Dangerous Chapter 1 - Deleted opening scene
I'll give you peek at the original opening of Dangerous, which I removed only six months before publication. I like the final, official opening better because it cuts right to the action, on a strong visual. There's something delicate, a little ominous, about this slower version. But I admit it doesn't flow as well. See what you think.
-- SKG
-- SKG
Chapter 1 - Luminous Garbage
Some people are dangerous to know, fitting your soul's nooks and crannies like a perfect DNA coupling. The connection is unexpected, immediate, irresistible. So it was with Valeria, and in the end she nearly destroyed me.
Some people are dangerous to know, fitting your soul's nooks and crannies like a perfect DNA coupling. The connection is unexpected, immediate, irresistible. So it was with Valeria, and in the end she nearly destroyed me.
§
I had decided to forgo Brent Braden's Christmas party this year. But when the evening arrived with nothing better to do, staying home alone seemed a worse option.
Brent and I dated briefly in college, and we remained casual friends after. Following graduation, he landed an internship at Paragon Studios, then spent the next few years fast-tracking that toehold into a career as a successful television writer/producer. He made a habit of inviting me to his increasingly elaborate holiday parties, even as we saw each other less with every passing year. Later, when he delegated the task of inviting guests to his assistant, no one thought to remove my card from the Rolodex. So I rode his slipstream, like a leaf caught in a sportscar's wake, as he became executive producer on Time Twister, a popular science fiction series, now in its fourth season.
I usually brought a friend to these functions for mutual support, but this time I'd neglected to ask anyone, having decided not to go. I regretted that choice now, and spent an hour calling everyone in my address book, only to find they all had plans. I'd be going solo, or not at all.
I dug out my best pair of heels, put on one of my better dresses, and whipped myself into a reasonable likeness of a Beautiful Person. Then I transferred my stuff to a small black purse, grabbed my keys...and paused to worry about a gift for Brent.
Screw the mall; it would be a madhouse. Instead, I scanned my bookshelf and picked out a rarely-opened coffee table book entitled Luminous: The Making of Earth Angel. It was a gift from my boss, after we'd wrapped up that movie; some of my own effects work was showcased in its pages. I scrawled a quick holiday greeting to Brent on the frontispiece, and decided not to bother gift wrapping it. And then I was off.
These evenings always went like this: The valet would take my car. I'd enter the mansion and thread my way through its breathtaking rooms, filled with tasteful music and groups of VIPs. Upon finding Brent, I'd offer my gift and accept his hug and kiss on the cheek. We'd exchange lilting how-the-hell-are-yous and you-look-greats, and I'd introduce him to my companion. For the next ten minutes Brent would make me feel like the most interesting person in the world, until the tide of the party dragged him back to the role of host. And that was our sole interaction for the next twelve months. My friend and I would wander around, fend off the usual male advances, get buzzed, and leave around midnight.
And so it went tonight, too. After my brief face-time with Brent, I was left to explore the mansion on my own, noting the changes since the last time I'd been here The whole house was unlocked and open for viewing, everything but the huge, curved staircase leading to the upstairs bedrooms, which was marked off-limits by yellow DO NOT CROSS tape, the kind used at crime scenes.
To my middle-class eyes, Brent had passed into a stratosphere of wealth I found more baffling than enviable. Sure, it would be nice to have your own workout gym, or movie theater in the basement (complete with lobby and working concession stand), but how often would you use such a thing? Especially if you worked as many hours as he did.
I saw at least two hundred guests, arranged in small groups throughout the house. The only faces I recognized were a couple of stars from the show.
The lead actor, Scott Simonson, was here with a woman who was probably his wife.
I also recognized the notorious Jenna Rydell, who played a slinky, half-feline bounty hunter from the twenty-fifth century. Her role was a shameless appeal to nerd lust, and it worked: since her appearance in season two, the show's ratings had climbed several notches. Off-camera, she and Brent had been an item the last couple of years, but judging by the distance they kept tonight, and the men clustered around her, I guessed they must have separated since the last party.
