Married Lovers (3 page)

O
nce he was sitting in his car, Ryan called his best buddy, Don Verona, who immediately told him to come on over. Their friendship went way back to their college days when they’d shared a tiny apartment near USC and harbored big ambitions and a never-ending stream of nubile girlfriends. They’d both made it in their chosen careers, and they’d always remained close in spite of numerous girlfriends and wives who’d tried to split them up. Some women were extremely threatened by their man’s long-time buddies, but Ryan and Don weathered all attempts to break up their friendship.

Don lived in an ultra-modern house he’d personally designed and had built after the demise of his second marriage to a French movie star. Perched at the top of Sunset Plaza Drive, his house was a true bachelor’s paradise with all the accoutrements. A professional-size pool table; three flat-screen high-def TVs with full sports packages on every one of them; a fully equipped gym; a state-of-the-art sound system; and a virtual reality games room–which included an immaculate poker table. Outdoors there was a scaled-down golf course, a full stainless-steel barbecue pit, and a six-car garage to house his impressive collection of automobiles.

“Hey,” Ryan said, walking into the living room and flopping straight onto the couch.

“What’s up?” Don asked. He was movie-star handsome, with jet-black hair, dark eyes, rugged features, and a trademark two-day stubble. He was also an extremely successful and popular late-night talk-show host. Don Verona was Letterman without the Mid-Western hang-ups; Leno without the insults; Craig Ferguson without the Scottish accent; and Conan without the red hair. Don had his own particular style and it worked.

Don’s big problem was women. They loved him, and he loved them back. But with two divorces behind him he was having difficulty getting it up for the parade of gorgeous women who threw themselves at him. Since his last divorce from the French movie star, the only time he felt he could really relax in bed was with a paid professional. His shrink informed him it had something to do with alimony anxiety. Yeah, he was paying out plenty to both ex-wives, so he could understand that.

“Dunno,” Ryan said, shrugging. “Had to get out of the house. Mandy’s driving me nuts.”

“Yeah,” Don answered knowingly. “I remember the feeling well. Women can do that to you; they’ve got this misguided idea that it’s their right.”

Picking up a copy of
Sports Illustrated
, Ryan began studying the bikini-clad supermodel on the cover.

“Mandy’s in one of her clinging moods,” he remarked.

“Big surprise.”

“Huh?” Ryan said, throwing the magazine back on the coffee table.

“C’mon,” Don said, trying to talk some sense into his friend. “You know your wife’s a world-class manipulator; she gets off on fucking with you, that’s her deal.”

“Maybe…” Ryan said, trying to convince himself Don was wrong, but knowing that he was right. Mandy
did
get off on fucking with him, sad but true. And he let her get away with it because…well, because it was easier that way.

“I speak the truth, bro’,” Don continued. “The way I see it, you haven’t been happy in a long time.”

“Not true,” Ryan said, still hovering in a state of denial.

“You’ve got to start thinking of an exit strategy,” Don said, opening up the enormous glass doors that led out to an infinity lap pool.

“Hey,” Ryan objected, getting up and joining Don by the open doors. “Just because
you
had two failed marriages doesn’t mean that I should give up. Mandy has her good points.”

“Like
what
?” Don said, as Butch, his black Labrador, wandered into the house from outside and rushed over to nuzzle Ryan. “Every time I see the two of you, she’s on a major nagging binge.”

“Mandy’s been through a lot,” Ryan said, absentmindedly bending down to stroke the dog.

“And how long are
you
supposed to pay for it?” Don asked bluntly. “Shit happens. You need to move on. Either that or get something going on the side.”

“That’s not my thing.”

“Maybe it should be, ’cause I’d bet money you’re not getting laid.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You’re so fucking tense lately it’s ridiculous.”

“I’m not like you,” Ryan said defensively. “I don’t believe in giving up easily. And I certainly don’t believe in cheating.”

“Who’s cheating?” Don said, raising an eyebrow. “I’m single, remember? It’s
you
we’re talking about.”

“Do me a favor and get off the subject of my marriage,” Ryan said. “I came up here to relax.”

