Tabloid Trix Chapter 24
The truck rumbled past the newsstand in Montréal, heaving out the bundles of magazines and today's newspapers. The man throwing out the bundles glanced again at the pretty blonde girl on the cover. She certainly was a looker. He glanced at the sun coming up over the city, before the hustle and bustle of another working day commenced, and watched the proprietor cut the wire on the bundles he just delivered as the truck pulled away.
The newsstand owner separated the material into French and English, and removed the old to make way for the new. His gnarled fingers worked swiftly, because rush hour would be here before you knew it, and the impatient business men and women would be expecting immediate service.
The gossip magazine had a pretty blonde girl on the cover. A couple of weeks ago, he couldn't give it away. Now it sold as soon as it hit the stands. He even increased his order. His restless fingers picked up a copy, brought it a bit closer to, and then a bit farther from his face. Playing the trombone, his dad used to call it, he chuckled to himself. There was a smaller picture of that red-headed guy, a copy of the construction-worker cover a couple of weeks ago, the one all the ladies sighed over.
One thing he could say was the magazine certainly knew how to catch the eye! Hot pink headlines blasted across it. Jim Frayne's Child Bride! Then smaller, just-as-hot pink bullets on the bottom of the page: Who is the Mystery Blonde? Is She Woman Enough for Jim? Was It an Arranged Marriage? SPECIAL EDITION!
The man began stacking the newest edition of OMG! right there in front, where everyone could see it. He expected a banner day.
Later on that day, in various parts of the United States…
Peter Belden was wrestling with good business sense versus compassion for one's fellow man. It was really tough to be a bank president in these unsettled times. Good business sense told him to foreclose on the young family's home. They were months behind in their mortgage payments. It just made sense for the bank to take the home and perhaps turn it around.
On the other hand, where would they go? The woman just had a baby not too long ago. The man lost his job at the pharmaceutical corporation when it restructured. They just plunged all their savings into purchasing the tiny but lovely home. They were making small but frequent payments on the house. Peter knew it was whenever the man received his unemployment check.
In the end, compassion won out and a good bit of business sense. Another empty house on the bank's rolls would not accomplish much, especially since credit was still so tight. They were still a smallish bank, and he still had the authority to make a decision like this one. Of course, he thought with a sarcastic tilt, it helps when the board members were personal friends and billionaires to boot. He made a mental note to talk to Ed and Matt about the young man. Maybe one of them would have a place for him in one of their various enterprises.
Dawn Boyd knocked once and strode into the room, her face alight with outrage. She clutched something in her hand, and Peter glanced at his normally even-tempered secretary in surprise.
"Mr. Belden! Look at this!" She threw the magazine onto his desk with a loud sniff. "These people should be shot."
He picked up the crumpled periodical, and his coal-black eyes went wide with shock. "I need to call Helen," his voice was hoarse, thick, before the fire lit in his eyes.
Dawn shuddered at the almost feral expression on his handsome face. Paul Trent better start worrying now.
Frank Lytell looked at the copies of that despicable rag that graced his battered old counter. Multiple photographs of that minx, Trixie Belden…no, Frayne, stared back at him with those vivid blue eyes.
She may have driven him crazy at times, but his thin lips, normally turned down at the corners, tilted up as a flood of memories washed over him. A tiny toddler, crashing into one of the displays and that pretty young Helen Belden apologizing profusely; a curly-haired talking-a-mile-a-minute elementary school youngster, knocking over a display of cans it took him all morning to create; a young teenager on the cusp of great beauty, forcing him to take a diamond as collateral for her beloved brother.
He shook his head, and made his decision. OMG! was filed right there, in the recyclables. He'd be damned if some flaky Hollywood magazine hurt his people. Even if one of his people was that mischievous Trixie Frayne.
Alicia Johnson watched the face of the young girl in study hall. The students were supposed to be reading whatever it was the teacher assigned to them for in-school detention. The soft giggles and wide-eyed look told Miss Johnson that the girl was more than likely not perusing Shakespeare or reading some dry account regarding the discovery of the North Pole. Her enraptured student never even heard the soft approach of the detention monitor.
