Front Page Fate

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  Front Page Fate

  ISBN 9781419911668

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Front Page Fate Copyright © 2007 Brigit Zahara

  Edited by Helen Woodall.

  Cover art by Syneca.

  Electronic book Publication September 2007

  This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Front Page Fate

  Brigit Zahara

  Dedication

  For Stuart. Thanks for the inspiration.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  L.A. Times: Tribune License, Inc.

  The Four of Cups

  Dear Reader,

  As is the case with all tarot cards, one can often find a number of suggested meanings and interpretations allotted to each image, sometimes conflictingly so. You may even discover you have your own take on a card—something new and uncharted—that magically turns out to be quite prophetic. Either way, throughout the course of seeking a set definition for any given card, you will see a number of common elements emerge which are generally embraced as the true meaning.

  With the Four of Cups, there are two related factors to consider—the Cup itself and the contents of the Cup.

  Interpreting the androgynous subject’s gloomy expression as dissatisfaction and boredom, the Four of Cups card is often thought to indicate a relationship, once fresh and exciting, that no longer fulfills the individual’s needs. Additionally it speaks of a time of great disappointment and uncertainty, a need to reevaluate and being stuck emotionally. Seeking stimulation and comfort, the individual often turns to overindulgence in anything from drink and drugs to food and sex, wishing for something or someone better.

  That’s the bad news.

  The good news is what’s in the Cup.

  Intrinsically linked to all Cups, Water, best known for representing the individual’s love life, similarly addresses the issue of self-medicating behaviors. However, being a card of strong emotions, psychic connections and visions, it primarily refers to positive blissful feelings that one comes to surrender to and sink into as well, at the start of a new relationship.

  Chapter One

  Los Angeles, California

  Present day

  Liz lay on the bed naked, her arms flung overhead to grasp the spiraled steel rungs of the headboard as she panted heavily, her eyes squeezed shut in obvious ecstasy. Her long slender legs, trembling and twitching in response to the serious tongue-lashing her engorged pussy was enduring, flanked either side of the brown-haired head that moved between them.

  Parting her saturated outer lips even further to better expose her distended clitoris, her delicious deliverer of orgasms gently closed his lips around Liz’s swollen nub. Sucking slowly on the ultra-sensitive flesh, he steadied her hips with his hands as she involuntarily thrust her pelvis against his face. Her low needy moan filled the room as he began to work her over with long leisurely strokes of his tongue, soon moving to fast and furious flicks done at an inhuman speed that quickly brought her to yet another explosive climax.

  Sliding down, he parted his lips wide to suck the very life force that poured out of her sopping sweet opening, diving his tongue into her hot, trembling core as she came hard. Her body convulsed at the powerful suction of his mouth and the swirls of his tongue that teased the walls of her contracting vagina, his own muffled groan mingling with Liz’s searing scream that threatened to shake loose the stucco from the ceiling.

  Perspiration-soaked and breathless, Liz looked down the length of her body, just as her lapping lover raised his head and smiled a grin that just about made her come on its own strength. Then, with a glint in his dark eyes, he lowered his head and began again…

  Liz awoke, her eyes fluttering open only to squeeze shut again at the blinding sunlight that streamed in through the living room windows. Shifting on the couch, she rolled over onto her side with a deep, frustrated sigh. For the past couple of months, she’d been haunted by dreams of some mysterious vampire who routinely got off on getting her off and for the life of her, she didn’t know why.

  Venturing a peek out from underneath her sore eyelids, Liz’s blurry gaze fell upon the black-and-white poster of Bela Lugosi as Dracula on the wall across the way. Surely to God that couldn’t be the motivation behind the sensual visions. Not only had she owned that poster for ages without any erotic reactions, but the truth of the matter was that, while she loved the old bloodsucker movies, she didn’t find any of them or their leading men even remotely sexy.

  Looking down, Liz winced as last night’s “nocturnal aid”—an empty bottle of red wine—came into view before her on the coffee table. It was then that she remembered she had much bigger issues than a handful of hot hallucinations. As if to punctuate the point, her dry mouth and pounding headache served as further reminders of what had become her nightly ritual since the breakup with her film producer boyfriend some eight weeks earlier.

  That little surprise, arriving on their third anniversary no less, hit Liz hard. Really hard. The cold hard fact that the man she assumed would one day be her husband had ditched her for a twenty-one-year-old blonde bimbo with boobs the size of melons, a fake ‘n bake tan and lips like a blowfish had left her unable to eat, sleep or concentrate. In an effort to help ease her tattered nerves and encourage a little shuteye, Liz had resorted to taking a glass of shiraz before bed. After all, she still had her job as a fearless, do-anything, go-anywhere investigative reporter for the L.A. Times to maintain.

  Or she had.

