Love at 11

Chapter Eight



FROM: “Terrance Toller” <[email protected]>

TO: “Madeline Madison” <[email protected]>

SUBJECT: ME!!!!



Madeline,



I took another look at your script and realized what the fundamental problem was. There is just not enough of ME in it. In fact, besides my voice, I hardly make an appearance at all. When viewers tune into a segment of “Terrance Tells All” they expect to see Terrance. Why would I bother even having a segment if it wasn’t all about me? I am News 9’s most valuable commodity. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you how in 1998 I won the “Anchor You Trust the Most” award, voted by the San Diego community.



I’ve taken it upon myself to shoot some video of me examining different killer lipsticks. You can pepper my appearances throughout the script. Just stay away from the first few shots—the photographer completely messed up my lighting and you know how I abhor improper lighting!



Thank you for your efforts and please keep the above in mind for future stories. I know you do not want to disappoint my public.



Terrance



P.S. As a friend, I want to mention that you might seriously reconsider that Old Navy outfit you had on yesterday. If you’re going to be interviewing people in the name of Terrance Toller, you must look the part. Acceptable designers would include Armani, Dolce and Gabbana, Donna Karan (which does not include that off-the-rack DKNY!) and Chanel. (And no, knockoffs are not acceptable.)



I closed my e-mail with a groan. Terrance was seriously out of control. Did he really, honestly think viewers cared if he was physically in the segment? Was he that genuinely narcissistic? I mean, hello!? He was a reporter, not Brad Pitt! Did he not get that?

But the question was, how did I explain that without having him rip me a new one? He’d already completely rewritten my “Cosmetics That Kill” script and it now barely resembled my thought-provoking, factual original. Producer-driven segment, my ass! What a laugh. Why did I even bother showing up to work if he was going to redo everything?

I could have gone to Richard and complained, but I wasn’t sure what good it would do. After all, Terrance had been their number one anchor for years and held way more clout than some twenty-something, utterly replaceable producer like myself.

No, I had to pick my battles and “Cosmetics That Kill” was not worth fighting for. So I brought the mutilated script and tapes to Mike, the editor, and put the segment out of my mind.

Anyway, I was already on to bigger and better things—a story so good I could almost smell the Emmy.

The Mexico/San Diego drug cartel.

This was no everyday drug-smuggling cartel, either. Deep in the desert, the bad guys had built an underground tunnel that allowed importers to skip the high security of the Mexican/US border and instead waltz right into America with their illegal wares unchecked. Miguel had provided still photos his brother had taken of the Mexican side of the tunnel. He’d also mapped out the location of the States-side exit and promised that if we came to Mexico, he would arrange an off-hours secret tour of the Mexican entrance.

I hadn’t yet pitched the idea to Richard or my executive producer Laura. I knew that they’d get way too excited and pin all sorts of hopes on it. Then, if things didn’t pan out, I’d look like a bad producer and no way was I willing to take that risk. So I decided instead to work on it on the side, shoot it, and write it. Maybe even edit it in secret, while working on my other more mundane projects, then present it to them as a major sweeps story bonus. Once they saw it, they’d love it, I was sure. And if it didn’t pan out, no one would be the wiser.

“So, what do you think?” I asked Jamie after he paged through Miguel’s documentation and photos.

“I can’t believe he sent this all to you,” Jamie said, handing the papers back to me. “What a scoop.”

“Yup. An exclusive investigation. All ours.”

“So what do you propose we do?”

I grinned. “Head out to the desert undercover, of course.”

“That could be dangerous,” Jamie pointed out. “The desert is wide open. You and I would be sitting ducks with a news camera. They’d see us a mile off. If they’re importing what this guy says they’re importing, they probably have armed guards and everything.”

“We won’t bring the big news camera. We have a lipstick cam here.”

“Lipstick cam?”

