E.S. Gibson

As I am a madwoman, I've decided to release the current first chapter of Ace Of Diamonds here until i get a website up and running.

Chapter 1
My Kind Of Town

By the fourth or fifth kick to the va**na, I assumed the stranger towering over me had some vendetta against me. That or he just loved kicking people in the junk. I also realized there were worse things he could be doing to my honeypot in a back alley. Although I didn't feel particularly grateful at the time. Full disclosure, I didn't feel anything but searing pain.

My attacker grew tired of kicking my crotch, and decided my ribs were too attached to my ribcage for his liking. A problem he corrected with a gorgeous pair of steel-toed boots. Looking at the rest of his clothes, I assumed they were a gift.
I would later get a good laugh at the thought of this monstrosity getting them at a birthday party. The plastic tablecloth, the paper plates, those stupid birthday hats. Unwrapping the beautiful boots that were now playing putt-putt with my ribs.
“Aw, gee. Thanks Aunt Martha.” He’d say, probably in a harsh Brooklyn accent. “Just what I’ve always wanted. I can’t wait to beat the ever-loving p**s out of some cheap, gaudy fl**zy with these.”

For the record, I am not cheap or gaudy, and I'm only half fl**zy on my mother's side. That said, he had successfully beaten the literal p**s out of me. Not that I thought to be embarrassed about it. As he added a few punches to his kicks, the pain took a backseat to my vanity. I'd gotten dolled up in a genuine Dolce and Gabbana dress and a set of pearls that I'd just acquired. That dress was worth a few grand, and he'd ruined it.

No one had ever attacked me on the street before. Attacks were common enough in Hollywood, but we all pretend they only happen to tourists or people who walk down Ivar street alone. Normally, I tried to be diligent, but I'd been thinking about Uncle Alex. He'd taken me here to see a god-awful musical adaptation of the Maltese Falcon just before he shipped out in 2002. Lost in memory lane, I didn't see Prince Harming until he'd grabbed my hair and started yanking me into the alley.

I fought. I threw as many punches at the son of a bitch as I could, but a five foot seven, hundred forty pound children’s entertainer can only do so much. This man had the physique of a failed super soldier experiment, two cauliflower ears, a flat nose that I’d bet money hadn’t started flat, and despite the leather gloves I could see he had boxer’s knuckles on both hands. I didn’t stand a chance.

So I laid there, in a dress that now desperately needed laundering, while some as**at beat me to a pulp for no reason. That’s what p**sed me off most. If I’d owed money to the mob, or worked as a hitman, or banged a politician’s wife or husband, then I could say “Ya’ know, I had this coming.” But I didn’t, I wasn’t, and I hadn’t. I’d almost lost consciousness when he stopped and pulled out a phone. A flip phone, of all things. Who the actual hell uses a flip phone? He dialed, and I took my first real breath.

“I need an ambulance,” he said. He didn’t have the accent I’d imagined, but he certainly wasn’t from California. “There’s a woman here. She's hurt.”
More questions flooded my brain, and I asked what was going on. Well, I actually groaned loudly then puked, but in a way that I'm sure conveyed ‘what the hell is going on?’
“Yes, the metro outside the theater… My name is-” he snapped the phone in half and knelt over me. “You'll be fine. Stay out of our business, or this will happen again.”
Who the hell are you and how am I in your business?
He stood and left. As if nothing happened. I tried to call out to him. He didn’t even turn back to look at me. Then, I passed out.

