The right pair of shoes can change your life forever. An overstatement, maybe, but that's what Nia Lawson was thining when she put on the silver Jimmy Choo heels, stood in front of the full-length mirror affixed to the inside of her closet door, and whispered, "Thank you, Jesus, for these shoes." Nia had read Baum's Wizard of Oz - and in the book, the magical slippers were silver. Ruby may have looked better in Technicolor, but silver was the original idea, so Nia saw these silver slippers - these thousand-dollar marvels of modern couture - as her own personal talisman. For the past nine years, she'd been lost, but these babies would take her back up that Yellow Brick Road, the road to stardom. She just knew it. Plus, they made her legs look awesome. Nia stared at her reflection - checked it out, the same way a man would, starting at the shoes, then climbing the length of her smooth, tanned legs, across the red miniskirt clinging to the soft bow of her hips, then up, lingering on the black silk blouse, unbuttoned just enough to show the generosity of nature. Nia ran her fingers through her platinum hair and gave the mirror her most seductive look: the one with the half-closed eyes, the moist, parted lips, the throat, offered up like a creamy dessert… "Oh, Mr. Big Shot," Nia said to the mirror in her Some Like it Hot voice. "You're making me blush ever so." Ten years ago, one of those tabloids - the crazy ones with the headlines about alien abductions and Hitler's secret love child - one of them had run a story claiming "scientific proof" that Nia was the reincarnation of Marilyn Monroe. That was back when she first hit - when she'd just left the teen drama Life as I Know It, and was shooting her first movie, The Taste of Saffron, and Vanity Fair included Nia on its Hot Young Hollywood cover and no one could mention her name without saying "It Girl" first. That was when Esquire waxed philosophical about "the sweet rebellion" of Nia's natural curves and her publicist was suggesting she insure her ass for one million dollars, "so we can give something cute to People." It was before she met Mack Calloway - California congressman, former pro-basketball player, happily married father of two, with the house in Mission Viejo and the big, fluffy golden retriever… The Next President of the United States. It was before she met Mack and slept with Mack and fell in love with Mack and talked to the wrong person about Mack… her stylist, Renee, whom she had considered a friend. It was before Renee told the whole story to a tabloid reporter and Mack said, "How could you, Nia?" and she became Marilyn for real. Homewrecker Marilyn. "Happy Birthday, Mr. President" Marilyn. Mack's marriage fell apart, along with his presidential bid. "You ruined my life," he said. And though she swore to him she hadn't spoken to the tabloids, he didn't believe her. No one believed her. The Taste of Saffron tanked. Nia's agent dropped her. Her publicist dropped her too. She accepted a $200,000 offer from Playboy - but outside of a stint on The Surreal World, that was the last high-profile job Nia ever got. Until now. Well, she had yet to sign an actual contract - but that was only a matter of time, with Mr. Big Shot in her life. "You've still got it," Mr. Big Shot had told her. "If anything, you've got it even more." Mr. Big Shot had given her the shoes. She'd found them in front of her door in a box with a big, red bow on top. No note, but she knew they were from him. She turned around, admired the stiletto heels, delicate as wishbones. "You even knew my size. I'm ever so flattered." Nia heard a knock on her apartment door. She dropped the pose and scurried up to it, thousand-dollar shoes clacking on the floorboards as if they couldn't believe they were stuck here, in this eight-hundred-dollar-a-month roach palace, so close to LAX that if you opened your window you could smell jet fuel. She pressed her cheek up against the smooth door and peered through the peephole. Mr. Big Shot was wearing a dark t-shirt and jeans, and said, "Hello, Nia," as if he knew she was watching him. Even his voice was important. As she opened the door, her heart pounded so she could feel it in her throat, her cheeks. Nia hadn't felt this way since Mack, and she wasn't sure what was causing it. Was it him, or was it the idea of him? He said, "You look perfect." "How did you know my shoe-size?" He smiled. His teeth were so white - a white more suitable for cameras than the real world. "Careful research," he said. And Nia found herself smiling back. "You are good." He walked into her apartment. Nia had spent the past five hours cleaning it. She'd mopped the floors with Murphy Oil Soap and scrubbed the bathroom fixtures until they gleamed. She'd vacuumed her throw-rug and laundered the sheets that covered her futon and dusted the coffee table within an inch of its long and battered life. She'd Windexed the framed Saffron poster that hung over her stereo - the only evidence of success she'd been able to hold on to, the rest having gone to creditors years before. She'd bought fresh flowers - tiger lilies and orchids - and put them in a vase she'd soaped and rinsed for half an hour. She'd even cleaned out the inside of her toaster, yet still she felt compelled to say it: "Sorry about the mess." "I don't see any mess, Nia." He was tall - easily a head taller than her - and by that virtue alone he seemed to overpower the one little room. But it was his status that made him enormous. As she watched him moving around her apartment, clicking