Shock Waves

3

ELLIE WAS TOO PUNCTUAL for her own good. Not that being on time was a bad thing, but it was when you were overly anxious to see the guy of your childhood dreams, who happened to not be punctual. Backstage again at the food table, she nibbled on grapes and hoped she looked okay in her red bikini, fishnet cover-up, retro polka-dot wedgies and over-theshoulder mini brocade purse. When she’d left the beach house, she’d felt fine, but after passing dozens of girls in Easter-egg color bikinis and nondescript sandals, she was starting to wonder if she looked too over-the-top.

That she, a glam goth diva, was actually fretting about looking over-the-top suddenly made her laugh. Back at her apartment, her entire wardrobe was a swirl of purple, black and red satins and laces. This beach babe makeover was frying her brain. Next she’d be buying frosted pink lipstick, eating granola and saying “dude.”

“Hey, how’s my Ellie?” said a familiar, deep voice. Bill.

Her heart thumped a wanton, pagan beat.

My Ellie. She lost the ability to speak for a moment. “Great.” My Bill.

He looked effing incredible. That mocha skin, those brown eyes, that windblown black ’fro—colors so rich and dark, they made her insides quiver.

Maybe it was because of the canvas tent, but the light seemed pale and ephemeral. Summer heat shimmered in the air, hot and intangible. And in the midst of it all stood Bill, like a chocolatey, rough-edged hip-hop prince. Wild on the outside, in control on the inside.

The moment was broken when a girl, who looked to be around nineteen, bounded up and tapped Bill on the arm. She wore short-shorts, a halter top, her shiny blond hair tied back in a ponytail. Daisy Mae’s long-lost twin, no doubt.

The girl looked up at Bill with round liquid-blue eyes and smiled.

“Curtiss is having some problems with the boom mike for tomorrow morning’s shoot,” she said in a baby-doll voice. “He wanted me to tell you he’s picking up a new one today as backup.”

“Thanks.” Bill nodded, turned his attention back to Ellie.

But Daisy Baby-Doll didn’t leave. “I’m the new PA. Name’s Phoebe.”

Bill looked at her. “Hi, Phoebe.”

“Actually, my name’s Diane, but that’s so boring, so a few years ago I started calling myself Phoebe, and now everybody remembers me!”

Ellie had a feeling she knew why.

“Well, Phoebe,” said Bill, “nice meeting you—”

“If you ever need anything…” she said, her voice trailing off.

Like it was so hard to guess what that anything might be. To stop herself from saying something she might regret, Ellie stuffed a grape into her mouth.

Of course, women had always loved Bill, and he’d loved his share back. She had many memories watching him from her living room window while he laughed and flirted with the girls on the block. Even back then, he had that certain something that attracted the opposite sex in droves. Call it confidence, charm or being blessed with more than his share of pheromones, but the guy had it.

Bill glanced at Ellie, back to Phoebe. “Look, I’m taking a meeting here….”

Taking a meeting? This wasn’t a date? Ellie shoved another grape in her mouth.

Phoebe rolled back her shoulders, which made her breasts stick out even more, and plastered on a smile. “Well, Bill, see you around the set.”

She’d barely bounced away before a tall, preppie-looking guy sidled up to Bill. “Man, you should be bottled.”

“Behave.” Bill turned to Ellie. “This is my main man, Jimmie,” he said. “We met on our first day at NYU. I was the tough guy from East L.A. Jimmie was the class act from Connecticut. I decided to like him anyway.”

She smiled while swallowing the grape, which felt like a chunk of lead going down her throat. “Nice to meet you, Jimmie.”

“This is Ellie Belle,” said Bill. He slung his arm around his friend’s shoulders. “He taught me how to order wine, and I taught him how to siphon gas.”

But she was still back at Ellie Belle. Nobody had called her that in years. It had been her dad’s nickname for her, one her mom had occasionally used after her dad left, but nobody had used it since. Not even Matt. Had Bill overheard one of her parents and, all these years later, remembered?

Jimmie extended his hand, which she took. “And after that eloquent introduction, let me say it’s very nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” They shook hands.

“Heard you two were next-door neighbors years ago.”

“That’s right.”

