Page 12 of Remember Me

“So, sweetheart, can I get you something to drink?”

“A glass of champagne would be nice. Thanks.”

Looking up from my chest, he called out to the bartender. “Hey, Gus, bring the beautiful lady some champagne—make it Cristal—and a Scotch on the rocks for me.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Greenberg,” replied the bartender with a smile. Though the bar was packed three deep with movers and shakers and wannabes, the attentive bartender catered to the fat pig. Greenberg was a regular here—both a big spender and big tipper.

While the bartender prepared our drinks, Sheldon’s attention returned to me. I sat silently on the bar stool, my legs crossed, while his leering eyes roved down my body. I soaked him in. He hadn’t changed much since my last encounter with him except for being at least fifty pounds heavier. His facial features were repulsive—dark beady eyes, pockmarked skin, a bulbous nose, a prickly double chin, and rubbery lips. To top it off, the three-time divorced fifty-five-year-old was balding but dyed his hair and sported one of those pathetic comb overs.

“So, sweetheart, what’s your name?”

“Lana Monroe.”

“Lana Monroe,” he repeated. “It fits you. It’s got star-power.”

I batted my eyelashes. Such a good actress thanks to my college drama courses. Courses that helped me become a dynamic on-air reporter. “Really? You think so?”

He smirked. “With your looks and body, I know so.”

“Wow. I don’t know what to say.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to say a thing. Maybe you don’t know who I am.”

My eyes widened with feigned innocence. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t.”

His eyes glinted with bravado. “I’m Sheldon Greenberg—”

“Oh my God! The big Hollywood producer?”Monster!

With a pompous grin, he puffed out his chest. “Yup, that’s me. You’ve met the right person.”

At that moment, our drinks arrived. The bartender set them down on the counter in front of us.

“Let’s toast,” said Greenberg, lifting his tumbler.

“Okay,” I replied, following suit with my flute full of bubbly.

“To you. And to the beginning of a great career.”

We clinked glasses and then we each put them to our lips. I took a dainty sip of my champagne while my companion—or should I say predator—downed his Scotch in one guzzle. As the effervescence popped on my tongue, a loud burp burst from his mouth. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he placed the other on my bare thigh. My knee-jerk reaction was to pull away, but I forced myself not to stir as he rubbed my leg. His rough caress nothing like Finn’s. Creeping me out as he turned himself on.

“Wow, you’re gorgeous.”

Before I could utter another word, his slobbering lips were all over mine. In a few suffocating breaths, his foul-tasting tongue thrust into my mouth. My eyes squeezed shut as the slimy organ thrashed about like a lizard. Numbness trumped my urge to vomit. Pure will held back my urge to bite it.

By the time his next drink came, I was invited to his house. To explore my potential.

Andto expose him for the monster he is.

CHAPTER 9

Skye

Located off tawny Benedict Canyon, Greenberg’s gated pink stucco villa is majestic. Reminiscent of the nearby Beverly Hills Hotel and definitely built in the mid-twenties. For sure some legendary movie star once lived here, and as I pull up to it, I’m regretful I didn’t research the residence.

Two burly, intimidating guards stand outside the massive iron gate, one on either side. Clad in muscle-hugging black jeans and T-shirts, they look like they were plucked from the World Wrestling Federation. What’s more they’re wearing semi-automatics slung around their broad chests. My breath hitches. They’re armed. Trying to stay calm and upbeat, I roll down the window of my Prius and introduce myself. One of them, with the stoic demeanor of a soldier, speaks into a walkie-talkie.

“Sir, Miss Monroe is here to see you.”

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