“Yeah. We call it that ‘cause it’s so tiny. Like a tube of lipstick. The whole camera fits into a purse or bag and the lens peeks out of a small opening. It’s very ‘stealth.’” I pulled out the contraption from under my desk. It really was cool. And so useful for getting all the important undercover video investigative stories needed.

Jamie examined the camera. “Nice,” he announced. “I suppose we shouldn’t take a news truck, either. Too obvious with all the antennas and stuff sticking out the top.”

“Good point. We can take my car.”

“If you want to be even more stealthy, we could take my motorcycle,” Jamie suggested. “A car stopped on the side of the road might seem a bit obvious. Like, why are they stopped? Are they broken down? But motorcyclists stop and hang out all the time.”

“You’ve got a point.” I felt a small thrill tickle the pit of my stomach. I was going to get to ride on Jamie’s motorcycle! That meant wrapping my arms around him and feeling the contours of his strong chest. Laying my head against his back and letting the desert wind whip through my hair.

Whoa, girl. You’re just friends, remember. Friends don’t care about that sort of thing.

Still, that motorcycle idea did make the most sense. I’d just have to control my hormones and we’d be all set.

Jamie looked at his watch. “When do you want to go?”

“Now’s as good a time as any, don’t you think?”

We walked down to the Newsplex and informed the girl on the assignment desk that we’d be gone for the remainder of the day “on assignment.” (That was one of the pluses of TV news—no one batted an eyelash if you disappeared for the day.) Then we headed out the side door to the News 9 parking lot. Jamie’s motorcycle was parked nearby: a sleek black and silver bike with the brand name “Triumph” molded onto its side.

“Nice ride,” I remarked, running my hand along the body. I actually knew next to nothing about bikes—it could be a total piece of junk—but it had a cool paint job….

“Thanks. It’s a British bike,” Jamie said, grabbing two helmets from a back compartment. “And thus, highly superior to garish, overpriced American Harleys.”

“Oh, please. You’re a total Anglophile, Jamie,” I teased. “Between bikes and Brit Pop. You know, there’s nothing wrong with buying American once in a while.”

He laughed. “Nothing except we Yanks could never make such a lean, mean, biking machine as my baby here.” He stroked the handles almost lovingly, prompting me to erupt in giggles.

He handed me a black helmet and I pulled it over my head, feeling a little like Darth Vader. Jamie reached over and flipped up the visor.

“Ever been on a motorcycle before?” he asked.

I shook my head and held my hands in front of me, palms up. “Motorcycle virgin here.”

“Are you nervous?”

Nervous? Me? Okay, so I had butterflies racing through my stomach like they were qualifying for the Indy 500, but I wasn’t about to admit it.

“Nah,” I said with a shrug.

“Good. It’s simple anyway. Just wrap your arms around me and hold on tight.”

“Roger that.” Oh yeah, that was a definite ten-four.

Jamie flipped his visor down and straddled the bike. I climbed on behind him, annoyed at the way my body instantly tightened as it came into contact with his. It was so embarrassing the way he could turn me on without even trying. Attempting to think of unpleasant things to calm my senses, I wrapped my arms around his chest. My breasts pressed against his back and I wondered if the proximity was doing anything remotely similar to him as it was doing to me.

He looked so sexy in his black leather jacket and helmet. I never realized I had a thing for bikers before. He turned his head back to look at me.

“Are you ready?”

“Ready.”

And we were off.

The wind whipped through my thin clothing as we flew down the street. I had no idea how fast we were actually going, but it felt like a million miles an hour. For a brief moment I pondered the fact that should the bike tip over, I certainly would be dead, but then put it out of my mind and simply enjoyed the ride.

As he slowed down and stopped at a traffic light, Jamie turned his head toward me and flipped up his visor. “How do you like it so far?” he asked.

I grinned. “Dreamy.”

He turned back to the road and revved the engine. The light went green and we took off again. I hugged him tighter as our speed increased, enjoying being this close to him. Even through my helmet I could smell the sexy scent of leather from his jacket. This was heaven. The world could fly by us at top speed, but when all was said and done, we were completely alone together.