“No offense, but you sure don’t look like someone from the hood.”

“Well, we don’t normally wear bikinis with fishnet cover-ups there.”

Jimmie looked surprised, then laughed. “I, uh, didn’t mean that.”

“Sorry, I knew what you meant.” She’d heard comments like that plenty of times, mostly from people who’d rarely, if ever, been to the hood. She used to take offense, then realized what mattered more than a person’s question was the intention behind it. Jimmie, despite his Brooks Brothers appearance and precise diction, had a sincere streak.

“Actually, when my mom and her mother moved there in the late fifties, there were families in that neighborhood straight out of Father Knows Best. The melting pot started getting stirred more during the seventies.” She’d skip over what everyone knew—that the area grew economically depressed, gangs arrived, street crime mushroomed and that’s when things could get dicey if you didn’t already have your friends and community in place, which the Rockwells did. “The hood’s changing for the better these days, though.”

Bill made a disgruntled noise.

“It’s true. Homes are being renovated, new businesses are moving in—”

“C’mon, Ellie, nobody really cares about our old stomping ground. The powers that be wrote off that part of L.A. a long time ago. I, for one, will never go back.”

“Can’t turn your back on your roots,” Jimmie said to Bill. “Don’t you still have family there?”

“Those who stayed deserved what they got.”

Ellie bit the inside of her lip. She didn’t like hearing his negativity, but she had to remember how Bill, like Matt, had taken on the role of man of the house at an early age. Except Bill had had four younger siblings, which hadn’t been easy.

Jimmie, obviously picking up on the heavy vibes, changed the subject. “Those are some shoes.” He nudged his head toward her feet.

“They’re retro sling back wedgies,” she said, tipping the toe of red-and-white polka-dot sandals this way, then that. “Got them at Sinister Shoes.”

Bill gave her a funny look. “Sinister Shoes?”

“I’ve heard of that place,” said Jimmie. “It’s down on Melrose. All the goths go there to shop.”

“Goths.” Bill shook his head. “Elvira’s cool, but I don’t get that whole vampire thing. They all seem depressed or something.”

Her insides shrank a little. Made her feel like a fake and a liar pretending not to be one of those into that whole vampire thing. It was really about loving the darkness, the mystery in life, but she didn’t want to explain.

All she wanted was this day, this experience with Bill, and for that she was willing to pretend she was somebody she wasn’t.

She angled her leg, showing off. “These shoes are really more of a retro pinup look,” she said a little too gaily. “Similar to what Betty Grable wore in those World War II posters.”

Bill and Jimmie stared at her.

“Betty Grable?” Bill finally said. “She was a movie star way before your time.”

“I’ve always loved the Golden Age of Hollywood, even as a little kid. I sometimes envision the stars like Audrey Hepburn, Veronica Lake, Betty Grable when I design some of my clothes.” When they looked at her black fishnet cover-up over her red bikini, she added drolly, “These aren’t my designs. I bought them at Target.”

A grin sauntered across Bill’s lips. “You did a lot of sewing as a kid, didn’t you? I think my mom said something about it once.”

She nodded, feeling a little giddy that he’d remembered something else about her as a child. Maybe she’d been more memorable than she’d given herself credit for.

“Hollywood’s Golden Era is one of my favorites,” he continued. “It spawned dozens of classic westerns, comedies and thrillers. Plus, it was the birthplace of film noir.”

“Watch out, Bill,” Jimmie teased, “your cine-matic-nerd side’s showing.” He glanced at his flashy gold watch. “Gotta split. Told Bev I’d take her to the festival, play some of those games. She’s hot about trying to win some grand prize cabin.”

“Beach bungalow,” corrected Ellie.

Jimmie nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. I guess the winner gets a free rental there for the next two years.”

“Ten,” she corrected again. She hadn’t realized she’d been so into it until this moment. Sure, she’d been willing to be Team Java Mammas with the girls, but she hadn’t been personally driven to win anything other than the audition until this moment. Had to be the thought of hanging out with Bill for the rest of the afternoon, doing fun, wild things in some of those hot games.

And, if all went well, even more wild things afterward.

What Happens in Malibu Stays in Malibu.

