30,000 feet in the air, surrounded by aimless white, she couldn’t tell if she was floating or falling. She normally took plane flights well and was even intent on smuggling Jerry along on a tandem skydive with her sometime (oh, and his own tiny parachute!) – but right now her stomach lining was chewing on itself.

She remembered fondly strapping the little trooper into a custom booster seat for the first time. She had been cheerleading him at the beginning, but, hey – keeping it real – this was how she’d always expected it would go down: he’d run into a couple auditions, land a couple roles, score a couple low key credits, and a funny story for a dinner party…

…Then he’d have his first true painful rejection, his first big bad day. He’d do his Jerry thing: withdraw into himself, quietly decide it was quits, let his apartment lease lapse, unlist from his talent agency, come home, shrug, laugh sheepishly that this acting stuff was a tough little motherfrikker to crack.

She would smile knowingly and stroke him against her ribs and belly a couple of times by way of a reassuring hug, but the whole time knowing the true reason he’d abandoned the big city dream could not be explained by the occurrence of a single bad day. He needed her, could not race far outside her orbit for very long without making himself sick and vulnerable, and maybe it shook his ego sometimes – that was nothing to be ashamed about.

She had ego for both of them: She could pluck him off the planet’s surface with ease and become his entire world, keep him locked to her more faithfully than the Earth held the moon. How had she lost him? –Great girlfriending there.

The plane came skimming down over the runway, time started moving normally again. She was dumped into the huge airport arrival terminal and switched off the airplane mode on her phone. A small stream of missed calls poured in. A swell of relief –

Now? What took you so—?

—It wasn’t Jerry.

Her heart sunk. How quickly she would have forgiven everything for the sound of his voice. Embarrassing.

Keep it together, girl! Put your strong, fierce woman face on. You sound like a sad, freakin’ little fan girl.

She redialled the missed call number. An accented voice pushed down the line in reply, not so smooth as before, but now slightly flustered, like a throaty yap:

“Where are you?”

Her brow hardened.

“Where am I?” she said smoothly. “Well, how about dead center of crisis-ville?”

The other woman ignored this.

“Your plane has landed, so you are off—?”  

“Are you tracing me? Oh, wow, not okay. Buh-bye.”

“Okay, listen,” the other woman was trying and failing to sound flippant, “don’t rush, don’t freak out. Don’t leave the—”

She hung up.

An Uber sprinted her to Jerry’s apartment, and she burst inside.

“Jerry!” she yowled, searching the studio, and then reminded herself to sound affectionate. “Guess who? Surprise visit!”

She went absolutely still and waited for the tiny squeak of excitement, but it didn’t come. So, with a heavy breath this time, she tried again.

“Right here, babe! Get off your little tush and come and greet the love of your life!”

She’d always hated silence. But this silence was lethal. It was the uncertainty of what it meant. Uncertainty was her poison; the purest form of lack of control. Simply unbearable. She wailed just to fill the empty air and the sound rattled out of the opened window, outside where the entire city sprawled, still unchecked, unsearched.

Overwhelmed, she flopped down on his full size bed and buried her head into the pillow. Only to get another rush of that foreign perfume, acutely tangled around the pillow.

Maid? Kiss my ass. That is not what is going on here.

And the scent was on her. Oh yuck.

Letting out a growl, she clawed his pillow up, and fished around in her handbag for a lighter. She didn’t smoke but these things could be fun and useful anyway. But the lighter was dead so she threw the pillow out the window.

She was about to shower the imposter scent off when she heard a noise outside. Staggering out to see, she stopped face to face with a woman with long dark hair leaning back on the hood of a black Lexus, her pre-tanned arms folded patiently watching her through mascara-hooded eyes.

“Excuse me," Jennifer said, "You live here?”

If so, was a last known sighting of Jerry asking for too much? Probably pushing it.

Meanwhile, she began moving to the side and peering through the barred fence into the common courtyard. He couldn’t have been stuck in there; he was small enough to fit through the bars.

“I don’t. The rooms are a little small, I think.”

She stopped and stared in disbelief. The other woman held her stare with dark brazen eyes.

No.

That accent. It was actually her. The woman on the phone: Samantha. The woman who had taken Jerry for a month.

Taken—? Really?

‘Cause these days it was starting to sound a lot like Jerry had just happily strolled right into her house.

“You’re actually following me,” she said to no one, just to hear the absurd statement aloud.

“You’re one of a million hoping for a glimpse of her,” Samantha replied, placing one hand on the car hood and leaning into it. “What are you going to do if you get it?”

It came out without any forethought:

“Simple. Slap that bitch off the planet.”

She wasn’t totally sure who the venom in her voice was directed at: The mystery paramour, or the woman standing in front of her, or Jerry.

Samantha didn’t blink, and there was sympathy in her staid expression. But Jennifer didn’t want her sympathy.

“You’re wearing your running shoes.” She nodded at Jennifer’s sneakers. “You’ll need them to run away after you slap her.” She added, “Or hopefully we can think up something else. Subtle, you know?”

“Oh, the subtle part," Jennifer said flatly, "you didn’t let me finish. Anyway, Jerry’s co-stars aren’t exactly A-list ‘golden girls’, they’re more like copper alloy girls. Security won’t be any more stepped up than a tiny dog yapping in a handbag. I’ve got this.”

“A lot of girls talk about him,” Samantha considered aloud, “not just the actresses.”

