Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Skye

S o many tears have been shed over the past few weeks since meeting with Nicole Farrell. While none of the women I've interviewed experienced anything as extreme as Nicole's rape, their vivid accounts from Greenberg groping their breasts and genitals to masturbating in front of them have shaken me to the bone, forcing me to fight back my own tears. I know what they've been through. But Jim Hartley, the head of Conquest News, still won't let me break the story, and before I left work today, he threatened me again. "Stay away, Skye, if you know what's good for you. You have no proof. All you have are allegations."

Unfortunately, he's right. Greenberg paid off most of his victims and made them sign confidentiality agreements without giving them a copy. Moreover, not one of them has a videotape, recording, or witness to substantiate their horror stories.

This story is not just a story that needs to be told; it's personal to me. These women spoke to my soul. As I began my journalism career after graduating with honors, I vowed to champion the rights of women. To be a voice of compassion and justice for victims like me. If Jim Hartley needs concrete evidence, then that's what I'm going to give him. I'm not afraid of his threats. I'm not backing down. I'm determined to take Greenberg down. To expose him for the monster he really is. It's been a long time coming. Way too long.

Earlier this week, I stalked Greenberg at the Chateau Marmont bar. Learning that it was his favorite hangout, I went there three times this past week wearing a sexy little black dress, the highest of heels, and a blond wig because I knew from my research that he had a predilection for leggy blondes. And because I didn't want him to recognize me. When he finally showed up last night at the hotel, he took the bait.

"Hi, sweetheart," he began as he plunked down onto the vacant chair next to mine. Legs widespread.

With a seductive smile, I said "hello" in my sweetest voice. His calling me "sweetheart" made me cringe, but I kept my cool. His sickening cigar-breath warmed my cheek, and I felt his fetid heat as he slid his seat closer to mine.

He was clad in his usual sleazebag uniform. A navy blazer that screamed Brioni, a crisp open-collar dress shirt, expensive designer jeans, lots of flashy gold jewelry, and alligator loafers. The buttons of his shirt strained against the Egyptian cotton while his belted jeans fought with his unsightly paunch. His lustful eyes never strayed from my cleavage. I swear he was salivating.

"You new in town, doll? I haven't seen you here before."

"Yes. I just moved here from Marietta."

"Where the hell is that?"

"Ohio."

His face lit up. "My dear mother used to love to sing that song." Crooning off key the song's why-oh-why first line, he made goo-goo eyes with me. Pretending I was enjoying his attention, I let him twirl a lock of my wig around one of his stubby, manicured fingers.

"Why did'ya move out here?"

"I'm looking to break into the entertainment business."

"So, you're an actress?"

I laughed lightly. "An aspiring one."

He chortled. "You're a cute one. You've come to the right place."

I twitched a small, flirtatious smile.

"So, sweetheart, can I get you something to drink?"

"A glass of champagne would be nice. Thanks."

Looking up from my chest, he called out to the bartender. "Hey, Gus, bring the beautiful lady some champagne—make it Cristal—and a Scotch on the rocks for me."

"Sure thing, Mr. Greenberg," replied the bartender with a smile. Though the bar was packed three deep with movers and shakers and wannabes, the attentive bartender catered to the fat pig. Greenberg was a regular here—both a big spender and big tipper.

While the bartender prepared our drinks, Sheldon's attention returned to me. I sat silently on the bar stool, my legs crossed, while his leering eyes roved down my body. I soaked him in. He hadn't changed much since my last encounter with him except for being at least fifty pounds heavier. His facial features were repulsive—dark beady eyes, pockmarked skin, a bulbous nose, a prickly double chin, and rubbery lips. To top it off, the three-time divorced fifty-five-year-old was balding but dyed his hair and sported one of those pathetic comb overs.

"So, sweetheart, what's your name?"

"Lana Monroe."

"Lana Monroe," he repeated. "It fits you. It's got star-power."

I batted my eyelashes. Such a good actress thanks to my college drama courses. Courses that helped me become a dynamic on-air reporter. "Really? You think so?"

He smirked. "With your looks and body, I know so."

"Wow. I don't know what to say."

"Sweetheart, you don't have to say a thing. Maybe you don't know who I am."

My eyes widened with feigned innocence. "I-I'm sorry. I don't."

His eyes glinted with bravado. "I'm Sheldon Greenberg—"

"Oh my God! The big Hollywood producer?" Monster!

With a pompous grin, he puffed out his chest. "Yup, that's me. You've met the right person."

At that moment, our drinks arrived. The bartender set them down on the counter in front of us.

"Let's toast," said Greenberg, lifting his tumbler.

"Okay," I replied, following suit with my flute full of bubbly.

"To you. And to the beginning of a great career."

We clinked glasses and then we each put them to our lips. I took a dainty sip of my champagne while my companion—or should I say predator—downed his Scotch in one guzzle. As the effervescence popped on my tongue, a loud burp burst from his mouth. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he placed the other on my bare thigh. My knee-jerk reaction was to pull away, but I forced myself not to stir as he rubbed my leg. His rough caress nothing like Finn's. Creeping me out as he turned himself on.

"Wow, you're gorgeous."

Before I could utter another word, his slobbering lips were all over mine. In a few suffocating breaths, his foul-tasting tongue thrust into my mouth. My eyes squeezed shut as the slimy organ thrashed about like a lizard. Numbness trumped my urge to vomit. Pure will held back my urge to bite it.

By the time his next drink came, I was invited to his house. To explore my potential.

And to expose him for the monster he is.