I decided to look for the bar, which was usually set up in the back yard, a vast enclosed space the size of a small park.
Stepping out into the warm Los Angeles night I suddenly remembered the invitation saying the party had a luau theme. Brent had an offbeat sense of humor, and he never passed up a chance to give tradition the finger. And being an avowed atheist, he reserved special scorn for anything with Christian overtones.
And so the entire yard had been given a Gilligan's Island treatment of torches, tribal masks, and tiki. Some guests had remembered to wear Hawaiian clothes but many had not, which was a relief (having forgotten to, myself). A ukulele band played silly, charming music on the raised pool deck.
To my surprise, I spotted a traditional Santa and a pair of porny elfettes circulating among the guests. I chuckled to think there must be some obscure ordinance requiring a St. Nick at all such events. Come to think of it, was there a Santa Claus union?
I found the bar and ordered a martini. What the bartender handed me was a drink that actually glowed. One of the ice cubes was plastic, a convincing fake, except that it contained a battery and bright blue LED. Some of the other people's drinks glowed with different colors, I noticed. After marveling at this for a bit, I stood beneath a tiki lamp and tried not to look as far out of my element as I felt.
My gaze was drawn to a slight, black-haired woman a few yards away. She wore a strapless burgundy party dress with a swingy chiffon over-skirt, and a black velvet choker about her neck. Her presentation had a 50's flavor with a hint of goth that worked.
She was talking to a couple. I couldn't hear their conversation over the music, but I sensed the woman was flirting with them both. She had a way of moving in closer than you'd expect, touching the man or woman lightly on the arm to make a point, and holding their gaze with unusual intensity. The couple sensed this, too, and unconsciously moved closer to each other in a mutual defensive posture.
After a few minutes, the woman with the choker made her goodbyes and continued to drift about, seeking fresh prey, arousing my curiosity. Without warning, she turned to gaze directly into my eyes, and I looked away. When I dared a glance back, she'd found someone new to stalk, a slender man in a suit whom I took to be a studio executive.
At this point I'd emptied my drink and needed a trash can. I spotted one and walked over to it, but when I arrived I was forced to stop and stare.
“Oh my god,” I said quite unconsciously, into the sudden silence of a music break.
“It's really something, isn't it?” said a nearly-contralto woman's voice beside me.
From here story continues largely as it now exists in the published book.
Brent and I dated briefly in college, and we remained casual friends after. Following graduation, he landed an internship at Paragon Studios, then spent the next few years fast-tracking that toehold into a career as a successful television writer/producer. He made a habit of inviting me to his increasingly elaborate holiday parties, even as we saw each other less with every passing year. Later, when he delegated the task of inviting guests to his assistant, no one thought to remove my card from the Rolodex. So I rode his slipstream, like a leaf caught in a sportscar's wake, as he became executive producer on Time Twister, a popular science fiction series, now in its fourth season.
I usually brought a friend to these functions for mutual support, but this time I'd neglected to ask anyone, having decided not to go. I regretted that choice now, and spent an hour calling everyone in my address book, only to find they all had plans. I'd be going solo, or not at all.
I dug out my best pair of heels, put on one of my better dresses, and whipped myself into a reasonable likeness of a Beautiful Person. Then I transferred my stuff to a small black purse, grabbed my keys...and paused to worry about a gift for Brent.
Screw the mall; it would be a madhouse. Instead, I scanned my bookshelf and picked out a rarely-opened coffee table book entitled Luminous: The Making of Earth Angel. It was a gift from my boss, after we'd wrapped up that movie; some of my own effects work was showcased in its pages. I scrawled a quick holiday greeting to Brent on the frontispiece, and decided not to bother gift wrapping it. And then I was off.
