Page 2 of Jane Deyre

“Piddly-dinks!” She tsks. “So, dear, what is your name?”

“Jane Deyre. D-E-Y-R-E.”

“Hmm... that’s an unusual name.”

Plain as the Jane I am. Well, at least it’s better than being a Jane Doe. An unknown corpse lying in a morgue. I’m going to change my name to Janine Dearheart if I ever become a famous actress.If ever...chances are slim.

The exotic, elderly woman’s eyes stay fixed on me. “Well, Miss Deyre... Can you cook? Clean? Change sheets?” Her voice trails off.

I nod. Oh, can I! Years of training. Brutal training.

“And you can drive?”

I bite down on my bottom lip. Well, I do have a driver’s license, but I haven’t been behind a wheel since I passed my driver’s test. Narrowly. “Yes.” Well, that’s kind of the truth.

The woman’s face brightens. “Then, Miss Deyre, I have a job for you. It pays seven hundred fifty dollars a week with vacation, overtime, and bonuses... Follow me.”

I hem. I haw. I do as I’m told. And then it sinks in.

Holy cow! That’s three thousand dollars a month! I want to break into a Smurfette happy dance. Sing at the top of my lungs.

Reader, my life’s about to change!

CHAPTER 2

Jane

Ilet my new employer lead the way, surprised we’re heading away from the center of Hollywood. Her gait back to being brisk, she turns up La Brea and then left on Franklin after crossing the street. Pilote seems to know where he’s going and walks confidently beside her.

“Good boy,” my companion says as we turn up another street. Peeking through the fog, the houses on either side of the palm-lined street are old and lovely, some looking like they’ve been remodeled or expanded. They’re a far cry from the dump I’m renting, and God knows what they cost. Celebrities and millionaires surely live here.

At the end of the cul-de-sac, a bright yellow boom gate awaits us. And a sign:

PRIVATE ROAD

NO TRESPASSING ALLOWED

A car would have to crash through the barricade to get to the other side, but a pedestrian could easily slide under it. Madame Tussaud clicks a remote and the metal arm of the gate lifts. She calls out to me to hurry and follow her inside. I do my best to catch up to her, but the fog is now so thick I can barely see two feet in front of me. I make it through just before the bar comes crashing down on me. Close one. My heart skips a beat.

A jittery feeling stays with me as I march up the steep, winding road ahead of me. It feels endless. Not used to climbing the Hollywood Hills, I’m short of breath. Huffing and puffing. And in this suffocating costume, I feel like I’m swimming in a pool of sweat. I try to pull my headpiece off, but it’s stuck to my neck. As I chug ahead, the fog grows thicker. Madame Tussaud and Pilote have all but vanished. I hope they’re okay. Out of nowhere, a whoosh sounds in the distance. On my next labored breath, the words “WATCH OUT!” vibrate in my ears. Then, all at once, a crash and a curse.

“Fuck!” roars a male voice, groaning in pain.

My heart hammering, my eyes dart left and right. And then I see him on the side of the road. Lying in a heap next to a fallen bicycle. I run over to him as fast as I can.

And crouch down next to him. Not an easy thing to do in my cumbersome costume. His eyes grow wide, the words “what the fuck are you” etched on his dark orbs.

“Are you okay?” I stammer.

He manages to pull himself up to a sitting position. He’s clad in a black and yellow cycling outfit, the body-hugging spandex revealing every muscle of his imposing body. And every bulge. Strapped on his head is a matching helmet. He meets my gaze, his eyes flickering with fury.

“Why the hell didn’t you get out of my way?” he yells, every word infused with rage.

“I—I didn’t see you in the fog.”

He rubs his sockless ankle. And grimaces. There’s a nasty three-inch gash on it. The onyx hair on his leg is laced with blood.

“Can you walk?” I ask.

---