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Honey
Honey
Honey
Ebook381 pages6 hours

Honey

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One of the most successful rock singers in the world, Benjamin Scream is forty-five years old and a veteran of countless albums and tours. He has seen it all, yet he is unprepared for the emotions stirred in him by a poignant nineteen-year-old starlet.
Honey Clarke began her movie career at age nine. Now a blossoming young woman, she is eager to experience all that her hero can show her. Together they embark on a journey of sexual exploration, but Scream is unable to give Honey the one thing she desires most.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateAug 26, 2014
ISBN9781311980137
Honey
Author

Cary Marc Grossman

After dabbling in half a dozen rock bands on the Jersey shore, Cary Grossman returned to his native region of northern New Jersey, where he spent over three decades in retail management. He wrote much of his first novel, Chopin's Ghost, on a pad kept in his shirt pocket.

Read more from Cary Marc Grossman

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    Honey - Cary Marc Grossman

    Part 1

    Words and Music by Scream

    Chapter 1

    He didn’t recognize her at first sight. She still wore the huge, haunting eyes and wide forehead of the precocious child actor, but the cute puckered mouth was now a baby-faced pout, the curves beneath the black leotard top and pleated skirt undeniably those of a woman. How innocently erotic she was, and yes, he was thinking naughty little thoughts in an instant.

    It was on his first national tour in over four years, as he strolled into the crowded room backstage to do his meet-and-greet after another sizzling concert, that he caught her in peripheral vision, leaning against the wall. She was tiny and didn’t look old enough to be holding the bottle of imported beer in her hand, surveying the press, promoters, contest winners, and celebrity guests with the cool poise of an outsider. Her makeup looked professional, and the haircut had to have cost at least a couple hundred. The shoes were designer, likewise the purse.

    So familiar, yet he couldn’t place her. But she was the real thing, not the adult posturing most girls her age affected for the benefit of other children. There was still a trace of baby fat along her cheeks and jaw line, yet the worldliness in her expression made her captivating. He could barely concentrate on what people were saying to him as he signed programs, photos, and music magazines with his face on the cover.

    —think it’s the best record you’ve made.

    Thank you.

    So glad you’re touring again, Scream. Why did you stay away for so long?

    When I don’t have anything to say, I keep my mouth shut.

    How did you learn to play so many instruments? asked the woman in back, a willowy, thirtyish redhead.

    I didn’t have a lot of friends, growing up. The only kids I hung out with were musicians.

    Why don’t you ever wear a shirt onstage? a fan’s mother quipped, prompting laughter from the crowd.

    I like the way my bellybutton looks in the spotlight. He got the bigger laugh.

    He was used to charming a crowd. Hell, he’d just charmed the hell out of twenty thousand people.

    —most of them don’t even play an instrument, and they’re still called musicians!

    Amen to that, sister.

    A high school kid begged him to sign his guitar.

    You sure? That’s a nice Les Paul, man.

    Yup. Be worth three times as much in about a minute. The boy handed him a black marker. He scribbled Benjamin Scream just above the volume and tone controls.

    Why don’t you play guitar and piano more onstage?

    It’s hard for me to stand still long enough. The crowd gets me too excited.

    Are you less angry, now that you’re in your forties?

    Not at all. If anything, I’m angrier. He smiled.

    Do you still consider yourself a rebel?

    I’ve never considered myself that.

    A trendy-looking chick in her early twenties approached with her husband. She wore a tight dress of glossy red leather, he an expensive designer suit in midnight blue, with no tie. I am so honored to meet you, Scream. Would you mind? she asked, handing him the new CD.

    What’s your name?

    Trish.

    Nice to meet you, Trish. You like it?

    Benjamin Scream hasn’t lost his unique perspective on life or his social satire. The Shadows Within, his latest album, shows a vastly more mature voice and a biting cynicism. He still loves to sing about sex, but now he’s presenting a much wider scope, one that illustrates the often-harsh realities that love and sex are up against in an increasingly nightmarish world. And though the characters in his songs don’t always win, Scream gives them music to pound the dashboard to on their way to the next challenge life throws at them.

    It’s much bleaker than your early stuff, but it feels a lot truer.

    "Thank you—someone gets it!"

    It was unbearably hot in the room, and Scream gave his manager, Hugo Bloom, a pointed look. Hugo gave a barely noticeable upward sweep of his sparse, flared eyebrows and nodded, his voice booming over the crowd. Okay, folks. We have another show tomorrow night, and Scream has to rest.

