Susan Andersen - Coming Undone

It was ironic, then, that this boulevard of broken dreams and perversions might now turn out to be exactly what he was looking for.

Except:Hollywood Boulevard wasn't at all what he'd anticipated. Where were the string of tattoo parlors, the scandalous lingerie stores, the hookers and the dealers? He tramped street after street but saw nothing but a clean new shopping complex, an equally new metro station and restored hotels and shop fronts. He should have been pleased that such a corrupt town was cleaning up its decadent neighborhoods. And he was.

But for just this evening a decadent neighborhood had been the kind of place where he could reasonably expect to find what he needed.

He sure couldn't find it in this new and improved district, and he was ready to call it a night and head back to the motel when he saw the devil's handmaiden leaning against a light standard. He stopped short on the sidewalk. Glancing up at a street sign, he realized he'd walked all the way to the seedy beginning of downtown L.A. He stared at the woman on the opposite side of the boulevard.

Clearly she would know where he could find what he was looking for.

Still he hesitated, because even understanding that she was a sign sent to him from above, he didn't want to approach her. With her huge shock of brassy hair, her makeup that looked as if it had been slapped on with a spackling knife, her inch-long squared-off fingernails painted a Jezebel red and at least six tattoos, she reminded him of his daughter, Mary. And that was a personal failure he didn't care to revisit tonight.

Time was growing short, however, and he didn't have many options left. All he could do at this juncture was command himself to keep his gaze above the woman's neck. But her great, bulbous breasts in their low-cut, skintight, zebra-print top and her skirt so scandalously short it barely covered the essentials were lures designed to tempt the virtuous from their path. The long, muscular snake draped around her neck had more volume to it than her entire wardrobe combined.

By rights she ought to hang her head in shame. Instead, when she saw the disapproval he could not completely disguise, she mocked him with her salacious behavior. She laughed a husky siren's laugh, proposed indecent act after indecent act and shook her whore's teats in his face. He longed to take her in hand the way he once had Mary, to do what he had been unable to do for his own daughter and set her feet firmly on the road to redemption.

But he forced himself to swallow the inclination and be civil. He needed information and he'd learned the hard way that a soft voice was more effective than thundering threats of hell and damnation.

But if ever a female cried out for punishment it was this unrepentant harlot before him.

She refused to give him the information he sought until he paid her thirty dollars. When he then discovered that he would have to drive down to Yorba Linda for his purchase he longed to unleash the power of his righteousness upon her, to castigate and renounce her for the hell-bound sinner she was. He choked down that impulse, as well. Instead he thanked her for her time and hiked back to his motel. There he collected his uniform, tidied it with a lint brush and carried it out to his car where he carefully laid it on the pristine backseat. After consulting his map, he drove back to Hollywood Boulevard, where he turned left and headed for Highway 101.

There was an accident not far from where 60 East merged with 57 South and the snarled traffic barely inched along for the next forty-five minutes. The longer he was stuck in it the more he stewed about the store closing before he could get there. Why hadn't he called for the shop's hours before he'd set out to drive these heathen freeways?

But he received yet another reminder that the Lord was his Shepherd when he arrived with twenty minutes to spare before the store closed for the night.Oh, ye of little faith, he chastised himself as he marched through the door.

The clerk was dressed head to foot in black, had green and black hair, a tattooed asp on her neck and multiple piercings. She was also a nonstop talker who followed him around the store extolling the virtues and drawbacks of her merchandise. The man would have preferred a little privacy to mull over his choices, but he gave in with good grace when it became clear he wasn't going to be granted that wish. He made his selection and talked pleasantly to the clerk as she boxed up his item. Ten minutes later he was on the freeway back to LosAngeles.

He was pushing the far boundaries of the timeframe he'd set for himself when he finally neared the arena where Priscilla Jayne was holding her concert. All the same he pulled into a service station and changed into his uniform. The restroom's disgusting condition made his skin crawl and he washed his hands three times before letting himself out. Even then he couldn't relax until he'd also gone over them with one of the antiseptic wipes he kept in his glove box.

