Chapter 25: Alyson Hannigan

It's true what they say about your life flashing before your eyes right before you think you are going to die. For me, that happened in those few seconds right before my BMW landed like a breaching whale into the dark ocean off the California coast. I saw lots of things and lots of people - my family, my friends, the girls who had broken my heart, the girls I had fallen in love with and all the flings and one night stands in between.

I could see nothing in front of me beyond the black horizon that the headlights lit up, a dizzying sense of floating overwhelming me as I braced for the thud into the water. By some sort of miracle, my car managed to hit the water almost completely level, the front end where the engine lay pulling me down only slightly. Whatever you can imagine falling off a cliff over 100 feet into water below is nothing compared to what it really feels like.

With all the grace of a brick hitting concrete, my car smacked into the crashing surface of the waves with a jolt, sending my head rocketing towards the roof of the car painfully, the force of the hit enough to break my jaw, my mouth filling with blood immediately. And for a moment, just a split second, after I hit the water, I felt like I was going to be okay. As if the water would somehow float my car and let me gently swim away from it to shore. But then the reality of physics took hold and I began to sink, nothing but deep ocean bottom beneath me to stop the plunge. The first thing I felt after I hit was the icy cold January water seeping in through the cracks at the doors. Slowly at first, then coming in as a torrent, the air escaping from cracks and holes in the cars frame work that I didn't even know existed. The water rose quickly, first to my ankles, then to my knees, and then to the middle of my chest, before I even had a chance to react.

The engine had gone dead now, all that fancy safety technology for walking away from an accident useless as I sank. I struggled with my seat belt, my instincts taking over now as I didn't act rationally but only like an animal, struggling to survive. I saw out of the corner of my eye the surreal image of the water overtaking the night sky above me as I sank. The water was up to my neck now as I lifted my head towards the roof, grasping at all the air I could suck into my lungs. My body was cold, colder than I had ever been in my life, as the water finally finished seeping in, filling every available pocket of space in the vehicle. I held my breath, opening my eyes to look around in the murkiness of the vehicle, trying to make out familiar shapes. Thankfully, the headlights of the car were still somehow on, allowing me enough light to tell what was up and what was down. My mind raced as I tried to think of what I had in my car that was heavy, what I could use to break the window and swim out, my only chance for survival now.

I felt the car gently land with a thud on the bottom of the sea floor, the front plowing softly into the mud and mirk, kicking up dirt all around me. Half swimming, half leaning, I felt around in the backseat for something, ANYTHING to help me. My lungs burned now, running out of air as I frantically tried to escape. I had always been able to hold my breath longer than my childhood friends growing up, and I hoped that skill would pay off now. My head felt dizzy now, things becoming black all around me as the car belched and spit out gases and air from... the trunk? Yes, of course!

I grabbed onto the back seat of the car, feeling around blindly for the switch that I knew would lower the seat and open up into the trunk. My hand finally touched onto a hard piece of plastic and I yanked, pulling hard. The pressure inside the car fought me, but after a moment I was able to get the seat down and see inside the pitch black of the trunk. I jammed my body halfway in, seeing that the trunk had not yet filled totally with water (God bless those Germans and their water tight design, I thought). I pushed my nose to the surface by the roof of the trunk, my face hitting the metal of the inside as I inhaled a whiff of life saving air. The water from the rest of the car was quickly filling in, gurgling like a stream into the air pocket.

Wedging my whole body now inside the trunk, I felt around for what I knew would save me: the child lock in the trunk. If I could just open that, whose very design was to keep people from suffocating inside of car trunks, I could use the force of the air inside to counteract the water pressure and hopefully get out. My hand touched it and I grabbed hold, pulling. It didn't budge. Frantic now, I yanked harder and harder, putting the weight of my shoulder against it. Things were going black now, my lungs on fire like the hottest fires of hell, and my body began to feel weak and tired, as if I had no energy left. Determined, I kept focused not on the pain that had spread from my lungs to my chest and legs, but onto the effort of pushing against the trunk. Finally, just as I was about to lose conscience completely, I felt a pulling on the other side of the trunk as the buyoancy that was left in the car, combined with my shoving and jostling, opened the trunk door.