  Her dismay over the breakup permeated every other aspect of her life, including her work, and soon she was dreading going into the noisy bright downtown office. The barrage of ringing phones, keyboards being furiously typed upon as the daily deadline approached and various voices volleying back and forth over the fabric cubicles that sectioned the newsroom into a series of private working spaces just seemed too overwhelming.

  ‘Course it didn’t help that her one-drink-an-evening pain panacea very quickly turned into two and then three. Granted, it served its purpose in helping her fall into a sort of comatose dreamland, but on the flip side, her habit of getting just shy of juiced each night effectively managed to dry up her own creative juices. While she never drank during the day or went to work drunk, after a pile of missed deadlines and mediocre stories and under the gentle guise of “relieving the pressure” on her, Liz was demoted to writing obituaries.

  How fitting. The dead writing about the dead.

  Any other publisher would have fired her by now, but the man at the helm of the Times, Derek Matheson, was an old family friend who was willing to stick with her during this “difficult period”.

  But why, she asked herself for the millionth time, was the breakup taking such a toll on her? Apart from the sting of rejection, Liz had always known that their relationship had been one of convenience. Sure, she had loved the guy—in a way—settling into a comfortable sort of secure companionship. But how many times had she asked herself if there wasn’t something or someone better?

  When it came right down to it, wasn’t romance intended to be thrilling? Shouldn’t you be prepared to go to the ends of the earth for the one you loved? Weren’t you meant to damn ne
ar come at the sound of your lover’s voice, to explode at the touch of his hands and tongue, on you, in you? Weren’t you led to believe that there was nothing better than making love with the man of your dreams?

  Perhaps. Maybe. In the pages of a romance novel. But for Liz, in real life, romance was one of two things—either you had that earth-shattering sexual chemistry but no love and commitment to speak of, or you had the warmth and security of true affection but no fireworks in the bedroom. It just wasn’t possible to get both.

  And that, she realized in a sudden revelation, was the reason she was finding it so tough to let go and move on. In her association with her now-ex-lover, it hadn’t been one or the other…it had been neither. Translation? She had just wasted three years of her life with the wrong man for the wrong reasons.

  Maybe she should have listened to that fortune-teller after all.

  Shortly after moving in with her now-no-longer man and long before any disillusionment or boredom set in, Liz had encountered a street-corner card reader on a weekend trip to Greenwich Village. Hinting at problems to come, the flamboyant gypsy had flipped up—what was it again?—ah yes, a card entitled the Four of Cups. With a stern expression, the woman claimed that Liz’s “restlessness in a relationship and curiosity about someone else” was a warning.

  Liz, on the other hand, had a radically different interpretation. Focusing on the cup-bearing hand that extended from a cloud toward the lone figure sitting amid three upturned cups, she saw the image as the definitive sign that the individual’s heaven-sent true love had, after a series of failed affairs, finally arrived.

  In the end, it appeared as though the tarot lady had been right.

  Groaning, Liz got up, suddenly resolved to grab herself by the scruff of the neck and start anew. She may not have a man in her life who could do things to her heart and soul and body that, to date, she had only dreamed of, but by God, she had her career and it could and would be salvaged.

  At the time of her demotion, Derek had made the firm promise that when—not if, but when—she was up to writing features again he would support her one hundred percent. Her first article back, however, would have to be special—a story to die for, something that no one else had ever done or even attempted to do. Top drawer. Front page. Pitching Derek would be step one. If he agreed, then came the hard part—she’d have to go out and nail it. Pure and simple. With that ambitious but enticing plan igniting a fire in her belly, Liz grabbed a shower, dressed and headed into the office.

  The usual din of the department barely fazed her as she strode to her massive corner desk to embark on her newfound mission. Painstakingly going through the mountain of papers that had been amassing for some time to clutter the desktop, Liz sat down and began reading each and every item. Collectively there were several hundred scraps—some handwritten, some printed-out emails—containing notes, numbers, article ideas, leads and contacts dating back to before her meltdown. The pile also included old issues of the paper, and books on grammar, editing and style.

  Even after several hours of leafing through the note and memo bombardment, Liz remained hopeful that she would find something among the rubble to emerge as her salvational subject. Granted, it would have to be one hell of a topic—shocking, sensational and groundbreaking—to make Derek reverse his decision so soon but then again, he did dangle the carrot, so his willingness was there. Now it was up to her to do her part.

  So far she had come across the usual redirections to the City, Entertainment and Lifestyle desks, along with more than a few suggestions and requests that were better suited to a tabloid than a legitimate daily newspaper. As was the case at least four or five times a year, she received a Loch Ness monster sighting. Sometimes she heard tell of a supposed exposé on one or another of the more renowned serial killers, including Jack the Ripper and the city’s biggest unsolved case, the Black Dahlia. Even more frequently came claims of the world’s heaviest this, smallest that, miracle what-have-you, none of which Liz ever responded to. Similarly, today she encountered no shortage of crackpot theories and queries.