"Hand it over, Ms. Ross." Alicia stood there with her hand extended and her stern teacher face on. "You should know better than this."
The girl sighed loudly, but knew enough not to engage Ms. Johnson in a debate. No-one ever bested Ms. Johnson. She flipped the magazine closed and reluctantly placed it in the teacher's hand.
Alicia nodded once and winked at the girl, walking back to her desk as she closed the magazine and glanced idly at the cover. Her shocked gasp was heard by the boy in the first desk, and he glanced up to see the unflappable Ms. Johnson suffuse with the most vibrant red he had ever seen, as the magazine slid out of her hands. She gripped the desk tightly, knuckles white, and for a moment he thought she was going to pass out. He jumped up, picked up the magazine and asked, "Are you all right? Ms. Johnson?" He looked at the cover of the magazine, saw nothing there except a gorgeous blonde who…vaguely resembled her.
"I'm okay, Shawn," she replied, her voice breathy and for once forgetting the use of an honorific and surname. "I…I just need a breath of air. Keep an eye on the class for a minute, will you?" Alicia walked out of the class and into the hallway, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket at the same time. She urgently needed to call her sister.
Peter Kimball walked into the NEXCOM at Annapolis. He desperately needed to stock up on a couple of staples – Good 'n Plenty and Nutella. It was his secret vice, dipping the pink and white candy coated licorice bits into the hazelnut and chocolate spread. It sounded disgusting, probably was, but didn't people eat fried butter sticks? Now, that was disgusting in his opinion. He picked up his supplies, and a couple other innocuous items, and glanced around the store. It wouldn't do to have any of his mates see his purchases. He'd never live it down.
As he approached the checkout, his attention was caught by a magazine cover with a picture of a pretty, curly-haired blonde girl that looked remarkably like…Trixie?
Frowning, he added the magazine to his purchases, not caring who saw him buy it now. A couple of phone calls would definitely be in order.
Monty Wilson brought the mail in. There was a bundle of bills, as usual; a few envelopes containing checks for people who did not trust their reservations to the internet, and a bunch of glossy magazines to place on the low table in the lobby for the reading pleasure of the guests.
He plopped the envelopes on the registration counter and brought the magazines over to the rustic table, setting them out in a fan-like manner, until his attention was caught by the curly-haired blonde.
The remaining magazines slid from his fingers as he gazed at the pretty picture of the little girl whose quick thinking saved his sister and her family from an imposter, and his ranch from a disastrous Christmas season.
What the hell was going on here?
Hallie Belden threw the magazine across the room in the small studio apartment she was renting in a not-so-good part of LA. Trust her damn cousin Trixie to get her picture splashed on the cover of a gossip magazine from coast to coast!
Here she was, beautiful Hallie (or as she billed herself out here, Hallē) Belden, trying to get a break in Hollywood, only to find out pretty girls are a dime a dozen in California. Her job waitressing was barely paying the rent, and if it wasn't for her father sending her money, she'd be hightailing it back home.
Yet her clumsy, socially inept cousin not only managed to snag the delectable and rich Jim Frayne, but now she was a celebrity.
Life just was not fair.
Back in New York City…
Jim Frayne snuck out of the apartment, hiked down fourteen flights without losing a breath, and exited the apartment building via the delivery entrance. A hoodie was used to hide the red hair that always heralded his appearance well in advance of his opening his mouth.
The need for a bodyguard, even one as nice as Hulk, was wearing on him. A private man, he hated Hulk having to shadow his every move, hated feeling so violated. He made his way down the alley, pausing in the shadows. Bright emerald eyes scoped out the street; luck was with him. None of the teenaged girls were braving the drizzle to screech at him like he was some kind of Hollywood star.
Well, I guess I'm no Tom Cruise, with groupies waiting in all kinds of weather, hoping for a glimpse. He directed this bit of sarcasm at himself, his lips curling up at the corner, and thanking Heaven he wasn't.
Jim's long, lean legs and swift stride brought him within minutes to the deli; he had a craving for a fresh bagel loaded with cream cheese. He'd get Trix a sesame one; he always got his plain. The sesame seeds reminded him of birdseed. A small smile graced his lips; birdseed always reminded him of Trixie, a raging blizzard, and the schoolhouse where he, Trixie and Brian took refuge, and Trix made them that horrible birdseed porridge. It was lucky Brian was there, he mused, because his teenaged libido was raging and God only knows what would have happened had he and Trix been alone. Especially since she had confessed her hormones were running as rampant as his.