These evenings always went like this: The valet would take my car. I'd enter the mansion and thread my way through its breathtaking rooms, filled with tasteful music and groups of VIPs. Upon finding Brent, I'd offer my gift and accept his hug and kiss on the cheek. We'd exchange lilting how-the-hell-are-yous and you-look-greats, and I'd introduce him to my companion. For the next ten minutes Brent would make me feel like the most interesting person in the world, until the tide of the party dragged him back to the role of host. And that was our sole interaction for the next twelve months. My friend and I would wander around, fend off the usual male advances, get buzzed, and leave around midnight.
And so it went tonight, too. After my brief face-time with Brent, I was left to explore the mansion on my own, noting the changes since the last time I'd been here The whole house was unlocked and open for viewing, everything but the huge, curved staircase leading to the upstairs bedrooms, which was marked off-limits by yellow DO NOT CROSS tape, the kind used at crime scenes.
To my middle-class eyes, Brent had passed into a stratosphere of wealth I found more baffling than enviable. Sure, it would be nice to have your own workout gym, or movie theater in the basement (complete with lobby and working concession stand), but how often would you use such a thing? Especially if you worked as many hours as he did.
I saw at least two hundred guests, arranged in small groups throughout the house. The only faces I recognized were a couple of stars from the show.
The lead actor, Scott Simonson, was here with a woman who was probably his wife.
I also recognized the notorious Jenna Rydell, who played a slinky, half-feline bounty hunter from the twenty-fifth century. Her role was a shameless appeal to nerd lust, and it worked: since her appearance in season two, the show's ratings had climbed several notches. Off-camera, she and Brent had been an item the last couple of years, but judging by the distance they kept tonight, and the men clustered around her, I guessed they must have separated since the last party.
I decided to look for the bar, which was usually set up in the back yard, a vast enclosed space the size of a small park.
Stepping out into the warm Los Angeles night I suddenly remembered the invitation saying the party had a luau theme. Brent had an offbeat sense of humor, and he never passed up a chance to give tradition the finger. And being an avowed atheist, he reserved special scorn for anything with Christian overtones.
And so the entire yard had been given a Gilligan's Island treatment of torches, tribal masks, and tiki. Some guests had remembered to wear Hawaiian clothes but many had not, which was a relief (having forgotten to, myself). A ukulele band played silly, charming music on the raised pool deck.
To my surprise, I spotted a traditional Santa and a pair of porny elfettes circulating among the guests. I chuckled to think there must be some obscure ordinance requiring a St. Nick at all such events. Come to think of it, was there a Santa Claus union?
I found the bar and ordered a martini. What the bartender handed me was a drink that actually glowed. One of the ice cubes was plastic, a convincing fake, except that it contained a battery and bright blue LED. Some of the other people's drinks glowed with different colors, I noticed. After marveling at this for a bit, I stood beneath a tiki lamp and tried not to look as far out of my element as I felt.
My gaze was drawn to a slight, black-haired woman a few yards away. She wore a strapless burgundy party dress with a swingy chiffon over-skirt, and a black velvet choker about her neck. Her presentation had a 50's flavor with a hint of goth that worked.
She was talking to a couple. I couldn't hear their conversation over the music, but I sensed the woman was flirting with them both. She had a way of moving in closer than you'd expect, touching the man or woman lightly on the arm to make a point, and holding their gaze with unusual intensity. The couple sensed this, too, and unconsciously moved closer to each other in a mutual defensive posture.
After a few minutes, the woman with the choker made her goodbyes and continued to drift about, seeking fresh prey, arousing my curiosity. Without warning, she turned to gaze directly into my eyes, and I looked away. When I dared a glance back, she'd found someone new to stalk, a slender man in a suit whom I took to be a studio executive.
At this point I'd emptied my drink and needed a trash can. I spotted one and walked over to it, but when I arrived I was forced to stop and stare.
“Oh my god,” I said quite unconsciously, into the sudden silence of a music break.
“It's really something, isn't it?” said a nearly-contralto woman's voice beside me.
From here story continues largely as it now exists in the published book.