“Relax away,” Don said, stifling a yawn. “I got a new trainer coming over. One of my producers recommended her, she’s supposed to work it like a drill sergeant. I need some discipline.” He patted his flat stomach. “Getting flabby.”

“Yeah, sure,” Ryan said disbelievingly.

“You should work out with us,” Don suggested. “It’ll shake you out of the dumps. Then we can take in some college football. I’m in an insane betting mood.”

“’Fraid I gotta pass,” Ryan said. “I’m going over to my sister’s, then stopping by the editing rooms.”

“I thought you were done with your latest masterpiece,” Don said, strolling into his hi-tech steel and concrete kitchen, Butch at his heels.

Ryan followed. “A movie is never done until it hits the theaters, and even then…” he trailed off.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Don said, tossing Butch a dog biscuit. “When it comes to work, you’re a perfectionist.”

“And you’re not exactly a slacker,” Ryan responded. “Five shows a week, and every one a ratings winner.”

Don shook his head as he filled a ceramic mug with coffee. “The difference is that you’re doing what you always wanted, while I’m swimming in crap.”

“Crap? Are you kidding me? Having one of the three top-rated talk shows in the country is hardly crap. And let’s not forget that you make a helluva lot more money than me.”

“Ah yes,” Don said immediately. “But we both know it’s not about the money, it’s about the passion. And when it comes to work–you got it. I don’t.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yeah,” Don said ruefully. “Unfortunately it is.”

“Anyway,” Ryan said, “I should go. Whyn’t you join us for dinner tonight?”

“Where?”

“
Geoffrey’s
. Seven-thirty. It’s my check, and Phil and Lucy are coming. Bring a date, and not someone you’re paying–Mandy’ll suss that out in two seconds flat.”

Don laughed. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll see you at seven-thirty.”

The moment Ryan was out of the house, Mandy called her father in New York. To her fury his pissy housekeeper refused to put him on the phone, claiming he was otherwise engaged. Mandy clicked off her phone and threw it on the couch. She hated her father’s “protectors” as she called them. He employed a whole coterie of housekeepers, assistants, drivers and bodyguards who made sure nobody could get to him unless he wanted them to.

“
I
should be the exception,” she was constantly reminding him.

“Why’s that?” he would reply.

“Because
I’m
your daughter, and that should give me privileges nobody else has.”

Hamilton usually chuckled when she tried to elicit privileges.

That was another thing she hated about her father–his chuckle. It had no warmth, it was a mean-spirited sound. She preferred him in serious mode. Unfortunately he spent most of their time together giving her “the chuckle.”

“I want to marry Ryan Richards,” she’d informed him seven years ago.

Chuckle. Chuckle.

“I’d like to produce one of your movies with you.”

Chuckle. Chuckle.

“Can I get my Trust Fund early?”

Chuckle. Chuckle.

He never took her seriously.

The rumor on the street was that Daddy Dearest had a new girlfriend. Mandy wasn’t too pleased about
that
. He’d gone through five wives, wasn’t that enough for any man?

She’d heard about the latest girlfriend from her secret confidante, Lolly Summer, who worked for one of the major gossip sites on the Internet. In exchange for juicy tidbits about the stars, Lolly made sure to tell Mandy absolutely
everything
.

After not getting through to her father, Mandy called Lolly. “Any more news?” she asked.

“He’s throwing a dinner party tonight,” Lolly responded. “A big deal dinner party–everyone from Rudy to Trump. It promises to be quite an affair.”

“And the purpose of this dinner party is…?”

“I’ll let you know. I have two contacts on the guest list.”

“If you find out anything at all, text me. I’ll be out tonight, but I need to know what’s going on.”

“Of course,” Lolly said. “Now, about that Owen Wilson item you promised me…”

Ryan’s sister, Evie, lived in a small house in Silverlake. She had three children, all boys, and all under the age of eight. Marty, her husband, worked as a stuntman. He was also a raging alcoholic.

Alcohol and stunts. A dangerous combination. Ryan had used him on one of his movies, and that was enough for him. His brother-in-law was an unpleasant bully with few friends; Ryan couldn’t wait for the day when Evie finally decided she’d had enough.

At the present time Marty was languishing in jail on account of a third D.U.I. arrest.

