Vampires in Hollywood (Peyton Brooks FBI Book 4) Read online

  Vampires in Hollywood

  Peyton Brooks, FBI

  Volume 4

  ML Hamilton

  Cover Art by Karri Klawiter

  www.artbykarri.com

  Vampires in Hollywood

  © 2015 ML Hamilton, Sacramento, CA

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  First print

  All Characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  It only seems appropriate to quote one of my favorite actors for a book set in Hollywood, so here goes:

  Johnny Depp once said, “I think of the people as my boss. I think of them as my employer because if they didn’t go and spend that dough to watch the movie, I wouldn’t have a gig.” The same is true for an author. My readers are my boss. Thank you for your patience, thank you for your dedication,

  and thank you for your loyalty.

  There are such beings as vampires, some of us have evidence that they exist. Even had we not the proof of our own unhappy experience, the teachings and the records of the past give proof enough for sane peoples.

  ~ Bram Stoker

  Vampires are total sexual metaphors;

  there’s just no way around that.

  ~ Alan Ball

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  “What’s it like being the face of René Noir?”

  She turned toward the camera, offering him a sultry smile and swept a lock of ombré hair off her shoulder. The top was caramel brown fading down to a sunny blond and arranged in loose curls. Her eyes were violet, Elizabeth Taylor eyes, framed by thick black lashes. High cheekbones, thin, straight nose, small breasts and a boyish figure made her the latest “IT” girl. Fashion designers had been fighting to drape her tall, thin body in their designs for six months now. Taylor Allen figured she had maybe five years left before she was too old to prance down the catwalk.

  A forgotten relic at the ripe age of twenty-five.

  As a cinematography major at UCLA, Taylor had been stunned, then delighted when she agreed to film this documentary. She thought he was chronicling her career, her meteoric rise to the top, but he was more interested in the fall, the ultimate descent that came in a career where women were commodities with a short shelf-life.

  “You know, I was just amazed. René Noir’s the shit, you know?” She giggled and looked down, charmingly girlish. “Can I say that? The shit?”

  He smiled at her. “Of course. Say anything you want. We’re searching for authenticity.”

  At nineteen himself, he wasn’t sure he knew what authenticity was, but it sounded good. Big words impressed her, he’d come to realize.

  “Gwen said I should be careful what I say. She doesn’t like her girls sounding crass or empty-headed.”

  He nodded, adjusting the camera a smidge. “You respect Gwen, don’t you?”

  She tossed her head. “She’s like a mother to all of us. She takes care of us.”

  “How?”

  “Well, René wanted me to do a photo-shoot with just his latest pair of jeans on.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “You know, no shirt or bra. I mean, I’d get to cover the girls with my arms, but Gwen said that wouldn’t be a sound move for my career.”

  “Why not?”

  “People know I’m just twenty. Gwen said they wouldn’t like to see me pose half-naked. René wasn’t happy.”

  “But Gwen got her way?”

  “You don’t mess with Gwen. She doesn’t take any shit.”

  “Right.” He leaned back, glancing into the monitor to see how she was showing up on the feed. “Let’s talk about your own mother.”

  The sultriness vanished, replaced by a wide-eyed vulnerability. The next second her expression grew shuttered. “I don’t want to talk about my mother.”

  This was the part of the project he wanted to focus on, but he didn’t want her shutting down. He didn’t want her to turn off to him. You didn’t graduate valedictorian of a large Los Angeles high school if you were stupid, and he wasn’t stupid.

  “Sure, no problem. What do you want to talk about?”

  “René Noir’s latest line. He’s trying to achieve trendy without being trendy. He’s so far out of his time, he calls it trendering.”

  “Trendering?”

  “Yes, isn’t that clever? When he wants a word, he just invents it.”

  Taylor gave her an encouraging nod and leaned back. For the next ten minutes, she babbled on about Noir, but he’d stopped listening. This part of the video feed he’d cut, keeping only a few of the more shallow moments. He was hoping by the end, she’d have shifted into something real, something unrehearsed, something he could use.

  Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. He cleared his throat and she glanced up, realizing that she’d been going on for some time without him making a sound.

  “Sorry,” she said, placing a long manicured hand against her throat. “I just respect the hell out of him. He’s such a visionist.”

  “Visionist?”

  “Another word he made up.”

  Well, not entirely, but he didn’t care enough to correct her. “Lavender, are you ever homesick?”

  She got that wide-eyed look again, then she pooched out her full-glossy lips. “Of course I get homesick. Who doesn’t?”

  “You miss your sister?”

  “Of course I miss my sister. You know, I don’t get a lot of time to call. We text each other some, but she’s in high school and I’m out here, but René says being homesick just enhances the mystiqueiness of my effigy.”

  “Your what?”

  “My effigy? That’s the line he designed for me. It’s called Effigy by Lavender.”