I definitely needed a biker boyfriend. But a cool one, obviously, not a fat, tobacco-chewing Hell’s Angels type. Someone handsome, nice, and cool. Someone exactly like Jamie. I wondered if he had a twin….

Stop it, I berated myself. You can’t have Jamie. He’s taken. He’ll be married soon. You need to stop thinking about it.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it, I realized. And I’d been trying for days with no luck. I still wanted him so badly it hurt. And being put in this kind of position, where I was forced to physically touch him for hours on end was driving me absolutely nuts.

To distract myself, I turned my thoughts to our mission. Truth be told, I was a bit scared going out into the desert by ourselves to find the tunnel site. What if there were guys with guns? What if they killed us and buried our bones? Would we be dug up by coyotes and eaten?

Okay, maybe I’d go back to thinking about Jamie. Hmm. Was it too late to stop the wedding?

After swinging by my house so I could grab more-appropriate desert hiking attire, we headed out to the desert. After about an hour, we exited the well-paved freeway and turned down a winding, bumpy back road—much to my butt’s dismay.

Even though I was a born-and-bred San Diego chick, I hadn’t spent much time out in the desert. Once in high school I dated this loser motocross fanatic. He’d been convinced that if he dragged me out to the middle of desert nowhere and sat me in his pickup truck while he and his buddies rode their bikes around the dunes, I’d grow to love the barren wasteland. After three torturous outings, I decided dust was a bad look for me and ended it.

We passed dilapidated trailers, sun-bleached shacks, gas stations with one rusty pump, and wooden roadside stands where desert entrepreneurs displayed Native American knickknacks, hoping for some lost tourist to take pity and whip out their wallet.

But as we got deeper into the desert, the signs of humanity slipped away and were replaced by an almost creepy barrenness. A vast landscape of scrubby trees, wilted grasses, and rocky hillsides. The road’s pavement began to disappear and soon we were riding on a completely dirt road. The bike’s tires kicked up dust and sand, generously coating me in grime. The things I did for this job!

After an hour of this, Jamie thankfully pulled over to the side of the road and killed his bike engine.

“Can you grab the map out of my saddlebags?”

I reached back and grabbed it, handing it to him. He studied it for a moment. “According to this, the dig site is down this trail,” he said, pointing to a dirt footpath off the side of the road. “I can’t get my bike down there. We’re going to have to walk.”

I stared down the trail and gulped. I hadn’t realized we’d be doing part of the journey by foot, away from the safety of our getaway bike. I looked down at my feet. Good thing I’d decided to wear sensible hiking boots. Still, I wasn’t going to be able to outrun a drug dealer’s bullet, should one come whizzing at me at some point.

“Okay.” I agreed hesitantly as I slid off the bike, careful not to burn myself on the hot metal sides. Didn’t want Jamie to think I was some wimpy girlie-girl. I could do this.

He grabbed the hidden camera from the saddlebags. We’d set it in a backpack, creating a hole in the front pocket for the lens to peek through. You’d never be able to tell there was a camera inside.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” I answered, though suddenly I realized my hands were shaking and my heart beating wildly. The trip was about to get a lot more adventurous. Was I ready? Could I do this?

I took a deep breath and willed my hands to stop shaking.

Jamie studied me. “Are you okay? You look a little pale.”

I masked my concern with a smile. No need for him to know what a wimp I was. After all, Diane Dickson reported live from Iraq, didn’t she? I could surely brave the San Diego county desert. If anyone approached us, we’d simply tell them we were hikers, out enjoying a beautiful desert day. No one would ever guess our true mission.

“I’m fine. Let’s go.”

We started down the trail and into the desert. According to Jamie’s map, we had about a forty-minute hike to the dig site. Luckily he’d brought a bunch of water bottles. That and a fancy high-tech GPS mapping device so we wouldn’t get lost. The man was a Boy Scout with his preparedness.

