"You don't understand." She spun around to confront him. "I've tried. I've read aloud all sorts of different parts, and I'm terrible."

"That doesn't surprise me. You were probably
acting
instead of just
being
.

Open up some of those plays again, but this time don't try so hard. Don't act.

Just be." He sat down on the straight-back chair near the table and stretched out his legs, not quite looking at her. "I've just about decided on a television miniseries that you've been offered. It's set during World War Two."

"Unless I get to play a feisty woman from the South who was raised by a broken-down rodeo rider, I'm not interested."

"You'd be playing a North Dakota farm woman who becomes involved with one of the detainees at a Japanese internment camp that adjoins her property.

The hero is a young Japanese-American doctor who's imprisoned there. The farm woman's husband is fighting in the South Pacific; her only child has a life-threatening disease. It's good melodrama."

She stared at him, aghast. "I can't do something like that! A farm woman from North Dakota. You have to be joking!"

"From what I've seen, you can do anything you set your mind to." He gazed toward the front window

of the trailer, which was pointed in the direction of Black Thunder.

"You're going to be a real bastard about this, aren't you?"

"Haven't you figured it out yet? I'm a real bastard about everything."

"You weren't this afternoon." The words slipped out before she could stop them.

His face stiffened as if she had committed some breach of protocol, and when he spoke, his voice was full of cynicism. "You really fell for that clown routine, didn't you?"

Every part of her turned to ice. "I don't know what you mean."

"My favorite part was the way you stood out there in that hospital parking lot and pretended it was all real." He leaned back in the chair and scoffed at her.

"God, Honey, you really made an ass of yourself."

Pain swelled inside her. He was taking something beautiful and making it ugly.

"Don't do this, Eric."

But he was on the attack, and he didn't waver. This time he would make certain he drew first blood. "You're—what? Twenty-five, twenty-six years old. I'm an actor, sweetheart. One of the best. I get

bored sometimes and practice on the little kids. But it's all bullshit, and I sure as hell didn't expect you

to get sucked in."

Her head had begun to pound and she felt ill. How could someone so physically perfect be so very ugly? "You're lying. It wasn't like that at all."

"I've got news for you, sweetheart. There's no Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny, and there aren't any magical clowns." He banged the front legs of the chair to the floor and swooped in for the kill. "About

the best you can hope for in life is a full belly and a good fuck."

She drew in her breath. His upper lip had curled in a sneer and he was looking her over from head to toe as if she were a whore he might buy for the night. All the screen's bad boys flashed before her eyes. Every one of them was sitting before her right now, sullen, insolent, cruel—arms crossed, legs stretched out to kingdom come.

All the screen's bad boys.

And at that moment she saw through the smoke screen he had thrown up with his actor's bag of tricks. He was playing another part. With perfect clarity, her vision penetrated the insolence to find the pain,

and it so perfectly matched her own that all her anger dropped away.

"Somebody ought to wash your mouth out with soap," she said softly.

"I'm just getting started," he sneered.

Her voice was a whisper. "Let it go, Eric."

He saw the compassion in her face and shot up from the chair, a world of pain coloring his words as he shouted at her. "What do you want from me?"

Before she could respond, he grabbed her shoulder and turned her toward the back of the trailer where the bedroom lay. "Never mind. I already know." He gave her a nudge forward. "Let's go."

"Eric . . ." She understood right then exactly what he was trying to do. Turning back to him, she gazed

up into a face that was contorted with cynicism, and she felt no anger at all because she understood it

was an illusion.

He wanted her to tell him to go to hell, to kick him out of the trailer, out of her life, to call him every despicable name she could think of. He wanted her to control something he couldn't control himself—

the mysterious force that was drawing them together. But the December night on the other side of the trailer's silver shell loomed huge and empty, and she could not send him out into it.

He cursed softly. "You're going to let me do it, aren't you? You'll let me take you in there and fuck you."

She squeezed her eyes shut to hold back the tears. "Shut up," she whispered.

"Just, please . . . shut up."

The armor of his defenses crumbled. With a groan, he pulled her into his arms.

"I'm sorry. God . . . I'm sorry."

She felt his lips in her hair, on her forehead. His sweater was soft under her palms, the muscles beneath it taut and hard. He caressed her through her clothing—breasts, belly, hips, claiming everything, his touch sending fire licking through her veins.

She grew drunk with his scent: the wool of his sweater, piney soap and clean skin, the citrus tang of the shampoo he had used in his hair. He tilted up her chin to kiss her. Her mind screamed an alarm. Kissing was taboo. Only that.

Ducking her head, she worked the snap on his jeans, and they were naked by the time they reached her bed. It was narrow, designed for one instead of two, but their bodies were so intertwined it didn't matter.

Their passion was a hot, slick monster. She gave him all her secret parts to do with as he wished and

took the same from him in return. Primordial serpent, soft devouring beast.

They used their hands and mouths; probing, demanding, starved with need.

She did not know the man she accepted between her thighs. He was not a movie star, not a construction worker or pirate clown. His language was rough, his face grim, but through it all, his hands were as giving and gentle as the tenderest of lovers.