“Ten, eh?” Jimmie gave a low whistle. “Now I’m glad I gave in and said yes to Bev.” He snagged a cookie off the food table. “What time does the shoot start tomorrow?” he asked Bill.

“Five a.m. sharp. We need the rising sun in the background for that first shot.”

Jimmie groaned. “Whoever said showbiz is glamorous needs their head checked.” He pointed at his pal. “Watch out for that guy,” he said to Ellie as he headed toward the tent opening.

Wouldn’t Bill be surprised to know she’d been watching out for him for a long, long time.

After Jimmie left, Bill stared at Ellie, trying not to think how drop-dead sexy that fishnet cover-thing was over that red bikini. Very teasing. Very exciting.

Both of which were Ellie right now. All grown-up and hot and retro sexy in that peekaboo red bikini and matching shoes. Enough to make a man howl at the moon.

“What’re you thinking about?” she asked.

With another woman, he might have said. But with Ellie…well, it was different. He wasn’t exactly sure why, just knew he felt more protective. Of her, certainly. But also of their past. As though that bubble of time so long ago was more fragile than he’d realized.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Famished.”

“Me, too.” He guided her toward the tent opening, his arm comfortably around her shoulders, their steps in sync. “Let’s go to the festival and get some chow.”

Ellie felt as though they’d walked this way a hundred times. His arm rested so easily around her, the side of his body seemed to fit perfectly against her. Muscles against curves, hard into soft.

When he leaned his head down, she caught a whiff of his cologne—cinnamon and musk—and nearly swooned at the rich, dark scent. Someone had once told her cinnamon was an aphrodisiac, and if she didn’t believe it before, she sure did now.

“Something about you, Ellie,” he murmured, his breath hot against her cheek.

She waited, but he didn’t finish the thought. Even if he had, she doubted she’d have been able to stay focused and hear the words because she was caught up in sensations. His breath caressing her cheek, his thigh rubbing seductively against hers as they walked, that cinnamon scent shooting straight to the pleasure center of her brain.

They headed out into the blinding sunshine. The sand sank underneath her feet and she stumbled slightly.

“It’s those sinister shoes,” teased Bill, helping her regain her balance.

“I wasn’t sure what to wear at the beach,” she murmured.

“Coulda fooled me.” He gave her an appreciative once-over, which gave her no small thrill.

She plastered on her best beach-babe smile, although she felt like a total fake. Except for the shoes. And the fishnet. And the tattoos, of course.

And how she felt every time she was near him. Those feelings were as deep and real as they’d been when she was a girl.

They faced each other, the heat from the sun pouring down on them. In the distance, waves thundered against the shoreline. A couple of teenagers walked past, carrying umbrellas, towels and a radio that was blasting Sheryl Crow singing how she just wanted to have some fun.

So did Ellie. She’d started out telling herself this week was about chilling, then about winning points and being on her favorite show. But now all that paled to what she really wanted—to be with Bill and have fun. The kind of no-regrets, go-for-it fun she never allowed herself. Now was the perfect time to indulge herself.

And he was the perfect man to indulge herself with.

Everything would be great, too, as long as she kept up the facade, never let on that she lived in that depressing vampire world where he assumed goths resided. From what she’d gleaned, this was his only afternoon off, so she didn’t have to keep that facade up for long anyway. A few hours, hopefully more. Not a daunting task.

Although the thought of saying goodbye again was.

“Something wrong?” he asked, concern filling his eyes.

She glanced at the coffee stain. “It’s probably set by now. Too late to get it out.”

“Now, now, Ellie, so pessimistic,” he kidded, lightly rubbing her back.

She could feel the heat from his hand through the open spaces in the fishnet, warm and liquid against the bareness of her back. His touch was light, confident, exciting.

“We have bigger things to worry about than a coffee stain.” He took her hand and started walking toward the festival. “Like what should we order for lunch?”

It’d been seventeen years since her maddening childhood crush. Seventeen years of remembering and fantasizing about Bill, and now all those memories and dreams and girlish yearnings coalesced into this single afternoon. If she ever had the opportunity to live in the moment, this was it. To revel in each moment, each minute, each hour.

Even if what happened in Malibu stayed in Malibu, she’d have the memories of this afternoon for the rest of her life.

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