The sun beat down on the dusty landscape as we followed the rocky trail. Unlike the stereotypical sand deserts such as the Sahara, San Diego deserts featured rocky cliffs and scrubby trees. A harsh landscape where only the strong survived. It was beautiful, in its own savage way. Peaceful. No modern technology to spoil it.

Jamie’s cell phone rang. Of course.

“Hello?” he said, after flipping open the receiver. “Hello?” He glanced at the phone’s screen and then put it back to his ear. “Can you hear me now?” he asked the person on the other end of the line, mimicking the Verizon commercial.

After a few more “hellos,” he gave up and flipped the phone closed. “Jennifer,” he informed me. “But I could barely hear her. No cell towers in the desert, I guess.” He shoved the phone into his back pocket.

“Do you think it was important?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nah. Probably some kind of catering crisis. There’ve been a lot of those lately.”

I laughed, though inside I felt a bit like dying. It was so hard to be reminded of his upcoming nuptials. Very soon, this wonderful man would be officially and legally off the market. I had to quash this ridiculous crush I had as soon as possible.

“So, how’d you meet Jennifer?” I asked, to make conversation and satisfy my masochistic curiosity.

“She auditioned for a movie I was working on,” he said. “Didn’t get the part, but did get me.”

“Ah, the booby prize,” I teased.

“Yeah, she’d probably tell you that,” he said with a laugh. “Though she was a lot different back then. She’d only recently arrived in Hollywood. Small-town girl from Missouri, desperate to become a movie star. Buck-toothed and brown-haired.”

“Are we talking about the same Jennifer? Your fiancée Jennifer?”

Jamie grinned ruefully. “One and the same. Pre Hollywood extreme makeover, of course.”

“Well she’s beautiful now. Stunning. I mean, she looks like Paris Hilton.”

“I guess.” Jamie pulled a twig from a bush as he walked past and snapped it in his hand. “Though to tell you the truth, I prefer a more natural look.”

I groaned. “Oh puh-leeze. Men always say that! And then they go off and ogle all the supermodels and porn stars.”

“You think I ogle porn stars?”

“All men do,” I insisted stubbornly. “Whether they admit it or not.”

“Fair enough. I may ogle, as you call it, but I’m not going to marry one.”

“Ah, here’s the Madonna and whore complex!” I said triumphantly. “You want to marry someone pure—like Mom, right?”

He shuddered. “Please. You haven’t met my mother.”

“You know what I mean, though. You men are all the same. Sow your wild oats while young, then marry the one girl who didn’t give it up.”

He laughed. “Maddy, your peek into the male psyche is astounding. Did you learn all that in Psychology one-oh-one, or did you take advanced courses?”

I playfully shoved him. “Whatever, dude. Face it. You know I’m right.”

“I don’t,” he insisted innocently. “If you were, then I wouldn’t be marrying a Hollywood starlet in a few months. Jen is the anti-mom. And she’d rather commit hara-kiri than set foot in a kitchen.”

“Okay, okay. I stand corrected.” I giggled. “You managed to buck the trend. Marry the whore instead of the Madon—” I stopped abruptly and turned to him. “Er, not that Jen’s a whore. Sorry, that came out wrong.”

He chuckled. “I knew what you meant.”

We fell silent after that. I felt kind of bad, teasing him about his fiancée. I didn’t want him to think that I was doing it as a desperate attempt to get him to break up with Jennifer and go out with me. That was so not my intention. Had I taken banter a step too far?

“What about you?” Jamie asked suddenly, breaking into my thoughts.

“Me?” I cocked my head in question.

“Yeah, you. Are you the Madonna or the whore?” My face flamed. “Uh … I’m … well …” How did one answer that question? If I said Madonna, I’d be the boring, cookie-baking mom type. Which I wasn’t. But I wasn’t some whore, either.

“Not as easy to categorize when it’s about yourself, huh?” Jamie asked. I looked up at him and could see the teasing light in his eyes.

Fine. He got me there.