In the brief seconds afterward when her body hadn't yet settled back to earth but while he still lay atop her, she stroked his cheekbones with the pads of her thumbs. Inadvertently, her thumb slipped beneath the black eye patch. Without conscious thought, she felt for the disfiguring ridge of scar tissue he kept hidden away.

And encountered only the thick fringe of his eyelashes.

She sucked in her breath. Her thumb brushed over the configurations of a normal eye.

There isn't an eye there
, he had said,
just a mass of ugly scar tissue.

He drew away from her. Sat up on the edge of the narrow bed. "I wish I still smoked," he murmured.

She pulled the sheet over her naked body and stared at the strong muscles of his back. "There's nothing wrong with your eye."

His head shot up, and then he gathered his clothes and went into the bathroom.

She tucked the sheet high under her arms, drew up her knees. She began to shiver as all her misery washed back over her.

He came out of the bathroom wearing his jeans and drawing the sweater over his head, his black eye patch anchored firmly in place. He stopped in the doorway, looming there in the shadows, mysterious

and dangerous.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

Her teeth were chattering. "Why did you lie to me about your eye?"

"I didn't want anyone to recognize me."

"I already knew who you were." Her voice broke on a quiver. "Don't lie, Eric.

Tell me why."

He braced his arm on the door frame, and his voice was so low she barely heard the words.

"I did it because I couldn't live in my own skin any longer."

Turning on his heel, he left her alone in the small silver trailer.

* * *

Eric pulled off the interstate at a rest area in northern Georgia, one of the state-operated facilities with toilets, water fountains, and vending machines. It was three in the morning, and he had been keeping awake on coffee and the sugar hit from a stale Reese's Cup he'd found in his glove compartment. He hadn't made up his mind whether he would ditch the van in Atlanta and fly back to L.A. or whether he would keep driving.

The rest stop was nearly empty on this Christmas night. Not empty enough, however, for him to abandon his eye patch. He slipped it back over his head, then got out of the van and walked past the glass case that held a map of the Georgia highway system. Inside the low brick building a poorly dressed teenage

girl sat on one of the benches holding a sleeping baby. She looked hungry, exhausted, and desperate.

Pity stirred the numbness inside him. She was too young to be alone in the world. He dug into his pockets trying to see how much change he had left and hoping it was enough to leave her with some food, but at that moment she looked up at him, and fear joined the other tragedies in her eyes.

She clutched her baby more tightly to her chest and sank back into the bench as if the wood could protect her from his menace. He could hear the quickened sound of her breathing and was sickened by the fear he was causing her.

Quickly, he turned away to the vending machines. She was little more than a baby herself, another one of the innocents. He wanted to buy her a house, send her to college, give her a teddy bear. He wanted to buy a future for her baby, warm clothes, turkey dinners, teachers who cared.

The injustices of the world again overwhelmed him, and his head bowed under the crushing burden. He had money and power, and he should be able to fix it all. But he couldn't. He couldn't even protect the people he loved the most.

He shot the vending machines full of change. Instead of houses and college educations, packets of junk food clanked out, potato chips and candy bars, cookies shaped like elves and cupcakes shot full of chemicals—the bounty of America. He gathered it up and snatched the remaining bills from his wallet without counting them. Then he placed it all in a mute offering on the empty bench across from where she sat and left her alone.

By the time he reached the van, he knew he had to turn back. He had tried to run from all the evils that he wasn't able to correct, but even at the Silver Lake Amusement Park he hadn't been able to find sanctuary. It was a kingdom of the dead, ruled by a princess who was dying from grief. And she was the one innocent left that he might be able to save.

In less than a week, he needed to be back in L.A., but before he left he had to try to help her. Except how could he do it? When he was with her, he only hurt her. He remembered the way she had been at the hospital with the children, full of laughter and love, free of ghosts. And the person who had brought her back to life was a pirate clown, a jokester with an endless capacity for giving and a fearlessness about offering himself.

He knew he couldn't help her, but maybe the clown could.

* * *

When Honey returned to her trailer after work on Wednesday, two days after Christmas, she found a dress box sitting inside the door. Taking it over to the table, she opened it. Inside lay a white tulle

princess dress spangled with silver moons and stars the size of half dollars. She lifted it out and saw

what was beneath. A rhinestone tiara and a pair of purple canvas basketball sneakers.

With it was a note that said simply, "Thursday, 2:00 p.m." Instead of a signature, at the bottom of the card was a drawing of a small, star-shaped eye patch.

She pulled it all to her chest: the dress, the purple sneakers, the tiara. Blinking hard, she bit down on

her lip and tried to think only of the clown and not what had transpired between herself and Eric on Christmas night. He had showed up for work today, but the only time he had looked in her direction

had been with Dev's cynical eye.

The following afternoon when she entered the hospital, she was both nervous and excited. She didn't know whether it was because she'd see the clown again, or simply because, wearing the white tulle princess gown, she no longer felt like herself. Still, she knew she had to be cautious. After Eric's taunting, there was no way she would again fall under the spell of the pirate clown. The kinship she had imagined with him didn't exist. This time she wouldn't forget who lay beneath the white face and silly wig.

When she reached Pediatrics, the nurse directed her to one of the rooms at the end of the corridor.