    Scream looked for Baby-face, but she was gone. He craned his neck, trying to see over the crowded room, but there was no sign of her. Hugo was already hustling him out, and he looked back in desperation. Who was she?

    Once outside, security hurried the two of them toward the waiting limo. We have George’s party tonight, Hugo said as soon as the car door closed.

    Scream groaned. Are you serious?

    He’d forgotten. The record company always threw these damned shindigs whenever he was on the west coast. As usual, it was at the home of famed director George Gosley, an old friend. George had directed the video for Flying Blind, Scream’s biggest hit. It would be rude not to show.

    You don’t have to stay long—couple hours at most. Lots of movie starlets, nudge, nudge.

    Scream couldn’t be less interested. No matter, though, as it always took hours to downshift from the excitement of the crowd, and this would help pass the time. He thought about the dark-haired angel backstage, the pixie with the childish cheeks and grown-up eyes. Too young for him and a moot point anyway, as she had vanished. And it was a good thing she had—far too much temptation.

    * * *

    The lights around the grounds of George’s house in Beverly Hills gave stark contrast to the leaves of surrounding bushes and trees, while a warm, welcoming light shone from the large bay windows. There were probably close to two hundred guests, but George’s sprawling place gave the impression of a simple, elegant cocktail party. There were no cars littering up the front of the house; two parking attendants took everything around to a separate area beyond the back garden. Scream cringed at the humid eighty-degree air—he still wasn’t used to such weather in November.

    A uniformed attendant greeted them at the entrance. Hugo went to look for their host while Scream made a beeline for the bar. There was a fine German pilsner on tap—George was well familiar with his tastes—and he grabbed a few hors d’oeuvres from the many catering staff moving through the massive front room. He was starving.

    Absolutely transcendent show, Sir. So happy you’re back.

    Thanks. Nice to be back.

    Great show, Scream.

    Thank you, dear.

    Brian Sloan and Cindy Previn from Rabbit Records stood in the middle of the room, talking to drummer Billy Sax from Big Three, the infamous punk band from San Francisco. Beverly Hills mayor Tom Wesley came over with his daughter, Clarissa, to shake Scream’s hand and ask for an autograph, while Hollywood hunk Rob Delasandro passed by with country music legend Donny Coltrane and hip-hop artist Po Daisy. Scream pounded down his beer and signaled the bartender for another.

    Actor Rachel Bergman gave him a hug—God, if she wasn’t married! When the bartender gave Scream his beer, he asked for a shot of bourbon as well, gratefully accepting some filet mignon canapés from a pretty server.

    He spotted Baby-face just as he was throwing back the bourbon. She stood behind the white circular staircase, studying people rather than interacting with them, taking the occasional sip of champagne from a fluted glass. She wore a frilly black and white dress, cut at the knee with a plunging neckline, and black pumps, her dark hair pulled back into a bun, the bangs and heavy mascara adding drama to the hypnotic eyes, the red lipstick turning the Cupid’s bow mouth into kiddie porn.

    She was looking right at him, and his guts turned to jelly when she gave half a smile. He felt himself standing, his left hand finding the pilsner glass. He hadn’t even made it off the stool yet when George’s bear hug lifted him off his feet, threatening to crush his rib cage. Hugo winked at him, holding a flute glass in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other.

    How the hell have you been, you crazy bastard?

    George was a living legend, twenty-six years old when he’d made Circus World in 1973, based on Alex Ridley’s bestselling novel. Bear’s Heart Films had taken a huge risk signing him on, a longhaired, thick-bearded bohemian with only two film shorts to his credit since earning his degree in cinematography at UCLA. The company questioned his every move, challenged his casting decisions, and forced him to fight like a demon for creative control. It had been the bleakest four months of his life, made worse when he came in eight million dollars over budget, but the film took almost every major category during awards season.

    After two more classic films, his career took a dive in the nineties with a string of commercial failures, together with reports of his drug use, bisexuality—which George had never bothered denying—and one scandal involving an underage girl. By the turn of the century, Hollywood had all but turned its back on him.

    George took two years to clean up, regrouping every aspect of his life, and then made a little independent film called The Morals of Marcus Crassus, with an unknown nine-year-old actress named Honey Clarke in a key supporting role. The movie put them both on the cover of every magazine in the country, and abroad.