“Yeah, yeah,” I acquiesced. “You’ve proven your point.”

“But you haven’t answered my question.” Jamie stopped and faced me. His eyes darkened and the teasing glimmer retreated from his face. “Which are you?” I suddenly felt hot in a way that had nothing to do with the desert sun beating down on us. I wanted to squirm away from his intense gaze. What was it about this guy that made me so crazy and weak in the knees? Did he have some kind of Maddy kryptonite in his pocket or something?

The phone rang again.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Jamie cried, dropping eye contact to grab the receiver. “Hello? Hello?” He banged on it with his hand and put the phone back to his ear. “Jen? Can you hear me?”

He pulled the phone away from his ear and pressed the “off “ button. The cell tinkled its good-bye music and shut down. He stuffed it back into his pocket.

“We’d better get hiking.”

We stayed silent for a while after that as we trudged through San Diego desert, careful not to catch our clothes on the prickly cacti that lined the trail. Truth be told, I was too busy willing my heart to slow down to bother pursuing a conversation. I couldn’t believe how turned on that man could get me with a simple look. And then his fiancée had to show up via wireless transmission and ruin it all.

That was it. I had to stop putting myself in these situations. There was just too much chemistry between us when we were alone together, and it always made me hope for something more. But really, in the end, none of this was going to lead anywhere. He had Jennifer. They’d be married in a few months. That was reality and I needed to accept it. I wasn’t a home-wrecker, after all.

I thought about my dad’s other woman. Cindi with an “i”. Did she have the same worries, guilt, and fear when she first met my dad? Did he seduce her, make her fall in love with him and then let her sit and wonder if he’d ever leave his wife? Did she try to break it off, only to find out she was pregnant? What went through her heart when the stick turned pink? Was she overjoyed at the new life she’d created with a married man? Or overwhelmingly afraid that she may suddenly find herself a single mom?

I grimaced. I didn’t like thinking about Cindi with an “i” as a real person with doubts, fears, and insecurities. Better to think of her as the whore who broke up my parents’ marriage.

But was she?

About twenty minutes of troubling thoughts later, Jamie stopped and looked at his map and compared the coordinates to his GPS computer. “I think it’s right over that hill,” he said, pointing ahead to a cliff-face drop-off.

This was it! My pulse kicked up a notch in anticipation.

“Okay,” Jamie said in a low voice. “Let me turn on the camera.” He casually reached into the backpack and hit the record button, then closed it again. We had about an hour of run time before he’d have to switch tapes.

“Ready?” he asked.

I nodded and we started walking again. Our steps suddenly seemed uncomfortably loud, and I had the weird feeling we were being watched, though there was no one in sight.

My heart beat loudly in my chest. What if we got caught? What if they found the camera? Would they destroy the tape? Or would they do more? Torture us? Kill us? Oh, why had I thought this would be a good story idea? I would never be able to get a job on Newsline if I were dead!

We reached the brink of the cliff and looked down. There, about hundred yards away, sat a big warehouse. I could see excavators and other digging equipment. Oil wells dotted the landscape. But no tunnel.

“Is that it?” I asked, disappointed.

Jamie pointed the camera lens to get a few shots of the building. “Did you expect mounds of cocaine piled out in the open?”

“No.” I shrugged. “But maybe at least a giant tunnel. This could be anything. Looks like an oil field. Maybe Miguel was wrong.”

“They want you to think it’s an oil field. That way they can go about their business in secret, I’ll bet.” Jamie zoomed in the camera and panned the landscape below. “But would an oil field have armed guards flanking each side of the front door?”

I pulled out my binoculars and took a look. Sure enough, there were two camouflage-wearing, AK-47-carrying guards standing watch. “Wow, you’re right.” I set down the binoculars, hands trembling with fear. What if they looked up and saw us? Would they start shooting?

Calm down, Maddy. After all, Diane Dickson would not let fear get the best of her.