I woke up at least a few hours later, maybe a few weeks. Inventory check; my limbs were all still attached to me, although my right leg had a cast and my torso felt like a jigsaw puzzle. I had a band on my wrist and a hospital gown to preserve the modesty I didn't have. Any movement caused me pain, but I’m more curious than I am smart, so I looked around.
I figured I’d be in some little sh****le where you’re more likely to find a roach in a nurse’s outfit than an actual R.N. that’s not too overworked or apathetic. Instead, I had a private, sparkling clean room, with fresh flowers all over the place. The room had an actual door, not just a curtain. A tv was mounted, but not chained to the wall, tuned to the BBC. On the table next to me were issues of Town & Country magazine and crossword books. Strangest of all, I saw a man in the room. With my eyes straining, I couldn’t see him well, but I saw him. Standing in his nice suit, watching me.
Oh f**k. Bastard hit me so hard, I woke up in someone else’s body.
Once the figure saw me stirring, he let out a sigh, and left. No words, no glances. Just smiled and strode out of the room. Was that the angel of death?
A bombshell who accidentally became a nurse instead of a model came into my room, and I wrote the man off as a post haze illusion. The nurse looked at my clipboard.
“Charlotte Adams? Born April fourth, nineteen eighty-nine.” So, I haven’t been body swapped.
“Yeah, that’s me.” I groaned.
“It’s nice to see you awake. Hopefully, you’ll stay up for a while this time.”
“I've been up?”
“Once or twice. Never for more than a few minutes, and never fully lucid.”
“Ah. Got it.” I tried to sit up, and pain surged all the way down to my chakras or soul or stardust or whatever you believe people are beyond the physical. The nurse cautioned me against moving too much, which frankly should have been the first thing she told me.
“Where am I?”
She rattled off the name of the hospital. Sounded fancy.
“How long have I been out?”
“At least since they transferred you to us?”
“Wait, transferred? From where?”
She named the hospital my old man died in.
“Am I still in Hollywood?”
“Beverly Hills.”
“Beverly-” I sat up. Electricity fried every nerve. Either the nurse or I screamed. Possibly both of us. She ran to me and helped me back down.
“Ms. Adams! Try not to move like that, you’ll hurt yourself.”
"How the hell did I end up in Beverly Hills?”
“Mr. Davenport insisted you be brought to a better hospital.”
Who the f**k is Mr. Davenport? Did Uncle Bill change his name again? Even if he did, why would he come back to the states for this?
“Oh, he did?" I said, "Okay. Any chance I might get some food? Maybe a diagnosis or two?”
“Yes, Ms. Adams. I’ll grab Dr. Watkins and get you a menu for the week.”
She left, and I turned on some cartoons. A minute or two later, a happy and slightly chubby Filipino man in a doctor’s coat entered the room. He looked less like a runway model. Fine by me.
“Charlotte Adams?” he asked, checking my chart. "Born April fourth, nineteen eighty-nine?"
“Yeah, but I usually go by Charlie.”
“Charlie? Not a problem.” He made a note.

Bedside manner these days is incredible; Dr. Watkins almost turned all my injuries into a polite back and forth. A fractured pelvis, cracked ribs, a broken leg and torn ACL.
I asked him how quickly they’d discharge me, which both amused and saddened the good doctor. I’d be spending a few weeks here, under their care. Then they would move me to their physical therapy facility. In total, I could expect to spend the next eight weeks here. Maybe twelve, depending on my progress. I laughed.
“I don’t know whose insurance you ran, but I can’t afford to stay here that long.”
“Don’t worry, Ms. Adams. Mr. Davenport has already arranged everything. He's even sent your clothes to be laundered and repaired.”
“Did he? That’s very kind of him. Who exactly is Mr. Davenport?”
Dr. Watkins almost faltered.
“I suppose he’s your benefactor.”
"Well, here's hoping he can pay my rent too, because- Oh S**t! My Rent!"
At my request, Dr. Watkins handed me my bag, and I called my landlord. I expected screaming, but he happily told me that a check had cleared, and I paid my rent up for the rest of my lease. I stared back at my phone. Mr. Davenport had thought of everything. He’d even got my pills and some goodies from my apartment. How the f**k did he get into my apartment? Meh, I don't have to pay rent for the next eight months. Who cares?

Trader Joe’s was less happy to hear from me. I’d missed one shift and was late for my current one. Explaining my hospitalization only gained me a little sympathy, and the two to three month stay required resulted in my termination. Fair. It was my secondary job, anyway. My next call was to StoryBook Entertainment. Dressing up like Princesses and fairy tale characters for parties paid the bills better than you’d think, but beyond that, I enjoyed that I still had the chops and the face for it.

Emily cried when she heard my voice. She'd started to think I'd gone off the deep end. I explained everything I could. She moved me to temporarily unavailable and covered my next few parties, then yelled at me for calling her as an employee, instead of a friend. She promised to visit me as soon as she left work. With all that settled, I grabbed my phone, and looked at myself in the screen's reflection

Luckily, my attacker didn’t touch my face; everything looked normal. Same black hair. Same golden brown eyes. Same cool, pale skin. Excellent. Most kids don’t want to see a princess with a broken head. It’s cold, and slightly heartless, but so are kids.