    George had outdone himself tonight, wearing a dapper white tux and tails, white top hat, white shoes and socks with white garters, and no pants. The only thing covering his action was a pair of white boxer shorts with little red hearts. Scream pretended not to notice. What’s up, Georgie boy? How did all these people make it here so fast?

    Most of them watched the show from there, said George, pointing to the far wall, which sported a flat-screen TV as big as a queen-size bed. Your friend here set us up with a live video feed, and we had it cranking through the stereo system. Almost as good as being there.

    Scream frowned at Hugo. You gave this cheap fuck pay-per-view for free? Are you senile?

    Hugo looked indignant. What could I do? He said please.

    Someday I’d love to know what I pay you for.

    To make you the rich pain in the ass you are.

    Come on, said George, grabbing his arm and dragging him up the three steps leading to the foyer. Instead of tapping his glass, George removed a thick black shillelagh from the brass umbrella stand near the entryway, and gave the stand half a dozen sharp raps, producing a blaring din similar in tone and volume to an old-fashioned fire bell. George waited until those on the deck outside made their way in through the open patio doors.

    Okay folks, the man of the hour is here. First off, a big thank you to Brian Sloan and Cindy Previn for sponsoring this little get-together. Any time I can throw a party with someone else footing the bill is a great time for me. Tonight the guest of honor is not only an old friend; he’s someone I genuinely respect, not that I’d ever admit that to him, in public or private. He turned to Scream. If you try throwing this in my face later, I’ll just blame it on the booze. Anyway, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Benjamin Scream.

    There were cheers and scattered applause, and Scream raised his glass to the room. No one expected him to speak—the public was well familiar with his reclusive nature. He saved what he had to say for the records he made, and for the stage.

    He took a quick scan of the room. About half the guests were actors, or in the film business. The rest were in the record industry. Heartthrob Jonathon Sykes was in a corner, deep in conversation with director Kim Navarro, while producer Wendell Dignon stood nearby, holding hands with starlet Beverly Buton. Tequila Records president Jesse Walsh was making his way toward Scream, along with Brian and Cindy.

    But where was his little doe-eyed nymph? He had no illusions of bedding her—she was far too young, but he had to find out who she was, and why she looked so familiar.

    He spent an obligatory fifteen minutes with the record execs to make Hugo happy, then went back to the bar. What’s your name, barkeep?

    Ted, Mr. Scream.

    Ted, my friend, what’s the best Scotch you have here tonight?

    Ted was a muscular looking young man with a flattop buzz cut and closely cropped goatee. He smiled. Mr. Gosley told me to give you this if you asked for Scotch. It’s from his private stock. Thirty-year.

    Tell you what, Sir; I’d be very grateful if you could pour me about three fingers of that.

    Here you are, Mr. Scream. Enjoy. Scream took a hundred from his pocket, but Ted wouldn’t touch it. Mr. Gosley already took care of that, Sir.

    Scream beckoned with his finger, as though he wanted to tell a secret, and Ted leaned over. I don’t take orders from Mr. Gosley, he smiled, stuffing the bill into the breast pocket of Ted’s shirt.

    Now to find Kiddie Porn.

    * * *

    The moon was full and bright, easily visible from the patio deck. People stood holding drinks, or sat around the circular tables, talking, gossiping, laughing. A few waved at him or nodded, acknowledging his presence. Scream returned each greeting in kind as he made his way to the stairs, and down onto the lawn. The humidity of the night was gone and the air had turned cooler, the sky bejeweled with stars now that he was past the bright outdoor lights.

    He walked along the edge of the orange grove, sipping at his Scotch. It went down like silken heat, warming his stomach and his brain, and he smiled to himself as he saw her in the garden, leaning against the lemon tree, admiring the roses. He approached almost directly behind her, with the strongest feeling that she knew he was there.

    Why do you keep disappearing?

    Maybe I wanted you to find me.

    He ignored the blood rushing to his crotch at her coquettishness. Easy, Scream, she’s just a kid. How did you know it was me?

    She turned and hit him with both eyes, the brows raised in slight amusement. You’re Benjamin Scream, and I don’t live in a dark basement without electricity. What’s that? she asked, pointing to his glass.

    Thirty year-old Scotch.

    Ooh! Mr. Scream will share?

    He chuckled. How old are you?

    Nineteen, and I’ve been drinking responsibly since I was twelve.