He drove around the peripheries of the arena until he located the tour bus he'd identified as belonging to Priscilla Jayne. It was in the lot near the backstage tunnel, and, parking his car in the shadows of an alley half a block away, he sank low in his seat to observe the bus for signs of occupancy.

All was quiet. A faint glow filtered through a couple of the black tinted windows, but he couldn't see any activity going on behind them. Which made it impossible to tell who was on the bus. That was unacceptable. He was on a mission and he needed to know that Priscilla Jayne and her entourage were elsewhere while the bus driver was on board. Was that so much to ask?

Considering that without the driver, his mission fell apart.

Well, perhaps the driver was on the bus. It was even probable. There was only one way to find out, however. Climbing from the car, the man straightened his uniform, settled his hat low over his forehead and reached back into the vehicle for the package. He set off with a purposeful stride for the bus.

He was about fifty yards away when the sound of approaching laughter floated up the ramp from the arena entrance down below. He melted into a shadow until he could see who emerged. To his surprise and momentary pleasure, Priscilla Jayne herself walked into view, hugging a large plaque to her chest. She whirled at the top of the ramp, and he watched her skirt lift up to twirl around her legs. She laughed and slapped it down, dancing backward in front of a cigarette-smoking man who was likely a drug user by the dissipated look of him; a woman with short, messy brown hair and full-figured curves that ought to be decently covered by clothing much less form-fitting than what she had on and a tall man with a loose-limbed walk but a vigilant air about him.

Like the moon pulls the tides, the man's gaze was drawn back to Priscilla Jayne. She was so animated, even prettier and more joyous in person, that it was difficult to look away.

Then he gritted his teeth in disgust. The attraction of the flesh was thelast thing he should be thinking about. That was the devil, whispering temptation in his ear.

"Get thee behind me, Satan," he muttered. So close. He had been soclose! Anger at being denied his goal was a slow fire inside of him that threatened to burst into full flame.

He firmly stamped it out. Turning away from the noisy group, he headed back to his car. It was disappointing, yes.

But there was always tomorrow.

FIVE CITIES, FIVE CONCERTS, five drive-all-night bus rides. And now, with the morning sun lighting their way, they were rolling through town number six.

P.J. watched Denver unfold outside the window and memories of living on its streets, first by herself, then with Jared, began piling up faster than she knew how to handle. She stole a quickie peek at the banquette where J sat engrossed in a book, sipping a cup of coffee.

He didn't spare her so much as a glance in return.

Of course not. Acid cramped her stomach. Never mind that Denver was where they'd met, the city where they'd gone through so much together, where they'd relied on each other to stay sane. She'd taught him every bit of street savvy she'd learned there. He'd comforted her, talked to her, been her friend. Hell, even though he was a person of interest wanted for questioning in his father's murder, he'd risked exposure to face down a pervert for her-all because she'd called Mama begging to come home and had been told she'd made her bed and could just lie in it. When she'd flipped out as a result and was about to throw herself over the edge, Jared had pulled her back.

But no, never mind all that.

Because ever since L.A. he'd gone back to being Mr. Professional Bodyguard or Security Guy or whatever the hell he was supposed to be. And she was ready to scream.

Or cry.

Or-hey, here was an idea-shoot him.

The last option was gaining favor by the minute. For really, it beat the heck out of crying. And screaming was so bad for the voice.

Not to mention that she was just plain ticked. Because try as she might, she couldn't get their incredible encounter out of her mind.

She had never known sex couldbe like that. It had blown her away, and she'd thought of little else for the past six days. Not merely about the orgasms, either, which had been a revelation all their own. But about the comfort of being in his arms afterward, the feel of his voice rumbling beneath her ear and speaking over her head at the same time as he'd said those nice, nice things about her. She had felt close to him in a way she'd never felt with anyone else. She'd felt safe.