Strings Attached

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Text copyright © 2010, Nick Nolan
All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by AmazonEncore
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140

Produced by Melcher Media, Inc.
124 West 13th Street
New York, NY 10011
www.melcher.com

Library of Congress Control Number
2010921561

ISBN: 978-0-9825550-1-9
This novel was originally published, in a slightly different form, by Booksurge in 2009.

Author photo by J. Flores

FOR JAIME
AND FOR MARGARET

He was late, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do.

And just like this freeway he was stuck on, his life had become one big gridlock.

Take Tiffany, for example: he’d pretty much given up hope of ever moving forward with her again, but then she’d called saying she wanted to see him and needed to talk. She’d even sounded cheerful, and he’d started getting his hopes up…until she slipped into her baby-talk voice; that old Shirley Temple routine usually meant trouble was waiting for him up the road.

For the past half hour, all eastbound traffic had been stopped, and only in the past few minutes had the vehicles around him begun to squeeze into the bottleneck ahead made by the fire trucks parked higgledy-piggledy across the lanes.

He eased out the clutch and nosed in.

When he saw the twisted motorcycle and yellow tarp under the semi, he averted his eyes and scanned instead the roadside crowd: some chatting firemen, three highway patrolmen, and what was probably the semi driver—a skinny old hick wearing a grease-splattered T-shirt, camouflage pants, and a black cowboy hat. But instead of looking dazed or shocked or remorseful, as Jonathan thought anyone would under similar circumstances, the man seemed to stare down each of the rubberneckers from beneath his Stetson, while his jaw worked a big wad of something, like a cow chewing too much cud.

Jonathan had nearly passed when their eyes locked. Instantly the cowboy’s scowl cracked, and he smiled, then winked at him and tugged down the brim of his hat in an old-fashioned, black-and-white-movie-type salutation. That this man would howdy him with a corpse beneath his load of gaily packaged dairy products was unsettling. Disturbing even. But then he figured it wasn’t often one saw such a young, good-looking guy driving a brand new 1988 Porsche, much less a top-of-the-line Carrera.

Probably thinks I’m a movie star or something.

Jonathan returned the greeting with a vacant smile, then dropped the clutch and shot forward onto the deserted freeway, like a fighter jet off a carrier.

Sometime later he reached the cracked heels of the San Bernardino foothills, where the sloping lanes and black-as-velvet curves ascended lazily. He hit the gas and snapped on his headlights; night was coming fast. His tires squealed around a curve as the car fishtailed. He thought about little Jeremy and slowed down. His headlights hit a sign and it lit up like white neon:

Lake Estrella 3 mi.

He continued along the road lined with looming pines and dark-windowed cabins, then downshifted, making the engine wail as he approached, at last, the brightly lit intersection leading into the Estrella Village shopping center. He made a right at the stop, then continued past the fire station in the loop that dropped toward the water’s edge. A left led him down Shoreline Drive, past the familiar lakefront mansions behind their long stone walls and curlicued gates. He accelerated up the final rise in the road, then veered around the last bend to where his family’s monolithic, Modernist structure sat at the end of a long gravel driveway. He crossed through the open gates, then coasted to a stop.

Filling the open doorway was Tiffany’s curvaceous silhouette—arms crossed, chin up, shoulder to the jamb. Her pose was languid, reflexively seductive still, in spite of everything.

“Hi, Johnny,” she offered in baby voice, upon his approach.

“Don’t start,” he replied, stomping past her.

She turned and followed him in after squeezing shut the heavy wooden doors. Once he was inside, his nostrils twitched; since the chalet had only been completed a couple of months before, the scent of milled cedar still hung in the air like a freshly decimated forest.

“I’m kind of hungry,” he said, finally turning to her. “Anything to eat?”

“Rosie left some stuff in the fridge,” she answered. “I’d fix you something, but I gotta run upstairs.”

“For some coke?” he smiled.

“To check on our son,” she replied icily. “And…to pee.”

“Where is she? I need to give her a check.”

“Rosie?” she asked, raising her penciled eyebrows.

“Yes, Rosie.” He glared stupidly at her.

“I sent her out for some things. You can give it to me.”

“That’s OK. I’ll wait. How’s my son?”