off a lamp, drawing the shades closed, bending down to examine her collection of CDs with such quiet authority, Nia felt him taking over. Soon it was as if her entire living space and everything in it belonged to him - her included. Had it always been this overpowering, dating VIPs? "Do you want to listen to some music?" she said. He smiled clicked on the radio and found a station he liked. One of those easy-listening stations they played in doctors' offices, the whispering deejay promising "music to relax by." No doubt it had some form of L-I-T-E in the call letters. Nia hated this crap. She was partial to guitar rock - Nickelback, The Offspring - though at thirty she was trying to grow out of it. She'd bought herself some John Mayer, some Coldplay. But she would never like this stuff. Not ever. A pale, liquid song started to play - probably Kenny G or Yanni or someone else to wimpy to use his full name. "Perfect." He turned the music up loud. She forced a smile. "Yes." Well, taste in music wasn't everything. He moved toward the futon and sat down on it, patting the space next to him. His hand was very large and smooth, like polished rock. As Nia walked, she realized her legs were shaking. He said, "Don't be nervous." She closed her eyes for a few seconds, focused on the Kenny G or whatever it was. Compose, she told herself. Compose…. And by the time she was finally ready to speak, she had found it, the Some Like it Hot voice. "I'm not nervous. I'm excited. And that is ever so different." She could barely hear herself over the music. He leaned in close. She smelled the chemical mint of his breath. "Excited?" "Yes." "Why?" "Why?" "You're sweating." He touched the tip of his finger to her upper lip. "Right there. Do you always sweat there when you're….excited?" She didn't like the way he was looking at her, didn't like the way he brought the finger to his mouth and licked off her sweat. It wasn't sexy. It made Nia feel like a science experiment and that, combined with the song…she'd never heard anything so soulless in her life. It sounded like a cell phone. It occurred to her that he might not be very good in bed, but then she brushed the thought out of her mind. Don't pull diva attitude. Beggars can't be choosers. She said, "Do you mind if I turn the music down, sweetie? I can't hear myself think." "What?" She spoke more loudy. "Do you--" "I'm just shitting you," he said. But when she got up to change it, he grabbed her hand and pulled her back down. "Pwetty please? I really like this song." Pwetty please? "Uh… sure, okay." He touched her hair, brushed his lips against hers so softly that the softness lingered, made her crave more. She thought, What's wrong with a little baby talk? Nobody's perfect… She felt his hand on her waist and a warmth spread through her. "You really are so Marilyn," he said. "Thank you." "Thank you what, Marilyn?" "Thank you ever so." He smiled, and the music began to sound okay - well, not heinous at least. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her, but instead he said, "You want to know something interesting about Marilyn Monroe?" "Sure." "She never left a suicide note." "I… I knew that." "Of course you did." He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. "Can I use your bathroom?" "Yeah. It's right over there." "Don't go away. I've got a surprise." He went into the bathroom, and she thought, Surprise? And soon he was standing over her, both hands behind his back. "Pick one." "Huh?" He nodded at each of his shoulders. "Go on." "You have a present for me?" "Two. But you have to pick." A smile played at Nia's lips. She imagined turquoise boxes from Tiffany, airline tickets for Rome, a movie script with the perfect part… "Eenie, meenie, minie, mo…" She pointed at the left hand, and around it came. It held a small plastic bottle of pills. I don't do pills, she started to say. But she didn't get past the word "don't" before she noticed the glove - pale blue latex, like the kind a dentist would wear. She looked at the label on the pills, Nembutal, and her pulse sped up. She knew what Nembutal was, knew Marilyn had killed herself with it. "Is this… some kind of joke?" "Want to see the other hand?" "No." He clicked his tongue. "Pwetty please, Mawilyn?" Tears sprung into her eyes. This isn't funny. It isn't funny to take someone's dream and just… "I… I don't like this game." "Aww. You don't wike it." One of the tears slipped down her cheek. "Please stop." "Crybaby." "I want you to leave. Now." He showed her all his white, white teeth. "I don't think so." The right hand came around. She saw the glove first, and for some reason it took a few seconds longer to register what was in it. The long, narrow blade… the ugly black hilt. He touched the point to the hollow of her throat. She felt a slight sting, and the anger disappeared, devoured by fear, raw fear. This can't be happening. Please, please let this be a dream, please, please, please I'll never do anything wrong again, I promise… He brought it away, but just long enough to show Nia the red drop, glistening on the metal. This wasn't a dream. There would be no more dreams. Nia tried to scream, but he clamped that gloved hand over her mouth, held the knife to her throat, and then the scream died. Why? She wanted to ask, why me? But she couldn't say a word. "Relax, Nia," he said. "You picked the pills." As he dragged her into the bathroom, Nia found herself thinking for the first time in years of Mack Calloway's face. The sweetness of his smile.

TRASHED - CHAPTER ONE