Good thing Jamie was doing the camerawork. My shaking hands would have made the video come out looking like the Blair Witch Project.

“Ooh! The doors!”

The guards stepped aside as the large warehouse doors swung silently open. A battered van with Mexican license plates drove out of the building. It stopped right outside and the driver killed the motor, but remained in the vehicle.

“I bet there are drugs inside,” Jamie said.

I grabbed his arm and pointed over to the far left of the building. “Someone’s driving up.”

Jamie turned the camera to zoom in on the new car approaching down a dirt road, its tires stirring up a cloud of desert dust. When the air cleared, I realized it was a brand-new black Mercedes SUV with tinted windows.

“This is so exciting,” I whispered as the door to the Mercedes opened. I’d never been on a stakeout before and the adrenaline pumping through my veins was better than any high.

“Yeah,” Jamie whispered back, sharing my enthusiasm.

A skinny man with curly black hair, wearing cutoff jeans and a wife-beater stepped out of the SUV. Not the kind of guy I’d have expected exiting the expensive automobile. He rubbed a handkerchief across his sweaty forehead and walked over to the van. One of the warehouse guards yanked open the sliding side door and the man leaned inside, as if to inspect the van’s contents.

I squinted my eyes. The guy didn’t look how I’d imagined a drug cartel member to look. I was thinking more John Gotti, I guess, not an out-of-work plumber. But, I reminded myself, it was doubtful Mr. Gotti actually made on-site appearances. This dude was probably just a courier.

I lifted the binoculars and zoomed in, hoping for a closer look, but I’d maxed the zoom out. “Piece of crap,” I muttered.

“I wonder who that guy is,” Jamie pondered aloud, still watching through the camera. “He’s got to be important. Look how they’re all watching him, waiting.”

I looked back through the binoculars. The man had pulled out a large bag of white powder from the truck and was examining it closely.

“Ooh, ooh!” I squealed, attempting to keep my ecstatic cries at a low decibel. Thank the Lord! We had the smoking gun! Or, in this case, the smoking cocaine. This was better than I’d dared dream. Newsline, Newsline here I come! “This is too good to be true. I feel like I’m watching a movie!”

“I can’t believe he’s doing this out in the open,” Jamie whispered back. “But then again, we’re pretty far from civilization. If you didn’t know where to look, you’d never find this place.

He was right. We were miles and miles from any marked roads or towns. The drug dealers probably felt they were perfectly safe. Imagine if they knew there was a TV crew above them on the ledge. That’d get the bullets flying, for sure. The thought made me crouch a little lower to the ground.

The Mercedes guy reached down to his boot and pulled out a knife. He slit open the bag and stuck a pinkie finger in the powder, bringing it to his lips.

“He’s tasting it. I bet he’s making sure it’s real.”

“This guy is like a walking-talking drug-dealing cliché.” Jamie laughed.

After tasting, the guy nodded to the guard and walked back to his SUV. The guards began to empty the van and transfer bag after bag into the back of his vehicle. It appeared the dealer had some kind of secret compartment underneath the floor to stash the drugs. Some bags had the white powder. Others seemed to contain multi-colored pills. Probably Ecstasy or something.

“Look at all of that,” Jamie whispered. “This isn’t some fly by night operation. It’s got to be from a major cartel.”

After loading up the SUV, the guards slammed its back doors shut. The man started up the engine and drove away. Once he was gone, the van driver circled around and drove back through the warehouse. The guards shut the door behind him.

“Mark the position of this building on your GPS,” I instructed Jamie as I zipped close the backpack. “We can go to the nearest town and look up the property records. See who owns the land.”

“Good idea.” Jamie recorded our coordinates, then looked at his watch. “It’s getting late, but if we hurry we may be able to catch them before they close. Save us another trip out to no-man’s-land.”

I personally doubted we’d get back in time, especially the way my feet were already aching from the hike out. But I was willing to give it a shot if it meant I was getting the hell out of there.