“Our son’s OK,” she answered, ignoring the jab. “He’s bigger now, and he’s getting into everything. Rosie’s been trying to toilet train him; I get real sick of that shit.” She rolled her eyes and his rolled back at her.

Mother of the Year.

“I didn’t tell him you were coming ’cause he would of been too hyper to sleep.” She crossed her arms. “Besides, you were late.”

“I’ll see him tomorrow. Go ahead and…do whatever.”

After she left, he made his way to the breakfast bar, dragged out a stool, and lifted himself onto it. Then he yawned. His stomach rumbled. He was both starving and nauseous. He hopped down, crossed the floor to the refrigerator, then opened it, startling a cluster of beer bottles. After grabbing a Pepsi and a half-empty cellophane tube of Oreos, he went back to the barstool and sat, then shoved two cookies in his mouth.

“Whatcha thinkin’?” She’d slipped on a pink ski parka, as if headed outside.

Strange.

“I’m
thinkin’
you called me here because you want something.”

“Well.” She slipped her hands in her pockets. “As a matter a fact, I do.”

“Too bad,” he mumbled through crumbs. “Because I’m not giving you anything until you tell me what you meant about Bill…” he chewed, then swallowed “…being able to ‘make it snow in Hollywood.’ What exactly did you mean by that?”

“I said something I shouldn’t of. To piss you off.”

“You’re lying.”

“Anyhow, I didn’t tell you to come here to talk about that old prick. Besides, if you’ve got a problem with him, you should deal with it yourself. He’s part of your stuck-up family, not mine.”

“That’s OK, Tiff, don’t tell me; it’ll all come out anyway. And when it does, you’ll be prosecuted as an accessory.” He smiled brightly. “Then again, maybe you’ll tell me when I remind you that one court-ordered drug test will make sure you never see Jeremy again. Or any of my money.”

“I don’t need your money anymore.”

“Really?” He laughed. “For Christ’s sake, Tiff, who’s gonna keep him from falling down the stairs…or drowning in the lake when you’re out whoring for cash?”

“I’m off coke,” she stated imperiously. “And you know I’m not gonna let anything happen to him, and Rosie won’t either. What kind of mother do you think I am?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“And you don’t want to know what kind of father, or husband, I think you are.”

“At least I didn’t get knocked up for someone else’s money.”

“I didn’t get that way by myself, in case you forgot. And from what I heard…” she glared at him “…you had your own little reason for screwing me.”

“You listen to too much gossip,” he snapped. “I just wonder if he’s really mine. I’ve heard things, you know.”

“We’re not going through all that again, Johnny. He’s all yours, like it or not.”

“I wish I could believe you.” But he did believe her, at least about this one thing: his son was the image of himself at the same age, right down to the emerging cleft in his chin.

“I’ve got something to tell you,” she said finally.

“Yeah, so I figured,” he said, then shoved his tongue between the crevices of his teeth to extract cookie mush.

“I’m dating someone. It’s serious.”

“Really?” His eyebrows arched. “You actually found someone stupider than me? That wasn’t part of the terms; we both agreed not to see anybody else until we work this out.”

“There’s nothing left to work out, and you know it. Besides, C.J.’s helped me get clean, which is more than you ever did; I haven’t done any coke in almost a month. And I’m really in love now—with a real man—so we’re getting married.”

“That’s hilarious considering I never agreed to divorce you,” he said. “But you go ahead and do whatever the hell you want to until I do…You can screw Bill for all I care.” He jumped off the stool, then crossed the room to the open doors that faced the lake, turning his back on her. “Just don’t do anything that’ll put my boy in danger.”

He glanced down at the reflection of the crescent moon swimming to the left of the boat dock in the water, then up at the stars that sparkled over the ridge of darkened mountains. Then something caught his eye. Was there something down there by the boathouse? He squinted but couldn’t see anything.

Might’ve been a deer.

“Well, you might give a shit when I tell you I’m going to sue you for divorce and permanent custody of Jeremy, as well as for child support and alimony and all of the community property I’m entitled to by California law.” She recited this as if reading a cue card. “And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“Oh, come on now, Tiffany, this isn’t
Dynasty,
this is our lives! And apparently you’ve forgotten who you’re dealing with. My aunt has more attorneys at her fingertips than you’ve got rotten teeth. They’ll snatch Jeremy away from you, then kick your ass off this mountain. You’ll never see my son again, and you’ll never get another Tyler penny!”