He placed his order, stepped over to the side, and was idly perusing the magazine rack posted handily by the register for those impulse purchases, when the disconcerting sight of his wife's gorgeous face looking out at him caused every bit of color to wash out of his handsome face.
There she was, his Trixie, in full, living, almost breathing, color. Her face was tilted up; her sapphire blue eyes were focused on something in the distance. Her long, creamy neck and shoulders were exposed, and her glorious curls tumbled down her back, held by a bright blue scarf. Her full lips were tinted pink and a slight flush highlighted her high cheekbones.
Eyes wide with shock, he reached out trembling fingers and pulled the magazine out of the rack. A coarse swear word left his lips, one that he would never say in public; that he was doing so in a crowded deli only served to underline the depth of his feelings. As Jim stared at the hot pink headlines, the cashier addressed him again.
"Excuse me, sir. Your order is up. Do you want the magazine, too? We're selling a lot of that issue today. Have been for the past several weeks. She certainly is beautiful. I wouldn't mind hitting that." One guy to another, a wink and a smirk.
Jim lifted his head and the cashier saw the glint of murder in the man's turbulent, green gaze. "That's my wife," his voice rumbled out, poison dripping off every syllable.
"That will be $9.30, and man, she's hot."
Montréal, Quebec, Canada…
He had to get out of the house for a while. Becky was incessantly whining, and he was close to losing his temper with her. It wasn't as if they hadn't fought over the years they were together; what couple did not? However, he knew the blinding migraine he would suffer after the argument, the violent heaving of the contents of his stomach and the cold clamminess of his body afterwards would not be worth having words with her.
She was dissatisfied with the length of time it was taking for the other to transform. Becky was sure this one wasn't the one either. The other one in the basement still did not have the facts straight. Sometimes she was Livvy, sometimes Becky. And she wasn't Becky often enough.
He began to think that Becky, his Becky, was correct. His frustration fueled the fire of his other hobby. The one on the island.
The big secret.
He took a moment to congratulate himself. He really was smart. The cops were spinning their wheels about the six missing women. They never even realized the number of prostitutes on the stroll was rapidly diminishing. There was something to trolling among the throwaways of society. Nobody ever missed them. They gave him such hours of delight, too, and he didn't even have to pay!
Jordan Jonsson went to the coffee shop where he first approached Livvy. Her face beamed out at him from a poster on the door, and he stopped to stare at it. "Pretty little thing, isn't she?" an older gentleman said to him as they walked in. "It's a shame she disappeared."
"It's dangerous out there for young girls today," Jonsson agreed, a heavy note in his voice.
They queued up, talking in the way strangers do in a long line. The weather, their favorite beverage, other coffee shops. As the older man moved away from the counter, Jonsson gave his order to the barista with a smile and glanced down.
And his whole world came to a sudden, screaming stop.
There she was. Becky. His Becky, on the cover of some magazine. His eyes dilated, his breath came in short rasps, his face flushed and little spots of sweat bloomed on his forehead. There was a roaring in his ears and everything, everything in the shop seemed to be under water, moving in slow motion. "Sir? Sir? Are you all right?" The barista's voice finally penetrated the fog that was enshrouding his brain.
He nodded jerkily, reached for the magazine with reverent fingers, still staring at the picture on the cover, and added it to his order.
He paid his bill, throwing his money on the counter, not taking his eyes from the magazine and walked to his car in a daze. The whole world had suddenly gone flat, two-dimensional, and the only real thing was the object in his hands. He tossed the drink into the bin, untasted, climbed into the driver's seat and continued his intense scrutiny of the woman in the picture on the cover.
It was Becky. Correction: it was what the living, breathing Becky would look like. Her glorious golden curls; those shining sapphire blue eyes. Her skin was fair with that rose tint he loved, her full lips beckoning the viewer to lean in and take a taste. Her neck was long and slender, and she was looking pensively into the distance. Searching? Searching for him? Of course she was. They were soulmates.