The setting sun cast a warm orange glow on the desert landscape as we headed back to the motorcycle. Neither of us spoke much, and we walked with a sense of urgency.

We made it back in record time and hopped on Jamie’s bike. I thought maybe my fear would help with desensitizing the feeling of wrapping my arms around him, but evidently not. He hit the brake with his foot, revved the engine and we took off.

The desert town of Calla Verda was one of those if-you-blink-you’ll-miss-it type places. There was a mayor’s office, a small grocer, and four bars packed with motorcross riders come from the city to play out in the desert. It was obvious how the town made its income. We hit the mayor’s office, but to our dismay it was already closed. The town evidently turned up its sidewalks at five p.m., save for the bar scene.

“Dammit,” I grumbled. “Now we’ll have to come out tomorrow.”

“You could call.”

“No. I would need to make photocopies of the records so we can videotape them. We’ll have to come back.”

Disappointed, we hopped back on the motorcycle and hit the road. A few miles out we saw an orange glow on the horizon.

“What’s that?” I yelled at Jamie, to be heard over the roar of the bike. I pointed to the glow.

He slowed the bike to a stop. With the land suddenly quiet, we could hear the faint, but pounding beats of techno music.

“I think it’s a rave,” he said.

“Ooh, we should get video for our story since we already have the undercover camera set up. I mean, raves are great to show the effects of drug use.”

“Sure. No problem.” Jamie gave the bike gas, and we headed for the light.

The area for the rave was a roped-off section of desert, not seemingly any different from the rest of the wasteland except for the crazy generator-powered lights and pulsating sounds. Under a small tent, a DJ spun techno and house tunes for a group of about fifty college-aged kids. They were all dressed like Lulu—with extra baggy pants, colored sneakers, and gobs of plastic kids’ jewelry worn around wrists and necks. Most had several piercings—some in pretty interesting spots.

We paid our ten dollars and walked past the ropes. Someone had lit a huge bonfire and the ravers were dancing around it like shamans at an Indian tribal dance. I was delighted. This would make great video for our story.

We wandered around getting shots of the ravers. No one seemed to mind being videotaped—in fact, several kids begged us to turn the camera on them so they could watch themselves through the view screen after a rewind. We were happy to oblige. A few were curious as to what the video was for, but a vague mention of some kind of reality something or other worked to appease them. This was the YouTube generation. They were used to cameras invading every part of a person’s existence.

I walked over to a vendor and waited in a ridiculous line to pay an obscene five dollars for a tiny bottle of water. As I headed back to Jamie, bottle in hand, I saw him talking to a small blond girl in pigtails, dressed in a candy-colored jumper. Jealousy burned my gut. After all, if Jamie were going to cheat on his fiancée, it should be with me. Not some random chick.

“Who was that?” I asked. The girl had scurried away at my approach. Little desert rat.

Jamie shrugged. “No one.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You look like you were having a pretty intense conversation for no one.” The moment the words left my lips I regretted them. Who was I to say who Jamie could talk to or not? Even if we were together, I was not that kind of girl. What had gotten into me? Jealous of the attention someone else’s guy was getting from another woman? Lame, Maddy. Truly lame.

“If you must know, she was trying to sell me drugs.” My eyes widened. “That girl? She was a drug dealer?

She didn’t even look sixteen.”

He shrugged. “I guess they must be slacking down at the drug dealer licensing department.”

“Ha, ha.” I took a sip of my water and offered some to Jamie. He slugged a good portion down. I grabbed it back. After paying five dollars I wanted more than one sip. “Still, that’s sad, don’t you think? I mean, she could be one of Lulu’s friends.”

She probably was one of Lulu’s friends, now that I thought about it. I guess thank God for small favors that my sister hasn’t gone down that road. Yet.

“Dude, you took the wrong water bottle.” A dread-locked, scrawny guy with really weird tattoos interrupted as he stalked over in our direction. He held out another, identical-looking bottle and looked expectantly at the one I was holding.

