I tense. Fuck. I sit up. Alarmed. “No. Is there a reason I should?”

He exhales loudly again. “Shyla. She’s in the hospital. She overdosed on pills two days ago. It was a suicide attempt. It’s all over the fucking news. I don’t know how you missed it. The buzz is she tried to kill herself because of you. Left a note that said that and a whole bunch of other shit I’ve been working the phone for days to keep out of print.”

My reaction to the news bulletin—a prick of pity, followed by a flood of anger—isn’t probably an appropriate response in any way. I cringe. No wonder Brian wants me to stay clear of Chrissie.

God, is this the type of man I’ve become? A man who suffers only this vacant, fast-shifting reaction to finding out that Shyla had nearly died two days ago.

“Send her some flowers from me,” I say. “Make it a vulgar display. Shyla loves vulgar.”

“It would be better if you went back to New York. Went to see her yourself. It wouldn’t hurt your image.”

Fuck that.

“I’m done with that farce, Brian. It won’t do my image or Shyla any good for me to visit her so don’t ask again. Tell her I’m relieved she’s going to recover.”

I rub my brow and try to contain the emotion pulsing through me.

“Christ, what the hell is wrong with the woman, Brian? I just signed over one hundred sixteen million. Why would any woman want to fuck that up because they are pissed off at me?”

I click off the phone without saying goodbye. The call leaves me with ragged tension to go along with the eye-burning road fatigue I had when I checked into the hotel.

My anger continues through the meal I pick at. It builds while watching the news spiced with Shyla’s drama. Brian is right. I shouldn’t go to California.

I reach LA the next day. I made good time across country, but then I didn’t partake of the local diversions when fatigue forced me to stop and book a room for sleep.

As enticing as the women along the way were, they were not enticing enough for me to indulge. I wonder if I’ve finally exhausted whatever is inside me.

I haven’t fucked a woman in five days. Practically a record this year. Maybe I’ve just worn myself out. I can’t even remember all the women I’ve slept with since Chrissie. I don’t remember any details of them when I remember Chrissie in perfect clarity.

But that’s her. Even the most casual moments spent with Chrissie are more fulfilling, more real, and infinitely more worth having. I’ve raged for a year to try not to think of her and the way we felt together the night after Jesse’s funeral. It’s left me only tired. It did nothing to cure me of wanting and loving her.

It’s early afternoon when I ride onto Highway 1 toward Malibu. I haven’t been in the Malibu house for over ten years. Cutting across traffic, I park in my driveway noting that the tabloid reporters are hovering across the street because of Shyla’s recent stupidity.

Tabloids—how do they always know? How did they know I would be coming to Malibu? I didn’t even know for sure where I’d stay after hitting downtown Los Angeles until I pulled into the driveway here.

I punch the code into the electronic door control panel and roll my bike into the garage. I enter the house and move through it toward the kitchen.

I come face-to-face with what must be my latest housekeeper, a pretty young Indian girl I’ve never met. She screams and jumps at the sight of me.

I remove my helmet, pull the Bluetooth out of my ear and drop them into her hands. “Don’t call the cops. I own this place. I’m Alan Manzone.”

She takes in a rapid breath. “Jesus. Of course you are. You scared me to death. No one told me you were arriving today.”

I’m sure they didn’t.

She’s a pretty girl, attractively turned out in a white bikini and sarong. There is sand on her feet, wedged between tiny toes, and her hair pulled tightly into a ponytail shows evidence of perspiration.

“Obviously not.” I look through the floor-to-ceiling wall of glass and find a beach towel on one of my patio loungers, a full pitcher of lemon water on a table, and an open book sitting beside an iPod. “Is there anyone else in my house or are you it?”

She blushes. “I’m here alone. When I was hired I was told absolutely no one ever in the house. Be ready for you at all times and no one in the house.”

I toss my gloves on the counter. “How long have you worked for me?”

She smiles. It is a pretty smile, young and exotic. “A bachelor’s degree and halfway through grad school.” Her voice is just a little impish, a smidge flirty.

I ignore it. I’m not in the mood for this. I just want not to be bothered by anyone.

“What are you studying?” I ask with a deliberate edge to my voice. “Where do you go to school?”

“UCLA. Environmental Economics.”

So the girl is smart as well as pretty. I go to the refrigerator, find it fully stocked and pull out a beer. “I am changing. I am going for a run. Then I’m taking a shower. That should take an hour and a half. I’d like my lunch ready—a salad, some kind of sautéed vegetables and a steak, medium— and then you packed and out of here.”

Her face loses color and her eyes go wide. “You’re not firing me, are you? I’m sorry I was sunbathing. But there is nothing to do. There is no one ever here, Mr. Manzone.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not firing you. Consider it more a paid vacation. Do you have somewhere to stay? If you don’t I can have someone arrange something for you. I prefer to be in the house alone. Didn’t Brian explain that you would never be permitted to stay while I am here? That leaving would be part of the job? I expect you to come, clean and stock the house. But only when I’m gone. Never while I’m here.”

She goes to the sink and makes busywork of washing her hands. “I don’t know. Someone might have. I don’t know a Brian. I don’t recall who hired me, but I’m sure his name wasn’t Brian.”

That makes me laugh. “I don’t know who hired you either, love. So consider us in the same boat.”

“It must be hard to be very rich and keep track of all you have.” She manages to say that without the slightest note of criticism in her voice. She turns off the water and reaches for a towel. “I love this house. It has good karma. I’ve worked for you five years and this is the first time you’ve come here. Why don’t you ever come here?”

Both the question and her observations irritate me. “Good karma? Christ, what is this—the sixties or just being in California?”

The girl reddens. “How long is my paid vacation for?”

“I don’t know. Make sure you leave your number. I’ll call when I need you back to clean and stock the house.” I am halfway out of the kitchen before I stop. “By the way, what’s your name?”

“Aarsi.”

“I’m Manny. Don’t ever call me Mr. Manzone again or you’re fired. I’m Manny.”

That makes her unbend a little. “OK. Manny. You should find everything as you require in your room. They give detailed instructions on everything, but if I’ve somehow missed something you need, let me know. I want to make sure you have everything you need.”

She gazes at me steadily as if to give me a chance to assign my own interpretation to that. So the pretty UCLA graduate student is mercenary enough to make the offer and yet not shrewd enough to read that the offer is unwelcomed.

I wonder what the hell she thinks she’ll accomplish with that. If nothing else it is a bad move to fuck her employer if she wants to keep her job.

I stare at her wondering if I’ve misread the whole thing. She looks like a nice girl. It would be a pleasant thing to be wrong about this. I’m so tired of being disappointed by people and disappointed in myself.

“Don’t worry about me, Aarsi. You’ll find that I’m pretty easy to work for.”

I run for an hour feeling every ache inside my body left by this past year. It is January, slightly overcast, only fifty-five degrees on a Monday or the beach would have been more crowded and the run shorter. It feels good to be out in the open surrounded by practically no one so I run as long as I can until I know it is wise not to push it further.