He felt as if he could not move, could not breathe properly. His limbs weighed a ton. All that existed in his world was that magnificent photograph.
His hand moved of its own accord, index finger first tracing the outline of the woman on the cover of something called OMG!, his fingersgently detaching the cover from the rest of the pages.
And then, he ate it.
Back at Trixie and Jim's…
Jim's fierce temper was at the fraying point. This whole thing with Paul Trent, the girls screaming his name, his sister, his friends and now his wife in that freakin' excuse for a magazine; he needed an outlet. His blood was boiling and he just wanted to punch something. Someone. His nimble mind had absolutely no trouble in visualizing a battered and bloody Paul Trent. He was pretty damn tired of him and his extended family being targets for the ex-reporter.
He let himself back into his apartment, his stomach churning, not wanting to show Trixie the magazine, but realizing he had to. It gnawed away at his soul, until the wall of sound nearly blasted him back into the hall.
Aruba, Jamaica, oooh I wanna take ya
Bermuda Bahama, come on pretty mama
Key Largo, Montego, Baby why don't we go
Down to Kokomo, we'll get there fast and then
We'll take it slow
Way down in Kokomo.
The Beach Boys. Kokomo. He scrubbed a weary hand over his handsome, freckled face. Her go-to music when she was really upset about something. He knew he'd find her on the treadmill, running hell for leather, trying to outrun the same anger and frustration he was experiencing. Someone in their large circle of friends and acquaintances must have called her.
He slumped against the wall, momentarily defeated. He was twenty freakin' years old and had more stuff happen to him in his short life than people who lived to be 110.
That's where we want to go, way down to Kokomo.
The song washed over him, upbeat, catchy, and brought back memories of their honeymoon on St Bart's; the silvery sand, tropical moon and the warm turquoise ocean.
Long, lazy days where they had nothing else to do but get lost in each other. Sultry nights, where the beat of the island served as a counterpoint to the beat of their hearts.
Pulling his cell phone from his belt clip, he walked into the far bathroom, shutting the tune out behind him.
It was time to regroup, and what was the sense of being obscenely rich if you couldn't use it?
Montréal, Quebec, Canada…
He ran down to the basement, clutching a new copy of the magazine in his sweaty, clammy hands, insanely excited. "Becky! Becky!" His voice was literally quivering, high-pitched with jubilation.
Two voices responded; his Becky, with her Midwest accent and tart, no-nonsense response, and the slow, drugged voice of the other one. He skidded to a stop. He couldn't believe he had forgotten her.
The other Becky was supine on the cot, her clothes dirty and askew. The blonde wig tilted quite drunkenly on her head, where miniscule nubs of brown hair were peeking through the pink skin. She was sliding in and out of consciousness, weak and dehydrated.
His Becky was snarling at him from the stool, tired of being perched there day after day. Giving a wide berth to the creature on the cot, he approached the one thing he imagined he cared for above all else. Except himself, of course.
"Look at this Becky!" He shoved the magazine under her good eye. "Look at this and tell me what you think."
Her startled gasp was like a cannon shot in the quiet room. "It's…it's me," she said, wonderment coloring her voice. Her blue eye shone out at him. "It's me."
"We're going to New York City. This is it, Becky. A sign. What we've been waiting for all these years." His voice was bubbling, effervescent. "I have a car coming in an hour or two. We have a lot to do. I have to pack."
He lifted Becky, and with the utmost care, cradled her body in his arms. "The plane will be waiting for us at the airport on the other side of the border. We'll stay at the apartment in New York when we get there." He knew he was babbling, but could not contain his exhilaration. "She's perfect Becky. Perfect."
"Perfectly perfect," Becky agreed. Her voice was a soft purr in his ear, like it always was when she was pleased. "What's her name, darling?" she asked as he carried her upstairs, being careful not to jar her. She was so terribly fragile now.
His colorless, cold eyes looked down into her sapphire blue one. "It doesn't matter," he informed her. "Nothing in her current life matters now. She'll be Rebecca Jonsson Lavigne before the month is out. I promise you this." After all, he thought, a dreamy expression on his face, she already was a part of him.