  When she had nearly reached the point where she could actually see the desk’s surface, a printed-out email that she herself had marked with a red asterisk peeped out from the bottom of the pile catching her attention. Picking it up, Liz carefully read the message that had been addressed to her personally.

  Dear Ms. Hawke,

  I have a story for you that I am certain you will find of the utmost interest. More than that, no one else in the world can write this story. Quite the statement—yes? Regardless, it is true because where others have attempted such a sensational subject matter without any evidence, you will be able to present undeniable confirmation of what you state.

  However before I divulge any details, I implore you yourself to take this note seriously. While my claims will seem unbelievable, possibly even ridiculous to you, I can offer you irrefutable verification of what I am about to say.

  Moving past myth, legend and fictionalized characterizations, there is an individual presently residing in Los Angeles who has walked this earth for over two hundred years. No longer a mortal, he does exist by drinking human blood, a necessity he has learned to achieve without harming his mortal meal tickets. Even more amazing, at least to the mortal populace, he is in possession of a host of supernatural skills that are nothing short of mind-blowing.

  To the best of my knowledge, he is the only one of his kind willing to come out into the light. I myself have known him a long time and can vouch for his authenticity as well as your safety in pursuing this story.

  I know right now you seek something to put you back at the top of your game. Trust me, THIS IS WHAT YOU ARE LOOKING FOR. My writing days are behind me but yours, with this story, will begin again.

  Entertained by the ambience of a private S&M/goth club in West Hollywood called Bites and Bonds, you can find him there in most Friday nights after midnight.

  His name is Skylar Tremont.

  Sincerely,

  A concerned colleague

  P.S. Remember, this is no empty assertion. Without any threat to your well-being, when you meet Skylar, he will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is what I say.

  Liz looked at the email address. It was from aconcernedcolleague@hotmail.com. Checking the date the email was sent she realized the email had arrived the very day she had been switched to penning obits.

  What the heck?

  There simply was no way it was an attempt on the part of her former boyfriend to twist the knife. He may have been a lot of things—including unfaithful—but intentionally mean was not one of them.

  And okay, yeah, she had long been a fan of film fangsters and a lot of people knew about it. Maybe someone was just messing with her for the fun of it, but who and why?

  Liz read the note again, noting the key points appealing to her.

  A concerned colleague. My writing days are behind me. I know you seek something to put you back at the top of your game.

  Whoever it was certainly knew, either wittingly or not, how to push her buttons.

  Taking it from another angle, Liz had to admit it was absolutely ludicrous to accept the note as fact, believing that a “real” vampire—though noticeably not stated as such—was “living” in the City of Angels. Yet there was an undeniable vibe transcending the words on the paper that gave an aura of sincerity. Try as she might, she couldn’t flat out disregard the letter’s appeal. Personally speaking, that is.

  While the email was undoubtedly nothing more than an elaborate hoax which would never lead to a story of any kind, on a private note, Liz’s curiosity was stimulated—and it had been a very long time since she had felt any kind of stimulation.

  She knew of Bites and Bonds, had heard of its central location, well-populated lounge-like interior and harmless crowd of bloodsucking wannabes and alternative sex seekers. Known for its tongue-in-cheek motto of “No blood? No pain? No way!” it was common knowledge that patrons had to be dressed in va
mpire or S&M attire to gain admittance.

  Friday was only a few days away. With a decisive nod, she easily waved off any trepidation over trudging out in the middle of the night to hook up with a heartbeat-challenged immortal. In her thirteen-year career as an investigative reporter, she had faced far scarier scenarios.

  All things considered, what could a trip to meet up with the supposedly supernatural Skylar hurt?

  Chapter Two

  Bites and Bonds, located within walking distance of Liz’s apartment, was situated right on the corner of La Brea Avenue and Hollywood Boulevard. As was the case with numerous other areas in L.A., several hip nightclubs could be found along a single strip, peppered amid the gargantuan palm trees and lush green foliage. The rare drinking establishment was even occasionally recognizable for what it was, an obvious canopy or ornate sign jutting out onto the sidewalk to announce its existence. However, most catered to the celebrity penchant for privacy, making the entrances to their discreet clubs either partially or completely hidden from view. Such was the case with Bites and Bonds.

  After walking up and down the block where the club should be, periodically squinting into the dense bush that in its thickness suggested something was lurking beyond, Liz was beginning to wonder if she had written the address down wrongly. It was only when she saw a young woman in a red satin coat stepping into and seemingly swallowed by the shrubbery did Liz realize she had located B&B’s entrance. Squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath, Liz followed the woman’s lead, smoothing her new outfit as she went.

  Just that afternoon she had visited Sanctuary, a goth-S&M store on Melrose Avenue. Eager to shed her normal journalist attire of loafers, jeans and a blazer, Liz needed an outfit that would let her blend in with the club’s regulars.