“We’ll just see what the judges have to say about it.”

“And since when do judges award anything to a coke whore with no way to support herself, and…oh yeah…no attorney?”

“FYI, I get three or four phone calls every day from lawyers begging for my business because I’m divorcing a Tyler. And everyone knows that judges always give the kids to the mother.”

“Unless they’re unfit, which I can prove with a few entertaining stories that half of Ballena Beach will witness to!” He turned to squint again into the darkness beyond the open window.
What’s down there?
“How the hell could I have fallen for a slut like you?”

“You’re talking to the mother of your son,” she said, reaching into her pocket. She then withdrew a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, put it between her glossed-pink lips, and flicked her lighter.

“I told you never to smoke around the baby!” He snatched the cigarette from her mouth and crumbled it, then backhanded the pack out of her hand. It flew across the room and landed with a splash in the sink piled high with dishes.

She rubbed her hand. “The courts also take the kids away from abusive husbands, which you are, besides being an asshole.” She sauntered by him to the sink and retrieved the dripping cigarette pack.

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Tyler?” she asked, inching dangerously toward him.

“Take it however you want.”

“Tell me, Johnny, are you threatening me?” She jabbed him hard in the chest with her finger.

“Don’t you fuckin’ touch me!” He grabbed her hard.

He shook her, and she threw her arms in the air and screamed.

The room exploded with twin lightning-bright flashes from outside the open doors. He was blinded momentarily by floating emerald-green spots. He blinked crazily until the silhouette of a standing man began to emerge in the darkness outside the house. The spots faded. He could see now that the man held a camera up to his face.

He threw down his hands and clutched his belt loops.

“You’ll live to regret this, you filthy bitch. I swear it on my life.”

She giggled. “Keep threatening, Johnny, ’cause I got all that on tape too.” She dug a small cassette recorder out of her ski jacket and waved it in the air. “Now I don’t have to wait for you to give me a divorce. I can sue because you’re a wife beater. And now I’ve got proof.”

He reached up to snatch the contraption, and another flash exploded. His shoulders dropped as he turned away and walked toward the foyer.

“I’m going,” he announced quietly.

“Good idea.” She popped a soggy cigarette into her mouth and tried to light it with her cheap disposable.
Flick…Flick…Flick.
“Goddamn lighter…”

He turned and leapt up the stairs two at a time to the room where Jeremy was asleep.

Tiffany’s shrill laugh rose banshee-like from the stone-floored entry.

The nursery was empty.

“Where is he?” His eyes suggested murder.

“Don’t worry,” she said, then her cigarette sizzled as she sucked on it. “Jeremy’s with Rosie on their way down to visit her family in Colton. I thought you’d try something, so I sent him with her and gave her a couple days off.” She took another hit and exhaled as she spoke, the words blown out in vaporous puffs. “She was happy to leave; I told her C.J. was staying the next couple days. I guess she doesn’t like him, as if I care.”

He shoved past her through the doors and walked to his car, the metal underside ticking as it cooled from the race up the hill not twenty minutes earlier. He opened the door, then turned to her.

“You won’t get away with this.” He shook his head. “There’s no way in hell my aunt or I will let you. I’ll kill you before I’ll let you steal my son!”

“Ooh! Now I’ve gotten two threats from you in five minutes, and each worth at least a million!” She held the recorder up in her hand. “Now you better get out of my house before C.J. shows up,” she warned. “He’ll whip your ass.”

She waved good-bye parade-style.

“You goddamn bitch, Tiffany. If you only knew how much I hate you.”

“Tell someone who gives a shit.” She smiled and then slammed the door.

The Porsche sprayed gravel at the house as he sped up the long pine-tree-lined driveway toward the dim street. Within minutes he was back on the highway headed down the mountain, his chest heaving and his molars grinding.

What could he do now?

He glanced at the dashboard clock and figured he could get home to Ballena Beach to consult with Aunt Katharine before she settled into bed.

She’d know what to do.

Her voice echoed in his head:
one should never marry outside one’s social class; the ensuing resentment on both sides is insurmountable.

He was driving even more furiously now than during his ride up, grateful that it was a weeknight and there were practically no other cars around to slow him down. And the roads were dry.