booth, swaying to his feet and focusing on the distant door emblazoned "Gents." He wondered if he'd make it that far before he vomited on the Dime A Cup's floor.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Janet hovering near the cash register, a pencil tucked behind one ear, her fists planted on her ample hips as she watched him cross the room.
"You okay, Mr. Carlyle?"
He ignored her, slammed his hands against the bathroom door, and shoved it open, enclosing himself in the six-by-six space with yellow walls of unfinished pine and air that smelled of sickeningly sweet strawberry-scented Glade.
Sinking back against the door and closing his eyes, Brandon did his best to force down the disgust and panic rising in his throat, not to mention the anger—the explosive fury that came from total helplessness.
How the hell was he supposed to defend himself? How could he shout to the world that he didn't murder Emerald Marcella when he couldn't remember anything beyond his car sliding out of control on a dark, rain-slick highway?
How the hell had he gotten out of his car before it plowed through a guardrail and rolled a hundred feet to the bottom of a cliff?
And as far as all the other accusations: Bestiality? Whips and bondage? What kind of sick minds sat around and thought up that kind of perversion?
Moving to the sink, he turned on the water, cupped his hands beneath it, and splashed his face until the shock of the cold water evened out his breathing. Alyson James was right. The reflection staring back at him from the mirror belonged to Mick Warner, hero of Dark Night in Jericho : bone-weary, disillusioned, stressed-out drug addict with long, unkempt hair, unshaven jaw, and eyes red and swollen from lack of sleep and substance abuse.
During one of Mick's more memorable scenes, he had excused his bad behavior by replying to the question "What kind of satisfaction do you get from killing yourself with drugs?" with "When life gets too difficult, we have to have someplace to go."
For Mick, that had been shooting up heroin. For Brandon Carlyle, his place of escape had been booze. After the booze had come Ticky Creek. As long as he didn't know about the ugly stuff that was being said about him, he could pretend it didn't exist.
But reality had just clubbed him between the eyes again, first in the form of a maniac who called herself Anticipating, then of a beautiful stranger with a Nikon camera and a telephoto lens who could be Anticipating, as far as he knew. Instead of using an Uzi to do him in, she would simply point her camera at him and fire. Her arrival in Ticky Creek was a harsh and sobering reminder that Brandon Carlyle, movie star and big-time fuckup, could run but couldn't hide forever from his past. And with her came the brutal monster of innuendo and false accusations in the form of an unauthorized biography that portrayed him as some kind of sicko.
He splashed his face again, and watched as the water ran in beads down his cheeks. Frown lines etched his forehead. Grooves bracketed his mouth. Mildred was right. His prime had come and gone. Soon he would be relegated to second-billing character roles—if he was lucky. With the publication of that book, he'd be lucky to get anything outside of porn work.
Thinking of Alyson James, he grew angry again. Despite the fact she had sexy eyes and a mouth that would tempt a monk, she was just like the smut rakers in that book: a vulture eager to pick his bones of the last shred of meat in order to make a buck. He'd tell her to get lost. But how the hell was he going to do that without risking her blowing his cover? Money, of course. Although she claimed she wasn't interested in his bank account, she'd change her mind fast enough if he offered her a few hundred grand. Get her and her satin thong panties the hell out of Dodge before her plump lips and bedroom eyes encouraged another awakening in his jeans.
Brandon turned off the water and dried his face and hands on a brown paper