    He handed it to her, trying to suppress his apprehension. She’s almost twenty, and if she gets silly I’ll just take it back. But she swirled the whiskey in the glass and took a discriminating sniff, savoring its perfume before sipping, and swallowing without the slightest wince. Oh my, nectar of the gods!

    Why do I feel like I’ve seen you before?

    "You’ve probably seen The Morals of Marcus Crassus."

    "Holy—you’re Honey Clarke? My God, have you ever grown up!"

    Why thank you, Mr. Scream. She gave an elegant curtsy.

    "Just Scream, dear. Holy smokes, what a difference! Where have you been hiding all this…all this?" He suddenly felt like an idiot.

    Honey laughed. Behind little girl roles and romantic teen comedies.

    Oh. Sorry.

    Not at all. Some of them had a few decent dramatic moments, and they helped me get the roles I’m landing now.

    You getting more adult stuff now?

    "I just wrapped a Piers Kendall film called The Tender, where I play a prostitute who gets raped. I’m working with our friend, Mr. Gosley, again right now. It’s a psychological thriller. Very sexy."

    God, she was short, even in the heels. Five foot one, two at the most. It made the body that much more seductive. It took a firm control to keep from looking at her breasts. I’m glad, he said. "And I’ve seen one or two of those little girl roles besides Marcus Crassus. You’re one hell of an actress."

    "Actor, sir—there’s no differential anymore."

    Scream shook his head. Sorry, dear, but I find political correctness nauseating. I’m a fervent believer in women’s rights, but I also believe that women should be treated with deference and respect. They’ve earned it.

    I’ll drink to that. She took a good pull this time.

    Take it easy, Young Miss.

    I might be nineteen, Mr. Scream, but I’m not as young as you think. Why have you been away so long? She handed back his glass.

    Just needed to take some time and soak up some new ideas. That was the standard answer he gave the press, but giving it to her, for some reason, felt dishonest. Actually, I was with someone for a while, and it came to an unfortunate end.

    She break your heart?

    Something like that.

    Oh. Sorry. That why the new record’s so much darker?

    Can’t sing about sex all the time.

    You’ve never sung about just sex. She seemed emphatic about it.

    You a fan?

    Why do you think I’m here?

    Forgive me, but there are a lot of movie stars here, and I wouldn’t exactly call them fans.

    She smiled. Fair enough. Of course, I’m a lot younger than they are.

    He laughed. I haven’t been in with kids your age for over a decade, dear. I’m rock, not hip-hop.

    Maybe my tastes are more selective than most kids my age. Maybe I go for substance and not style. You don’t like hip-hop?

    I didn’t say that. But it’s like every other art form—a few really talented people, and a ton of product aimed at the lowest common denominator. Most don’t even play instruments. The further our technology takes us, the lazier we get.

    Oh, I agree. People would rather tweet than call and actually have to talk to someone.

    Or, God forbid, write a letter—nobody writes to anyone anymore. Not even e-mail.

    "I love e-mail! I don’t even have a twitter account. I don’t like the idea of having to compress my thoughts into something you can fit inside a fortune cookie."

    Exactly. Everything has to be done in nano-seconds nowadays. He shifted his weight and drained his glass. You’re quite a refreshing young lady.

    Thanks for finishing the Scotch.

    Are you serious? You drank most of it.

    It’s good. And before he had a chance to react, she swooped in, grabbed the back of his neck, and, standing on tiptoes, planted one on him. Sorry. You still had some on your mouth.

    Blind-sided by a teenager. And life was getting very cramped within the confines of his boxer briefs. Steady, kiddo.

    Couldn’t resist. How many chances does a girl get to kiss Benjamin Scream?

    He knew he was turning red. I should get back inside. Don’t want to be rude to our host, and I’m out of Scotch.

    Look, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything.

    You didn’t, dear. Excuse me for pointing.

    She laughed. You’re sweet.

    He was halfway back to the house when she caught up with him.

    Hey, what’s your e-mail address?

    Chapter 2

    With an outthrust hip she pushed open the apartment door, staggering into the kitchen with three bags of groceries and crossing to the island counter. She was almost there when she spotted him, coming out of the shadows of the dining room. The bags she held dropped to the floor, glass containers shattering, eggs breaking, olives scattering over linoleum—she gave it no mind, her only focus to get to the carving knife on the counter. "What the fuck are you doing here, Jonathon?’ she demanded, eyes wide, voice sharp with terror.