  Taylor fought hard not to roll his eyes or laugh. Laughing would be really bad. “Effigy?”

  “Right. My brand.”

  He scratched his curly brown head and looked away, biting his bottom lip. Her effigy? Good God, he almost felt sorry for her, but that was stupid. She was a millionaire already, while he was a college student in debt.

  She lifted her cell phone and checked the time. She sat in the armchair, legs tucked to the side, wearing a sheath dress in tangerine designed by Noir. The four inch stacked heels added another three inches to her impressive 5’11”, pushing her over six feet. No wonder Noir liked to drape her with his boxy designs. She was made for his visionatism.

  “You know, I really need to go. It was fun talking with you. Did you get enough for this first shoot?”

  “Yeah.” He pretended to shut off the camera. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why did you agree to do this? I mean, you’re ridiculously busy and you’re a big name.”

  “Gwen says you have to contribute if you want to make a withdraw.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’ve got to give somethin
g to your fans in order to get anything in return. I figure if you get this film produced, it’ll help me launch another career after the fashion modeling is over, just like Gwen did.” She clasped her hands. “Please make me seem approachable and nice. Please do that for me.”

  He smiled at her. It was the single most genuine moment they shared and exactly what he wanted from her. “I will, Lavender. You have my word.”

  She smiled back at him. “Thank you. That means so much. I want to be seen with approachabilitism.”

  He gave her a lift of his chin. Yep, he could do that. Approachabilitism was his main goal.

  * * *

  Marco reached for Peyton, but her side of the bed was empty. Rolling to his back, he scrubbed his hands across his face and through his short, dark hair. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he threw back the covers. A doggy grumble sounded and he sat up, dragging the covers to himself again. Pickles lay on his back on Peyton’s side of the bed. Marco scratched the dog’s belly, earning another grumble, then he began the laborious chore of getting to his feet.

  Never sure his leg would hold him first thing in the morning, he braced himself on her headboard and slowly applied weight, fighting the grimace of pain. Once he was sure he had some function, he limped to the closet and searched inside for a pair of sweats, which he tugged on. He didn’t bother looking for a shirt. Most of his clothes were at Abe’s condo, but he’d moved a few things here while she was in London.

  She’d placed his cane by the dresser in easy reach and he curled his fingers around the ornate, silver handle, moving to the door and pulling it open. He found her in the kitchen, shoving something into the garbage can. He caught a glimpse of red petals and stopped, surprised at how happy it made him to see she’d thrown away the flowers that Mike Edwards gave her.

  He glanced at the display on her oven, marking the time. 7:00AM.

  She looked up, her heavy mane of black curls falling down her back, her exotic dark eyes large. She wore his 49er’s jersey and nothing else. He caught his breath as he looked at her. No woman had ever made him feel so much, made him so happy in her presence.

  “Hey,” she said, smiling. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.”

  She walked to the sink and began washing her hands.

  He glanced into the garbage can just to make sure he’d seen the roses there, then came toward her, sliding an arm around her waist and hauling her back against his chest. He braced the cane against the counter and reached up to slide her hair over one shoulder. He wanted to ask her what the card on the flowers meant, I got it. Thank you, Barnabas, but that might lead to a fight and fighting was the furthest thing from his mind this morning.

  He ran his lips along her throat as she finished washing her hands, reaching for a dish towel. Then he slid his lips to her ear. “It’s early and Saturday. You don’t have to go in today, do you?”

  She finished drying her hands, then banded the arm around her waist with her own, sliding her fingers between his, then she lifted the other arm, hooking him behind the neck and pulling him closer to her. “No, I have the weekend. What do you have in mind?”

  He smiled against her ear and squeezed her closer still. “Come back to bed and I’ll tell you there.”

  She rubbed her face against his. “Sounds like a plan.”

  He marked the bruises on her neck and remembered the gash in her arm. “How’s the arm?”

  She turned to face him, sliding her hands to his hips and pulling him in against her. “Forget my arm. I want to hear what you have planned for us today.” Then she rose on tiptoes and nipped him on the underside of his jaw.

  That was it. He growled at her and lifted her to the counter, swallowing her sultry laugh with his mouth as he moved against her. The next few hours passed in a blur where he didn’t have time to think of all the problems facing them – the Mike Edwards, their careers, dead football stars and murderous wives.

  He had time only for Peyton.

  * * *

  Peyton hurried to the door and pulled it open, shushing Pickles as he barked and danced around at her feet. Maria stood on the other side, a large book and a bundle of ribbons in her hand. She shoved her way inside without saying anything, going to the counter and dropping everything on it.

  Peyton gave her a bewildered look, then shut the door, leaning against it. “Hey, Maria.”

  “Hey!” said Maria, waving over her shoulder distractedly. “Come here. I need you to help me pick out the flowers for our bouquets.”

