Patricia parked her Cadillac next to a row of sports cars in an underground garage.  A long window revealed an in-door swimming pool from beneath the surface.  The shimmering glow danced on each car's bonet & windscreen.  Switching off the engine, Patricia sat in silence contemplating the thoughts in her head. What was Malcolm doing? He needed his friends and family around him, but he seemed to be pushing everybody away. She knew him well. He was in trouble, and it was quite obvious that Marcus Donnelly was at the centre of it. Yet Patricia also knew that he hadn't been heard of since Malcolm had ended up in hospital...so all avenues had reached a dead end.

Patricia came into the large Willis-family mansion minutes later from a door that lead directly down to the garage. A tall staircase stood pride of place in the centre of a grand foyer, with the huge front door ahead of it. Patricia was accustomed to the rich upbringing she had been privileged to but had mostly resented the stigma. She had felt connected to her brother because of how they had both tried to distance themselves from the family and all that came with it, she herself by botching a career as a Private Investigator, and he by sinking into a lifestyle that almost got him killed. She wasn't sure why, but only their parents had embraced such glamour and social image, where even the youngest, kid-sister Cameron had rebelled, got herself frequently arrested, and more recently run away with a known drug-addict, only to come crawling back with countless questions left unanswered. It was far from the ideal American family.

"Mom?" she called as she walked into the living room, which lead into a small but attractively furnished kitchen. Sunshine leaked in from a window where drapes were only a little way open, keeping the rest of the room steeped in shadow.

Patricia proceeded into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, taking out a bottle of OJ. She then approached the work surface, and grabbed a glass from a selection on a wide shelf. Then as she went to poor herself a drink, she jolted on hearing a voice, and spilt some across the draining board.

"I guess he turned you away again, huh?"

Patricia looked back into the room, and then saw somebody sitting in an armchair that was out of the light. Placing the glass and the OJ to one side she returned to the living room, and squinted as the sun reflected in her deep blue eyes.

"Jeanie?" she replied.

A hand came out from the shadows to place a glass of Brandy on a small table beside the armchair.

"He's turned his back on all of us. Are you only just beginning to realise?"

Then the person sat forward, revealing her to be Malcolm's fiancée, a slightly plump but attractive girl of 30 with dark brown hair. She looked tired and wasn't wearing any make up.

"Well, he agreed to see me."

"Oh he did, did he?" Jeanie replied, and uncrossed and crossed her legs, wearing simple jogging pants and a jacket with a white t-shirt underneath.

"How did you get in here? Is my mom home?"

"She's upstairs, finishing off some paper work I think. Said I could wait here to see you."

Patricia walked over to the window, then pulled open the drapes, drenching the room with light and Jeanie covered her eyes for a second as if preferring the darkness.

"He's in trouble. You know that much, yes?" Patricia said, and walked over to a three seater and sat down, leaning forward with her elbows resting on her knees.

"Huh, yeah - isn't he always? Tell me what happened. All I've really ever known is that he isn't dead."

"He was shot. His leg is pretty messed up. But he'll be OK."

"Did he say what had gone down?"

"What do you think? He wouldn't tell me. It was like he was trying to protect me or
something. I don't know."

"Did he mention me at all?" Jeanie said, and picked up the Brandy, gulping the last of it down.

"No."

Jeanie looked away.

"It's over, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" Patricia asked.

Jeanie then stood up. She looked a mess. Patricia had seen her wearing some of the best designer gear over the years, and despite a bit of a weight problem, she had always looked good. But since Malcolm had got hurt, something had changed.

"Are you alright?" Patricia said, standing up and approaching.

Jeanie pulled away, walking out to the foyer.

"I have to go now. Tell Barbara thank you for the drink."

"Hey, Jeanie! Wait. You didn't come here to see if Malcolm had agreed to see me...because I was as surprised he allowed it as much as you. It's been weeks and not a word to any of us. You shouldn't think that has any reflection on how he feels about you. Go over there. He'd probably love to see you."

Jeanie approached the door and opened it. Then she paused, looking back to Patricia fondly.

"See you around." she said, then left, closing the door firmly behind, leaving Patricia feeling confused and helpless.

That afternoon.

Justine Emmanuelle Donnelly was reclining in a bath tub with hot soapy water up to her neck. Sweat glistened on her perfect round face, and long dark lashes draped themselves across the tops of her prominent cheek bones. Then two fingers prodded her temple as a hand mimicked the shape of a gun. Her eyes sprung open suddenly.

"Boom!" came a voice; the thumb jerking back accordingly.

Her large brown eyes then focused on a muscular, bare chested black man staring down at her.

"Come on, the crew are all set to start." he said.

Justine didn't give any facial response, and sat up, before being helped out of the tub to reveal she was wearing a tiny two-piece bikini.

Soon she walked into a room where screens and lights on tall stands all surrounded an uncomfortable looking wooden bench in the centre of a set made up to look like a steam room. A Swedish looking blonde guy sat wearing a white bathrobe, and subtle dry ice was sprayed in to create the desired effect. Justine paused beside one camera, a small fat man in his fifties sitting in a Director's chair close by.

"Remind me again...what my motivation is?" she whispered to the black man.

"Just focus on the scene - you are here as a kidnap victim. He's a big-time gangster that's threatened to kill you, unless..."

"Unless I cram whatever he has under that robe, up my ass, right?"

The black man sniggered, "In a word? Yes."

"OK...are we all ready to begin?" the Director announced.

The man in the robe looked to Justine with excitement. Her expression remained blank.

"Let's just fuckin' do it." she remarked, lacking her usual enthusiasm.

Outside the small film studio on the outskirts of Hollywood, a red Subaru was parked across the road. Inside, Vincent and a rather well built Italian sat listening to quiet rock music playing on the in-car CD.

"So, have you ever met her?" the big-Italian asked.

"What's that got to do with anything? Donatello just wants her brought in. I think he's trying a different angle after Willis did his little runner." Vincent replied.

"I saw one of her movies a week or so back."

"Oh yeah?"

"Come on, you must have caught something, on Adult Living or some other network."

"Can't say I get my kicks that way."

"She's pretty...but not in that Houston way. No hint of silicone. That's why she's so popular right now. The industry is in the middle of a big change in direction. I watched this documentary once about it, and these guys were saying that big fake titties and botox'd lips were not the big thing anymore. The natural look, preferably as young as they can get away with, that's what sells these days."

Vincent didn't really look bothered. His eyes were just focused on the studio. His friend carried on regardless.

"You see, she goes for this jail bait white trash image, but does all the stuff you can think of...group, fetish, you name it. You can fuckin' forget names like Jenna Jameson. They're from a different time. This girl's got the industry eating out of her hand."

Vincent then looked at him, "Have you finished? I think you're forgetting we have a job to do. And I for one have some ground to make up. I am not going to loose this one. We grab her and get her to Donatello without a hitch...clean and professional. You got that? Or are you gonna keep jabbering on about her like some dumb jock with his dick in his hand?"

His friend looked surprised, but nodded quickly, not forgetting who was in charge.

"Understood, Vinnie...I'm ready to go."

Vincent composed himself, relaxing back again.

"We'll give it another ten minutes." he concluded, then straightened his tie in the reflection from the rear view mirror.