After stopping for a short schmooze with Henry and Victoria, his latest muse, Brett paid the check, and we went out to the parking lot. The cool breeze brushed my bare shoulders and the promise of rain hung in the air. I peered into the darkness. It was surprisingly quiet. There was usually a gaggle of paparazzi. No sign of the guy from the bathroom. Perhaps the impending weather had sent them home early.

“Where the heck did that valet get to?” Brett yawned and checked his watch.

Seconds later, lights appeared around the corner of the driveway. An engine revved and tires squealed as Brett’s Mercedes coupe roared to a stop in front of us. A short dark-haired attendant jumped out and ran around to the passenger side.

“Ridin’ those brakes mighty hard there, fella,” Brett chided as he slid into the driver’s seat.

“Sorry, sir.” The man opened the door for me and smiled. “Hi, Jackie.”

I was tired and didn’t feel up to chatting with a fan. “Hi,” I responded, curtly.

“Remember me?”

I narrowed my eyes at his features, and with a shock, I recognized him. It was Alphonse. Al from the Beverly Hills hotel. Al of the purple van and the shiny sheets. Older now but same grin, same silky black hair flopped over one eye. I felt shaken. “Hi,” I stammered. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

“Just started.” He beamed.

Brett held out a five-dollar bill, but Al waved it away. “Nah, I’m just happy to see Jackie.”

“You know each other?” Brett cocked an eyebrow.

Al turned to me expectantly. I had never told Brett the sordid tale of how I’d lost my virginity. It was too far a cry from the image I’d crafted; the way I wanted him to see me.

“Sure, we do right, Jackie?” Al prodded.

What did he think I’d say? “Brett honey, shake hands with the asshole who popped my cherry when I was fourteen and barely spoke to me again?” I couldn’t think about that night without feeling sick.

“Um, Al worked at a hotel we once stayed at.”

“I’ve seen all your movies, Jackie. Every single one. I watched you on Circle of Life too.”

What if he sold me out? Someone would pay a lot of money for his story. Then I remembered Al had been at least twenty when I was fourteen. Statutory rape by any standards. No, he’d keep his mouth shut. Even so, I couldn’t handle seeing him at my regular hangout. Tomorrow, I would make a call.

I got in the car and shut the door. “Let’s go,” I stated brusquely.

“Sorry fella, she’s just tired,” Brett apologized.

“Go!” I commanded looking straight ahead.