  “You know, there are these things called phones that alert people when you’re coming over,” Peyton said, pushing away from the door and going around the counter into the kitchen.

  “I don’t have time for phones.”

  “You don’t even have time for saying how was your trip?”

  Maria glanced up, opening her mouth to scold Peyton, but she stopped and her eyes widened. “Christ Almighty, Brooks, what happened to you?” She bustled about the counter and grabbed Peyton’s shoulders. Peyton winced and tried to pull her injured arm away. “You look like hell.”

  “It’s not that bad. I’m just a little banged up.”

  “A little?” She thrust her hand under Peyton’s chin and forced her head up, studying the bruising on her throat, then looked her directly in the eye. “You look like Satan’s spawn with the whites of your eyes all red like that. What the hell happened to you?”

  “A perp sort of throttled me and slashed my arm”

  Maria grabbed the end of Peyton’s jersey and tried to shove it up. Peyton scrambled to shove it down again. “Let me see your arm!” she demanded, tugging on the jersey.

  “Stop undressing me!” Peyton said, dancing out of her hold.

  “Yeah, stop undressing her. The only person who gets to do that around here is me,” said Marco, coming into the kitchen.

  Maria whirled to face him, putting her hands on her hips. “What are you doing here?”

  Marco gave Peyton a sultry smile over Maria’s shoulder. Then he winked at Maria. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Ugh,” she said, swatting at him. “Men, that’s all you think of. She needs rest and cold compresses. I get married in a month.”

  And there it was. All of Maria’s concern amounted to concern about Peyton’s appearance for her wedding.

  “It’s not that bad, Maria,” she soothed.

  Maria flipped back to her. “Let me see your arm.”

  Peyton backed into the side counter. “No, my arm’s fine.”

  “How are you going to wear that strapless bridesmaid dress?”

  “She’s gonna wear it real fine,” Marco said, his eyes roving over Peyton’s body.

  Peyton couldn’t help the blush or her smile. Maria swatted him on the ass as he opened the refrigerator door.

  “You need to take a cold shower,” she scolded, then glared at Peyton. “How could you do this to me?”

  “How could I do this to you? You think I got attacked just to piss you off, Maria?”

  “It’s something you would do.” She shook her head, then lifted her hands and let them fall against her thighs. “You have to let me straighten your hair now.”

  Peyton’s hands flew to her head. “Straighten my hair? Why?”

  “That way we can do a proper French braid. If your hair looks tame, we might get away with hiding the ugly scar you’ll probably have by then.”

  “I like my untamed hair.”

  “No one else does.”

  Marco set his bottled water on the counter next to Peyton and slid an arm around her waist, hauling her up against him. He nuzzled his face into her hair at her throat. “She’s wrong, everyone loves your hair, especially me.”

  Peyton looked up at him and couldn’t help the flush of happiness that flooded her. His eyes dropped to her lips and she parted them in anticipation. Just as he lowered his head, Maria swatted him again, but she didn’t stop. She kept swatting him until he released Peyton and backed away, trying to
protect himself.

  “Maria, stop!” Peyton shouted, but Marco was laughing.

  “Go take a cold shower! Now!” she ordered, pointing. “We have work to do!”

  Marco kissed Maria on the forehead, then he gave Peyton a pointed look. “I’ll be in the shower, if you want to join me.”

  Peyton smiled and offered him a slight nod, but she sobered when Maria swung back around to glare at her. She wanted nothing more than to follow him as he limped out of the room, but Maria squared off in front of her.

  “What’s he doing here?” she demanded.

  “What?”

  “You keep giving away the milk for free and he’s never going to marry you, Brooks.”

  “Wait.” She shook her head. “What?”

  Maria took a step closer to her, dropping her voice to an angry hiss. “You keep letting him in your bed. Why should he ever commit to you? He gets all the benefit and none of the work.” She pointed a finger in Peyton’s face. “Now you listen to me and listen to me good. You cut him off. No sex, no petting, no messing around. In a few days, maybe weeks, he’ll be begging you to marry him again.”

  Peyton sighed, taking Marco’s bottled water and opening it. “I’m not forcing Marco into marriage.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not. I’m not even sure I want to get married.”

  Maria held up a hand. “So this is what you want? Just sex with no commitment?”

  Peyton shrugged. “It works for us.”

  “Does it? Does it really?”

  “Maria, I thought we were going to pick out flowers.”

  “You just want to get rid of me, so you can go join him in the shower.”

  “You got me. That’s exactly what I want.” She came forward and took Maria’s hands. “I know you care about me and that’s why you’re upset, but Marco and me, we’re not you and Nate. We are what we are and I’m okay with that. I don’t need anything more.”

  Maria eyed her, then she leaned so close their noses almost touched. “You’re a sucky liar, but I’ll leave you alone.” She leaned back. “Seriously, how bad is the arm?”