Read Online Picture Perfect by Lucie Simone - Free Book Online

of Jack’s bike. I cling to his waist as he motors off the main highway and up into the hills and curving canyons of Malibu. I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to look down. Not wanting to see the cliff’s edge. The edge I know is just inches from the wheels of his bike. I feel the pull of the motorcycle as we climb higher up the side of the mountain, and I bury my face in Jack’s T-shirt. Finally, I sense the ground leveling off, and the winding road becoming straight again. Jack slows the bike and comes to a stop.
    “Is this it?” he asks.
    I peel my face from his back and pry open my eyes. We sit at the foot of a driveway leading to a large, modern house. The kind that looks like a big white box with windows all around it. The driveway is empty. The house is dark.
    “Yes. That’s it.”
    Jack parks before the large front door, and I peer up into the windows, looking for signs of life, finding none.
    “Come on,” I say, hopping off the bike.
    Jack follows me as I head up the front steps. I dig inside my purse for my key ring. I shuffle the keys, my thumb landing on the familiar cut of the key I haven’t used in six months. I slip it into the lock, twist it, and hear the bolt slide back.
    He never changed the locks.
     I push the heavy door open with my shoulder and step inside the marble foyer. I flip on the lights, and the modern crystal chandelier hanging above our heads sparks to life.
    “Wow,” Jack says. “This is some joint.”
    “I haven’t been here in six months,” I say.
    “I thought this was your weekend home.”
    “It was. Now it’s his.”
    Jack glances around furtively. “Is he here?”
    “No. And I doubt he will be. Alan’s too lazy to drive out to Malibu every day. He’s been spending weeknights at The Beverly Hills Hotel since he—since we broke up.”
    “Oh.”
    Jack’s attention moves to the wall of the foyer, or the “wall of vain” as I like to call it. Every year, Alan has a professional photo taken of himself, and he hangs it on the wall. There are twenty-six of them. The first one, taken when he was nineteen, is a headshot. Alan started his career as a model and actor, and even though he found his success behind the scenes, his ego still commands center stage.
    “This guy is pretty full of himself,” Jack says, smirking at one of the photos.
    “I’m going to call a tow truck.”
    “Sure,” Jack says, absent-mindedly studying the original, twenty-six-year-old headshot of Alan.
    I leave Jack in the foyer as I walk through the house, flipping on the lights as I go. The living room with white shag carpeting, black leather sofas, and zebra striped coffee tables where we sat drinking red wine and listening to Cole Porter. The dining room with its rectangular glass tabletop surrounded by high-back ebony chairs where we entertained our friends. The chef’s kitchen with stainless steel appliances and black granite countertops where we always cooked Sunday brunch.
    Why is it that I can only remember the good times? 
    I slip out of Jack’s leather jacket and drape it over one of the barstools surrounding the granite-topped island in the kitchen. Picking up the phone from its cradle on the counter, I glance up at the laminated list of speed dial codes for the phone hanging on the refrigerator. I punch in the number for Alan’s mechanic, Jeff Zimmer. He picks up on the first ring.
    “Zimmer Auto.”
    “Hi, this is Lauren Tate, Alan Tate’s wife.”
    “Oh, hi, Ms. Tate. How’s the Bimmer running?”
    “It’s not. It’s sitting on the side of the road somewhere on Pacific Coast Highway. I think it has fuel pump issues.”
    “No problem, I can pick it up for you. Where on PCH is it?”
    “I’m not sure. It’s north of Kanaan-Dume Road across from a little beach with a wooden staircase.”
    “I’ll find it. Listen, I’ll need to get the keys from you. Where are you?”
    “I’m at our Malibu home. You know, the big white one on the hill.”
    “Yes, I know it.