    I just wanna talk, baby, come on, put the knife down. We can talk about this.

    Don’t make me do this, Jonathon—I swear I’ll kill you if you take another step… He lunged at her, and she raised the knife to strike.

    Cut!

    George, I feel like this knife should be bigger, more threatening.

    We’ll have another go anyway, Hon. You missed your mark.

    Of course I missed my mark—I slipped on the eggs!

    It took another nine takes to get it perfect, but it was a crucial scene, and they nailed it good and proper before breaking for lunch. It would be a long walk back to her trailer, and the spread here looked decent—she decided to eat with the crew today. Besides, the air was lovely. Lighting director Lonny Aikins sidled up to look at her with genuine concern.

    Honey, you okay? You looked kinda flushed after that scene with Sam.

    There were snickers among the crew. Samuel Weston was on the cover of the current Celebrity magazine as Hottest Man of the Year. He was a huge box office draw, and every woman in America dreamt of him with less than pure thoughts.

    It’s a rough job, Lon, but somebody’s got to do it.

    Honey was starving, and took some fresh spinach, a slice of tenderloin, and an assortment of fruit. She was just sitting down across from Lonny and make-up specialist Carl Glaser, when she spotted Madison at the catering stands—her agent/manager winked at her, took a muffin to go with her coffee, and gestured toward an empty picnic table.

    Your boyfriend’s here, Madison said, smiling.

    Oh my God, why would you even tell me that?

    Madison looked puzzled, and then apologetic. Oh shit—not Duncan.

    Honey stared at her. Are you insane?

    Now Madison looked sympathetic. Honey, how much sleep have you been getting?

    I’m okay. I was just in a good mood, and I didn’t want anything stupid interfering with that. The sky seemed to cloud over with her now fading spirits, and she pushed away her plate, no longer hungry.

    Anyway, who did you mean?

    Madison was still in sympathy mode, and looked at her blankly. Who?

    She rolled her eyes. Who did you mean when you said, ‘my boyfriend?’

    Oh—he’s shooting part of a new video on the east lot. Closed set, of course.

    "Who is?"

    Benjamin Scream. He’s here for only today. They’re shooting most of the video live on the tour.

    Jesus, Mad. She covered her excitement at the mention of his name.

    "Oh, and Punk Mag wants to interview you for the May issue. Interested? Good exposure, young audience."

    Yeah, sounds okay.

    She’d been the youngest actor in film history to win the Academy Award, scoring Best Supporting at nine years old for her role as the child of a slave girl in The Morals of Marcus Crassus. A flood of offers in big budget children’s films followed, and Madison chose only the cream, keeping Honey’s smoldering dark eyes and pointed chin before the public until she turned fifteen, when her blossoming body demanded more adult roles. Some forgettable romantic comedies followed, but Madison began trading top billing for smaller parts in prestigious films with good directors, and Honey’s image started gracing the covers of top fashion magazines.

    Duncan had happened to her just before her sixteenth birthday, on the set of Blind Men Round. She’d stolen one look at her costar and that had been that, both smitten in an instant. She’d had only one previous sexual partner—three occurrences with a childhood friend when she was fourteen, which she counted as one because they were alike to the letter in length (about a minute), position (missionary), and satisfaction (his).

    Duncan Gaines had been twenty and gorgeous, with the physique of a Greek god and a great passion for creativity. He wrote music, sketched in charcoal, and had just started a screenplay. He cooked for her, taught her which wines went best with which dishes, and was unquenchable in bed. By the time the film wrapped, Honey had moved in with him.

    Despite his voracious sexual appetite, however, Duncan’s preferences went only so far. He liked intercourse, and favored three positions—missionary, female superior and rear entry, with her on all fours and him behind. There remained a host of other sexual practices that she’d overheard in polite and not so polite conversation, and for which she’d retained a normal, healthy curiosity, but most of these lay beyond a line that Duncan was unwilling to cross. And before Honey could grow comfortable enough with her interest to ask, their two-year relationship came to an end.

    She dated a host of Hollywood’s most available young bachelors, but most boys her age were children, and older men expected her to remain true while they fucked anything that moved. She had turned down countless opportunities while she’d been with Duncan, and wasn’t about to sacrifice her freedom again for anyone.

    Now, at nineteen, her cupie-doll face and sinfully luscious figure added a distinct sex symbol status to an already solid respect as an actor. She was booked solid for the next two years, with plenty of casting directors banging on Madison’s door to book her after that. She was successful, famous, and in serious demand, commanding a salary that many of her peers envied. She had it all.