“Oh.” I looked at the two bottles. Between Jamie and me, we’d drunk most of ours. “Oh well. Might as well keep it, right? I mean more for you that way.”

Scrawny guy frowned. What was his problem? “Dude, I paid like thirty bucks for that.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You paid thirty bucks for water? I think you got ripped off, man.” I laughed and took another sip.

He rolled his eyes. “Not for the water, idiot. For the drugs dissolved in it.”

I choked.

“What drugs?” Jamie demanded. “Did you dose her drink?”

“Dude, it’s my drink. You think I wanted to waste my X on this chick? She’s not even cute.”

I sputtered, spitting the water out of my mouth onto the ground. Ohmigod. Ohmigod. Ohmigod. I’m drugged. I’d been drugged! I was going to pass out and wake up naked in some skanky guy’s trailer.

“You bastard!” I cried. “You drugged me!”

“Yeah, so, can I have my thirty bucks since you’re going to be rolling and I’m not?” Scrawny Guy whined.

“Get the f*ck out of here before I call the cops on you,” Jamie said, shoving him backward. Scrawny Guy must have realized he was no match for Jamie or not in the mood for cops and retreated, sad and drugless, into the sea of dancers. Jamie turned to me, grabbing me by my shoulders.

“Calm down, Maddy,” he commanded. “Don’t panic.”

“Don’t panic?” I cried. “Don’t panic? I’ve just taken drugs! Illegal drugs. What’s going to happen to me? Am I going to hallucinate? Will I see God? Oh, God, I don’t think I’m ready to see God!”

Jamie groaned. “It’s just Ecstasy, Maddy. I took it once or twice in college. You’re not going to see anything. You’re going to feel really warm and fuzzy and great in a few minutes and it’ll last for about four hours. As long as we keep you well hydrated there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Are … are you sure?”

“Yes. You only had a few sips of water. You probably didn’t even get a full dose. We’ll just hang out here by the fire.”

“Maybe we should find a hospital. I mean, just in case.” I hated that I sounded wimpy, but, well, I was.

Jamie shook his head. “Can’t. I drank the water, too. It’d be unsafe for me to drive. And we know there’s no cell reception out here to call anyone.”

“Great. We’re going to die out here in the desert and no one will even know where to look for us.”

Jamie shook me. “Listen to me, Maddy. We’re going to be fine. As long as you don’t panic. Just let the drug move in gradually. And soon it will be gone. And someday you’ll look on this and laugh.”

“I doubt it.” I sulked. But already I felt my insides warming. And the concern and fear I felt a few seconds before were gradually slipping away. Damn drug. I should be frightened to death. Now all I could think about was how they called Ecstasy the “love drug.”

And Jamie and I were rolling together.



The Raver’s Guide to Ecstasy



The Multifaceted Jewel: Ecstasy use can lead to world healing and inner peace. The pill can catalyze a powerful experience that takes many different forms. It can induce an intense, spiritual high or lead to loving relaxation. It can connect people freely and openly with each other or promote deep inner thinking and analysis.



TIPS WHILE ON ECSTASY



Drink lots of water to replenish bodily fluids. Otherwise you may die of heatstroke and that would be a bad thing.

Even if you don’t feel tired or overheated, stop dancing for a while—to chill out. (See above tip about heatstroke and dying.)

Outside raves, maintain a healthy diet. Take vitamins. Get a good night’s sleep. This will also ensure that your parents don’t think you’re a f*ck-up and will allow you to go to more raves, thus giving you extra chances to explore yourself through Ecstasy.

Watch out for impure Ecstasy—bad drug dealers will try to sell you pills laced with amphetamines, LSD, heroin, and PCP. If you want to take these drugs on your own, fine. But don’t encourage dealers to skimp on the active ingredient (MDMA) in Ecstasy pills. The rest of us non-hardcore druggies will thank you.

Alcohol reduces or changes the effects of the drug. Besides, most of you are not old enough to legally drink it, so leave the beer at home!