On my phone, there were a few missed calls and texts from friends. First, basic stuff: 'Where the hell are you, it’s poker night.', ‘Charlie, you’re scaring us.’ Then the sobbing messages begging me not to be dead. I updated my group chats with where I was and why. A sprinkling of ‘we were so worried about you' was thrown around, and I spent the next few weeks dealing with outpourings of love and support from friends.

Being stuck in a hospital for weeks on end is a much more enjoyable process when you have a benefactor. The meals were incredible. People came in and replaced the flowers every few days, and the mysterious Mr. Davenport covered anything I needed. I would get visits from friends, and we would play poker and gossip about who he might have been. The theories started simple, then got wild. A long-lost uncle. My biological father from one of my mother's johns. An eccentric millionaire who regularly pays it forward by covering ludicrous hospital costs. The parents who raised me kidnapped me from him as a baby. Maybe, he saw my photo somehow, fell madly in love with me, and now he’s trying to buy my affection.
Personally, I didn’t care much. I wanted to know why he'd been absent throughout my hospitalization. If Mr. Davenport was so concerned with my recovery, why hadn’t he come to see me yet? Every day, I waited for some stranger with a top hat and cane, or a soup and fish to enter my room with a dramatic flourish and announce himself as Mr. Davenport and declare me as his bride or something equally insane, but no one ever appeared. Emily assumed he had some kind of co**se face I wouldn't want to see, and for the most part we all left it at that.
After my bed rest, the next stage in my inspiring recovery story was ritualistic torture. They called it physical therapy, but I know what I went through. Those therapists were sadists. Luckily, I’m a bit of a ma*****st and I like the ability to walk more than I hate pain. I made decent progress and on the third of August, after ten weeks of treatment, they finally discharged me.

I stood outside in a plain ladies tee, jeans, a belt, and sneakers. With shaking hands, I grabbed a Black and Mild from my purse. As I smoked, a kid in black approached me.
“Charlotte Adams?” he asked. He had brown eyes, dark skin, curly brown hair peeking out from under a hat, a bit of a baby face, and a lot of energy.
“Who wants to know?”
“Ah, of course.” He nodded and shot his hand into mine. “I’m Austin. I’m Mr. Davenport’s chauffeur. He’s asked me to take you to his office to meet him at once. Like, right now.”
“Oh.” I shook Austin’s hand. He had a firmer grip than necessary, and shook erratically. “And why exactly is Mr. Davenport so interested in me?”
“Honestly? I don’t know.” Austin started walking, I followed. “I’m not really a big fish in his pond. I know he felt awful about what happened to you. He hates senseless crime. Or maybe he hates crime in general. He’s actually considered a hero by a lot of people. They say he'd be a billionaire if he just stopped giving so much money away, but he doesn't seem to care. Good for me, he pays really well."
I couldn’t keep track of all the bu****it I didn’t understand anymore. People heard about my assault? What, did it make the news? No, Emily would have told me if it had. Besides, if the news had been so slow that my random assault had garnered attention, why hadn’t I talked to any reporters? Better question: why hadn’t I talked to any police?
Austin reached a gorgeous Rolls Royce Phantom. My jaw hit the asphalt. He opened the back seat, revealing the leather interiors. My heart raced, I frowned. That car may as well have been a van with free candy. But it was also my only chance of getting any answers. If Mr. Davenport wanted to hurt me, he’d had months to do it. Plus, I'd always wanted to ride in a Rolls. Austin took the bag that the hospital had given me and put it in the trunk. I sighed. Sure, into the candy van.

Every time Austin stopped for a yellow light, he white knuckled the steering wheel. A speed demon lurked inside him. To his credit, he hid it well.
“Aren’t you a little young to be a professional chauffeur?” I asked, mostly to stop him from pointing out every tourist trap in L.A..
“I’m older than I look. Twenty-four this October.”
“That still seems young.”
“I guess. Mr. Davenport’s a friend of mine. He knew I needed a job, and I’m fantastic with cars. Have been since I was a kid.”
Eventually, we pulled up to the gates of a production company. The sign above the gate read Davenport Studios. That Davenport?
My ass puckered and my breathing stopped entirely. Davenport Studios had been making films since before the Golden Age of Hollywood. A family owned movie empire. I'd always dreamed of working on one of their sets. Once we were inside, I gawked at the sets and costume racks and golf carts with all the awe of a child. Austin told me what he knew about a few of the pictures they were working on as we drove up to the studio’s primary office.
Up to find some answers.
Up to meet Mr. Davenport.