Financially, Ryan knew things were tight for his sister–because any film company with any sense refused to hire Marty–but Evie flatly refused any help.

Evie greeted her brother with a warm hug. Seven years younger than Ryan, she was pretty in an exhausted kind of way. Her three boys were transfixed, sitting on a worn couch watching cartoons on TV.

“Thank God for Saturday mornings,” she sighed. “It’s the only time they’re quiet, bless their murderous little hearts.”

“Hey guys,” Ryan said, bending down to greet his nephews. “What’s goin’ on? Anything I should know about?”

The boys didn’t budge.

“They want a dog,” Evie said, tucking a strand of curly brown hair behind her ear. “It’ll mean more work for me, but they
really
want one. And with Marty away so much…” she trailed off, as if the very mention of her jailed husband was too painful.

“Maybe I can get them a dog,” Ryan suggested.

“Well,” Evie said, hesitating for a moment. “Only if you
promise
no fancy breeds. They’ve made me swear I’ll get them a rescue dog from the Pound.”

“Proper little citizens and so young,” Ryan said, ruffling the youngest’s hair.

“I know,” Evie said ruefully. “Petey refuses to eat chicken anymore, which makes planning family meals so much fun.”

“I could take them for burgers at
In ’n’ Out
,” Ryan said, aware that Evie looked like she could use a break. “Then I’ll run ’em through the park and we’ll kick a ball around. What do you think?”

“I think I love you,” she said gratefully.

“That’s nice to know,” he said. Of course the perfect day would’ve been taking them to his house and letting them splash in the swimming pool, but Mandy would throw a fit. Since they couldn’t have children of their own, she didn’t want someone else’s around, especially Evie’s three rambunctious little boys. They argued about it often.

“Gotta use the john,” he said.

On the way to the bathroom he stopped off in Evie’s bedroom where he took a stack of tens and twenties from his jacket pocket and artfully distributed them around the room. That way it didn’t look like a hand-out; hopefully Evie would think she’d left the money lying around.

It was ridiculous that she wouldn’t allow him to help her out. There he was living in a ten-thousand-square-foot mansion in Beverly Hills, making an excellent living, while she was stuck with her dead-beat husband in Silverlake barely able to pay the bills.

The three boys were happy to devour their
In ’n’ Out
burgers along with cartons of unhealthy French fries and scads of tomato ketchup. After watching them stuff themselves, Ryan took them to the park where they ran riot, and on the way back to the house he stopped at Best Buy and bought them each Sony PSPs. They were beyond excited.

By the time he delivered them back to Evie he felt as if he’d taken a five-mile hike.

“Your kids have worn me out,” he complained. “Dunno how you do it.”

“You’re not as young as you used to be,” she remarked with sisterly candor. “Face it, big brother, you’re getting up there.”

“I’m thirty-nine,” he objected.

“Soon to be forty,” she pointed out.

Jesus! Was it true? Was he about to score the big four O? Crap! No longer the hot shot young producer in town, he, Ryan Richards, was hitting middle age. He could hardly believe it.

He started thinking about his earlier conversation with Don. Deep down he knew Don was right, he wasn’t as happy as he should be with Mandy. She was always on a rant about something or other, always complaining and nagging. And for the last year their sex life had been practically non-existent–ever since the stillbirth of their son. Whenever he made a move, Mandy shied away from him, coming up with yet another lame excuse. This from a woman who’d once prided herself on giving the superlative blow-job.

Perhaps they’d both be better off if they weren’t together.

Suddenly the word “divorce” slipped into his head.

No. Impossible. His mom would be so disappointed if he couldn’t make it work. Before his dad had passed, his parents had been married for forty-five blissful years. Divorce was not a situation his mom would take lightly. And as for Hamilton J. Heckerling–Jesus! The old man would probably put a hit out on him.

Ryan smiled grimly as he imagined himself running around L.A. scrutinizing every other person as a potential assassin, while checking under his car to see if there was a bomb planted there.

Your imagination is out of control
, he told himself as he kissed his sister goodbye.

“Take care,” Evie said, squeezing his arm.

“No,
you
take care,” he responded. “When’s Marty getting out?”

“This week.”

“Is he going to A.A.?”