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Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars

Posted by: Jada on Wednesday, May 02, 2007 - 02:05 AM
Excerpts of my Journals Hi everyone,

Here's another bit of my book Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars! Please keep coming every Wednesday to read more.

Thanks for reading, Jada

Excerpt from Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars (c) 2007 Jada Nichols. All Rights Reserved.

Much faster than anyone could spell supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, we were in Rita's car heading west into the sunset on Sunset. I had no idea where we were going except that Rita said it was an interview for a job, which included living space.

She'd called a guy named Paul, who was an ex-cop now doing bodyguard duty, she told me. He was someone she'd worked with, someone she liked and trusted. He was working at this place too. And also living there. It sounded very weird to me. Did all their employees have to live with them? What sort of a job is that?

As we drove, Rita told me what she knew.

"Paul works for a couple of producers. David and Marseya Hersh." She rattled off a half a dozen movie titles. None of which I'd seen. That seemed to impress her.

"How old are they?" I asked.

"I think he's like maybe sixty-ish, and she's late thirties . . . second wife syndrome. They live up in old Bel Air."

"Like I should know where this is maybe?"

"You will shortly—that's where we're headed. One of the negatives, and one of the reasons they might not want to hire you for this job is that you don't know your way around LA. You have a drivers license?"

"Yeah. Been driving since I was twelve, you can do that where I come from as long as you don't drive past the local Sheriff and wave. Don't worry, I've got a great sense of direction. I never get lost, never get turned around, may not know where I am but always know what direction to go to get where I want to be. I'll learn LA in a flash."

"Just remember there are places in LA where you might think you can drive through to get where they want you to go, but you wouldn't be safe. Remind me to color-code a map for you."

"You're going to an awful lot of trouble for somebody you don't even know. Thank you."

There was a very long, much too long, dead silence. Suddenly, I knew I'd gone where no one should go with Rita . . . but I didn't know why. I was mortified. And heart-broken that I'd hurt this gal who was being so amazingly nice to me. I looked away . . . because I couldn't look at her pain.

With a sniffle she said, "You remind me of my little sister; smart, pretty, adventurous. It got her killed. I became a cop because I couldn't let that happen to anybody else's little sister," Rita explained softly.

"I'm so sorry—" I broke up.

"Don't," Rita interrupted my apology. "Please don't. It's too soon for me to talk about it. Let's just say one of these days, when you know your way around this town, you'll make sure it doesn't happen to somebody else who runs into you. Okay?"

"Absolutely okay," I breathed softly.

* * *

We swooped around a corner banking to the left and rolled down about a hundred feet, making a right turn at a red light through a large white block entryway with black wrought-iron trim. I'm thinking Gone With The Wind as we headed up one of the winding streets.

"Welcome to ritzy-ditzy posh old Bel Air. This place is amazing. Glad I'm not a cop out here," she changed to a less painful subject with a laugh.

"Why not? I'd think it would be nice and peaceful."

"Kinda depends. There're so many private security guards, the Bel Air Patrol, 'n armed and dangerous super-rich rap stars living up here, it's almost more dangerous than South Central. Sorta like the gunfight at the OK Corral waiting to happen. And as a cop, how can I tell in a hurry who's side I'm on?"

"That could get sticky. If you blow away some ass with a number one record, thinking he's a burglar, you're in deep shit."

"Yeah. At least on the streets, I can usually tell the good guys from the bad guys. The operative word being usually."

We kept winding around, driving past one mansion more beautiful than the other. In many places the plant hedges were so tall and thick I couldn't see anything but huge electric gates with security cameras on them and not a bit of a house. Forget Gone With The Wind. Now I'm beginning to think Alice In Wonderland.

Suddenly Rita slowed down, and made a right turn into a wide cobblestone driveway pulling up slowly to giant, very ornate leaf and flower pattern, black wrought iron gates backed by a solid metal background so no one could see through them.

Were these people privacy freaks or what? And not just the folks we're going to see, there's a whole damn neighborhood full of them! What am I getting myself into? I was thinking.

Rita swerved to the left where there was a box on a wrought iron post. She opened the door on the front of the box, reached in and pulled out a telephone.

I was a little mind-boggled to say the least. Rita was pushing a code on a keypad as though she did this sort of thing every day. Maybe she did. I don't know.

I could hear the telephone buzzing the numbers as she dialed and a gruff male voice answer, "Hello."

"Hey Paul, we're here. Buzz us in, will ya?"

Another buzz and the gates slowly began to part. So easily I fell down the hole into Wonderland, into temptation.



Thank you for reading, Jada