It made no sense. He wasn't my type.
I'm not a star-fucker, literally or otherwise. I didn't own a TV and rarely went to the movies. I find celebrity worship too stupid for words, especially with celebrities like Lawton Rastor, some pretty boy with a death wish.
But with him, I couldn't help myself. I devoured that first magazine article word-by-word, and then dozens more on the Internet. What I learned horrified me. But I couldn't stop. What is it about train wrecks that you just can't look away?
Hell if I know. But Lawton Rastor was a train wreck for sure.
He was a bad boy heartbreaker with more baggage than any airline. His fights were brutal and so were his breakups. He'd once left some starlet half-naked in the bathroom of a posh Beverly Hills restaurant, then beat the crap out of the bouncers who tried to stop him from leaving.
There were also some pictures, along with a sex tape – all supposedly taken without his knowledge.
Yeah, right.
Why people put up with him, I had no idea. Well, actually I did. He was rich. He was famous. And he oozed raw power, the primitive kind that made girls go weak in the knees, until they grew up and realized that raw power didn't pay the bills. Except in Lawton's case, it did.
That didn't matter. I already knew how Lawton's story would end. He'd be broke in five years, maybe less. In ten years, he'd return to reality television, but this time he wouldn't be the hot newcomer. He'd be the washed-up has-been, trying to kick some coke or cupcake addiction while the world watched in morbid fascination.
Ten years after that, he'd be six feet under or working as a security guard at some low-rent shopping mall. And even that gig wouldn't last. He'd be canned, either for snorting coke in the bathroom or beating the ass of some clueless customer who just wanted to take his picture.
It was settled. The guy was doomed.
I was telling all this to Erika, my best friend since high school, when she stopped me in mid-sentence.
"But he doesn't have a drug problem," she said.
"Not that you know of."
"And you can't go throughthatmuch money," she said. "It's not even possible."
"Oh yeah?" I said. "Tell that to Mike Tyson."
We were walking Chucky down the tree-lined streets, catching up on girl talk while we strolled. Erika was on her last semester at Michigan State, two hours away by car. I hadn't seen her in a few weeks, but it felt like months. I didn't have a ton of friends, probably because I didn't have a ton of time for fun.
Erika was in town for the weekend and wouldn't be coming back for weeks. If I had my way, she'd be staying with me at the Parkers', but overnight houseguests were strictly prohibited.
I'd agreed to those terms and intended to honor them. I wasn't a liar, and I wasn't a deal breaker. And even if I were, there was no way I'd get myself fired just because some nosy neighbor reported an unauthorized sleepover. Still, it was nice to have Erika around, even if only for a few hours.
I lowered my voice. "It's up here on the left," I told her.
Looking at Lawton's estate, Erika gave a low whistle. "Wow, that's seriously huge." She laughed. "Like the rest of him, huh?"
I hadn't actually seen the sex tape, but I'd read enough about it to know exactly what she meant. I made no comment. Not on that. It would only encourage her, and when it came to sex, Erika didn't need a whole lot of encouragement. It was probably one of the reasons we were friends. We balanced each other.
Picky. That's what she called me. But I had my reasons.
"What I can't figure out," I said, "is why he's living in Rochester Hills of all places."
"Well, heisfrom Detroit," Erika said.
"Yeah, but shouldn't he be living in Hollywood or New York by now?"
Erika made a scoffing sound. "Want to know what a million bucks buys in New York? A coat closet."
Knowing the guy's reputation, I saw the problem. "No room for orgies?"
That's when a low, deep masculine voice sounded behind us. "Yeah. That's it."
In unison, Erika and I whipped around to see him, Lawton Rastor, looking a lot like he did on that very first day. He was standing just a couple feet away on the sidewalk, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans. He was wearing a gray T-shirt and no jacket in spite of the cool weather. His glossy black hair was slightly damp, like he just got out of the shower.