At this, her breath came out in a hot stream, all at once. This woman was making fun of her now.

“Can I help you?” she grunted. “Really, what is your reason for even being here right now?”

Samantha lazily straightened from her car hood, and Jennifer watched the woman’s waxed angular brow line rise above her own. The woman must have been at least as tall as Stuart, and he was six foot. Her legs, long and tanned, gave her every inch of that elevation.

“Actually, I want to help you. But you must help me.”

“Well, shit. How about you find Jerry and I’ll make you up a little gift bag for your effort.”

“No joke, we do this Jennifer. Because I want to get Jerry back, and then I want to talk to you.”

Jennifer scowled.

“’Do’ this? I have already done this. This shit is done all over – you should know.” She pulled her phone out and lifted it, conveniently blocking out the woman’s profile. “This one is for the cavalry now. The cops.” 

Samantha seemed to stiffen.

“Exactly this – you—!” she exclaimed, flustered again, and lost her voice. She put a hand to her face and composed herself, her voice coming out lower, forcibly calm:

“You think by surprising – by frightening people they will give you what you want. Is she predictable like that?” She sounded pained all of a sudden. “So, if you don’t frighten her? You make her angry. She has a big reputation to protect, and Jerry may be more…disposable.”

“Whoa, okay,” Jennifer exclaimed. “Back up. The only one frightening anybody is you.”

For an instant, Samantha looked past her, doing a scan of the entire façade, not the windows into Jerry’s room, but the other apartments. Then she said in a lower voice:

“If you want to do something that might get him hurt, I’m very sorry, but I must stop you. Put away the phone. No cops.”

Jennifer’s eyebrows descended dangerously as she took a step forward to retort, only to get a flash of that perfume. Her nostrils flared in outrage.

Samantha was royal crown princess of the pillow? It made no sense; if she had Jerry, she would be running away, not in pursuit like this …Unless…

“Wait. This girl….You’re her friend!” Her brain was spinning with connections. “Or are you her agent? This a whole big conspiracy you’ve got going on, and now you’re trying to throw me off her scent?”

Blinking back at her, Samantha replied:

“I know this girl through business. In modelling, people talk.”

“How dare you let your creepy ‘business’ friends anywhere near my boyfriend’s apartment.”

“’Friend’ is too much; we have mutual connections.” Her voice grew firm: “I never let anyone even see him anymore unless I trust them with my life.”

She went on:

“This girl is a singer. Anastasia Kozyrskyj,” and when Jennifer didn’t react, added: “Anya Zarsky.”

...

...

...

Anya...?

How. Really, how?

Anya. Pfft.

Anya Fucking Zarsky!

Why?!

They had danced to her music at Club Galaxy. And after the Club, when they’d gotten back to his pad, she remembered singing one of the club songs in the shower.

A memory which now burned white hot.

That fake-ass Halloween Lolita, what did he even see in her?! And wasn’t she on tour? 

Then, her shoulders slumped. Tour. Oh no...

When her vision cleared, the other woman's dark eyes were holding on her, trying to interpret her silence. Finally she looked away.

"You don't know her." A statement, not a question.

Jennifer found herself shaking her head. Actually, her head refused to lower itself into a nod.

"Guess not." 

Samantha went on:

“What you have to know is, Anya enjoys herself, likes to party—”

“So?” Jennifer cut in, a little quickly, glaring from under her lashes. Her eyelids felt very heavy and kept trying to close. Having a name didn't make her feel any better.

"So…she is addicted to cocaine. It’s one of those secrets that is not a secret."

Jennifer stared, nonplussed.

“And that’s relevant right now, why?”

When Samantha spoke again her voice was gentle, but preoccupied:

“Jerry has had a few little escapes all on his own. Maybe…he looks for them, sometimes.”

“You don’t know Jerry.” Now she could hear her own voice growing wiry and taut. Defensive. “He doesn’t do that. Period.” She was about to say something else, but on the next breath, her throat made a reflexive heave. She swallowed hard and went silent.

"I know, myself, his little body is very soft to these things.”

Jennifer fixed steely, wet eyes on Samantha. She was aware her mascara had run and the other woman could plainly see it, but she didn’t care.

“Give it up,” she said, and her voice came out ragged, as if she’d been winded. “Why are you here? What do you want?”

Samantha slid her designer sunglasses down over her eyes and padded around to the driver side door of her car, hesitating without getting inside.

“We’ll talk about it.”

“So talk.”

“Soon. I’m booking this flight to Los Rivera, Anya sings there.”

“You think Jerry will be there to see her?”  

“The show is not so important,” Samantha said. “We want to go to the after party. But it’s an exclusive thing. Private list.”

Jennifer looked her up and down.

“Tell me you’re on the list.”

“No, but my friend does promo at the Firebird Hotel for these special parties. She hosts and serves drinks, and wears a crazy outfit. But, anyway, I will try to talk and see what she says, but she will probably say they won’t take us in.”

Jennifer’s mind was working ahead.

“I’ll do it,” she shrugged, trying to sound generous, not demanding. “Give me her digits.”

Samantha pursed her lips.

“Nothing illegal, I’m really not in the mood for it.”

“You asked for my help.”

“If my friend gets us into the party,” Samantha said, keeping her tone even, “we must be polite and easygoing the entire time. No suspicion. No screaming. No slapping. So, what do you think?”

“I want in.”

Samantha gave a half shrug.

“Then I book you a seat on the plane. It’s no issue.”