The Notorious Pagan Jones. Nina Berry
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Pagan Jones went from America’s sweetheart to fallen angel in one fateful night in 1960: the night a car accident killed her whole family. Pagan was behind the wheel and driving drunk. Nine months later, she’s stuck in the Lighthouse Reformatory for Wayward Girls and tortured by her guilt—not to mention the sadistic Miss Edwards, who takes special delight in humiliating the once-great Pagan Jones.
But all of that is about to change. Pagan’s old agent shows up with a mysterious studio executive, Devin Black, and an offer. Pagan will be released from juvenile detention if she accepts a juicy role in a comedy directed by award-winning director Bennie Wexler. The shoot starts in West Berlin in just three days. If Pagan’s going to do it, she has to decide fast—and she has to agree to a court-appointed “guardian,” the handsome yet infuriating Devin, who’s too young, too smooth and too sophisticated to be some studio flack.
The offer’s too good to be true, Berlin’s in turmoil and Devin Black knows way too much about her—there’s definitely something fishy going on. But if anyone can take on a divided city, a scheming guardian and the criticism of a world that once adored her, it’s the notorious Pagan Jones. What could go wrong?
The Notorious Pagan Jones
Nina Berry
For Natalie Downing
And for all who struggle with addiction
About the Author
NINA BERRY was born in Honolulu, studied writing and film in Chicago, and now works and writes in Hollywood. She is the author of the Otherkin series. When she’s not writing, Nina does her best to go bodysurfing, explore ancient crypts or head out on tiger safari. But mostly she’s on the couch with her cats reading a good book.
Contents
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Acknowledgments
The History Behind Pagan Jones
“Hollywood is a place where they’ll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul.”
—MARILYN MONROE
“Berlin. What a garrison of spies! What a cabinet full of useless liquid secrets. What a playground for every alchemist, miracle worker, and rat piper that ever took up the cloak.”
—JOHN LE CARRÉ
Time in solitary goes by with unbearable slowness when you’ve killed every member of your family. With nothing for Pagan Jones to do but pace the five steps back and forth between the walls of a former broom closet, it wasn’t surprising that all she could think about was blood and shattered glass and her baby sister’s final scream.
At Lighthouse Reformatory for Wayward Girls, a summer Saturday night usually offered up a group dinner of canned beef stew followed by a Lawrence Welk rerun. But here in solitary, Pagan had only a hard narrow cot next to a seatless toilet, a sink, and four blank walls reflecting back her darkest thoughts.
Miss Edwards herself came bearing a tray of congealing food in her bony hands. Her heavily starched black uniform rustled as she set the tray down on Pagan’s cot. Waitressing creamed corn and meat loaf would have normally been beneath her. But from the smirk on those narrow lips, Pagan could tell Miss Edwards had made an exception so she could take in every moment of Pagan’s humiliation.
It took every ounce of Pagan’s self-control not to grab the woman’s skeletal upper arms and shake her, but then she’d never know what had happened to her roommate after their aborted escape attempt the night before. She swallowed down her anger and asked, “Could you tell me, please. What happened to Mercedes?”
Miss Edwards lifted her narrow shoulders in a sad little shrug.
Horror threatened to close up Pagan’s throat. Mercedes couldn’t be dead. “You have to tell me if she’s okay, at the very least!” It came out louder, more desperate than she wanted. “What happened?”
The matron’s shark-like smile widened. “What makes you think you deserve to know?”
Pagan fought back a flush of shame. She didn’t deserve anything. She knew that. She’d earned a fate far worse than two years locked up in Lighthouse. But ever since the night she drove her cherry-red Corvette off Mulholland Drive, killing her father and younger sister, a kind of claustrophobia had closed in. It wasn’t a fear of enclosed spaces. More like a need to know she had a way out of any situation. As soon as the judge had sentenced her to reform school, the remorseless itch had taken hold. Any situation she couldn’t extricate herself