    So why am I so miserable?

    Madison was studying her. You look beat, kiddo.

    "Did you get me a part in The Gravity of Reason? I don’t care which part I play, or how small, I just want to be involved in some way."

    I’ve spoken to Milos, and he’s interested—very interested—but I think they’re going to insist on a screen test.

    Duncan forgotten, appetite returned, sun shining—Honey was bouncing up and down in her seat now. That’s fine. I have no problem with that. Set it up at the earliest. I’ve got to be in this film.

    You’ve made this abundantly clear. I understand. Priority one.

    "Oh yes!" She thought she might burst into song.

    Madison still looked concerned. Maybe you ought to slow it down a bit, Hon.

    Like hell I will! A movie set is the only place where I don’t feel as though I’m in over my head. I can’t get into trouble if I’m working, and how many chances will I get to work with actors of this caliber? None of this is going to last forever, and while it’s available I’m grabbing it with both hands.

    Still and all, Hon, the exhaustion in your eyes is starting to show through the makeup.

    I know, I know.

    Makeup artist Serena Vee had told her the same thing, early this morning. I can hide the dark circles, dear, but I can’t cover the sunken look. Go to bed at night.

    How? By the time you get my makeup off it’s after eight, then I go and have dinner, and get home at nine. There are tomorrow’s lines to learn, and then it’s up at 4:30 and on the set by 5:30 for makeup. That doesn’t leave much time for sleep.

    Your mom still calls me twice a week, you know, Madison nagged. What am I supposed to tell her?

    That I’m eating all right, I’m not seeing anyone regularly, and I have no social life, the same thing we always tell her. You know, anything but the truth!

    Honey, that’s just the trouble—nowadays, that is the truth.

    Mad, you’ve made me millions, and even that couldn’t pay for the kind of education and experience I’m getting, working with actors like Donovan Harris, or directors like George—two-time Oscar winner! I wouldn’t trade places with anyone in the world right now.

    "I’m glad, sweetie, I really am. Just smell the roses a little, okay? You work very hard, and you should take at least some time to enjoy it."

    She was full. She pushed away her plate again and sighed in perfect contentment, resting her chin on her upturned hand. Wanna go shopping this weekend?

    Oh, I lined up a photo shoot for this weekend.

    What? You’re the one telling me to take it easy!

    "It’s for Girls Today. Want me to cancel it?"

    "Girls Today—are you crazy? Photo shoot, then shopping. Lots of shopping!"

    Mad laughed. I like your style, kiddo.

    Of course you do.

    They spent the rest of the afternoon on exterior shots—running, chasing, escaping—until the sinking sun ended the day for them. A crucial piece of set for the scene scheduled to shoot that evening had caught fire the previous day, and the repair wasn’t yet complete. Out by five, Honey could barely contain her elation. Her face freshly scrubbed without a trace of makeup, she put her hair in a ponytail, hid her face behind huge bug-eyed sunglasses, and went to the mall.

    A big, juicy burger was the first order of business, and Honey took business in both hands and devoured it in five short minutes, feeling naughty but not criminal—she hadn’t ordered fries, after all. A new purse was next, and then clothes, until people started recognizing her and she had to hurry out of there. Stuffed with ground beef, she tossed the bags containing her new purchases into her Jag and headed home to Malibu.

    Hey, Percy! Hiya, buddy! Her Irish wolfhound attacked her as soon as she opened the front door, pouncing to lick her cheeks, turn in a circle, and jump on her again before racing into the kitchen to kick his metal water dish around on the linoleum, causing a ruckus of startling proportions. Oh shit! I forgot to fill your water this morning—oh, I’m just no good. Here, let’s fill you up and then we’ll go take a walk on the beach. You wanna walk on the beach? Oh yeah, buddy, we’ll go take a walk.

    She ran upstairs, trading jeans and linen shirt for a light top and shorts. Percy ran circles around her, speeding ahead, darting back, and letting his boundless energy run rampant while Honey listened to her iPod and looked at the horizon. By the time they made it back home, the sky was turning dark. She lit a fire and opened a bottle of red wine, the crackle of the flames against the sound of the Pacific relaxing her normally racing mind. Perhaps Madison had been right. Maybe she did need a bit of a break.

    Why couldn’t she find someone? Men treated her as a trophy with no person inside,

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