By now there was nowhere else for the water to go and once the trunk was opened, the pressure seemed to magically dissapear. Inspired by my success, I wriggled out from the trunk and into the open water. I could make out the faint light of the moon above me, which meant that I was not too deep in the water. Kicking my legs like crazy, I moved agonizingly slowly up to the surface of the water.

Feet seemed to pass like miles as I raced as hard as I could, my last bit of energy spent on moving upwards towards the surface. Time seemed to slow down to a crawl as I kept my eyes focused above me, the pain of the water rushing against them, the salt from the sea stinging each and every nerve cell, almost unbearable. The light became more and more clear now and I couldn't tell if I was near the surface or dying. Still I kicked.

A second later, just as the last strength in my legs escaped me, my head broke the surface. I gasped deep, rich breaths of air, my body feeling as if it was without any weight. I thrust my arms to the surface and treaded water with strength I didn't know I had. A wave crashed on top of me, plunging my head back under for a second, but I held on and fought, pulling myself back to the surface. Blinking my eyes rapidly, I tried to get my bearings to see how far from shore I was.

Off in the distance, I saw a series of rocks jutting from the water and began to half swim, half float to them, the strength of the waves carrying me most of the way. I reached them within a few strokes and my hands brushed over the slimy surface of their jagged edge as my fingers wrapped tightly onto them, clinging desperately. The rock I had flung myself onto was big, it's point sticking out about three feet over the waves. The neighboring rocks around it were also quite large and I noticed one with a smooth, flat surface to it. Letting go of the one I held to, I made my way slowly to it.

I managed to get my foot onto a jutting crevice beneath it, my heavy leather shoes providing very little traction. I climbed upwards onto it and collapsed onto the base, my fingers hugging the otherside tightly.

My jaw ached and my fingers were red and bloody from the encounter with the rocks, the stinging water and it's coldness making them throb, but I knew I had made it. I was alive.

I don't know how long I clung to that rock, or how I made it to shore, nor do I remember waking up in the hospital, my mouth numb from pain medicine and my body wrapped tightly in blankets to get warm. Opening my eyes was an effort in and of itself, but I was glad that when I did open them, I saw Damon, my assistant, standing there.

"Hey man, you're awake," he said. He was sitting in a chair near the bed, his clothes looking like he had slept in them.

"Where am I?" I asked.

"You're in a hospital just outside of Santa Monica. Some surfers found you this morning, passed out on some rocks and they took you to shore. Lucky for you they were considerate enough to say it was an accident and not let the police know about what happened. Your jaw was bleeding pretty badly and the doctor says you lost three of your back teeth, but at least you are alive," he said gravenly. They must have found my wallet and called the office. I'm sure that when they couldn't reach anyone, they called Damon, who was one of the emergency contacts in case anything happened to the agency.

Feeling around in my mouth with my tongue, which felt heavy and thick, I noticed the gap he was talking about. Two teeth were missing in the very back of my mouth on the left side and one on the right. I must have knocked them out when I hit the roof right as the car splashed down.

"How long have I been asleep?" I asked groggily. My mind was beginning to unfog as I tried to remember what had happened to get me here.

"Well, you were in shock when they brought you in, screaming like a banshee the doctor said, so they gave you some morphine and knocked you out. How do you feel?" Damon asked.

"I feel like shit. But I'll make it through. What about the cops? What do they know about the people who sent me into the water?" I asked.

"Cops? No one even knows what happened yet, it happened too late last night. We don't even know how you got into the water in the first place. Unless of course, you'd like to TELL me what happened," Damon said, his face showing that he was eager to know more.

I proceeded to recount as best as I could remember the details of what happened: How after leaving the office following a wonderful night with Julia Stiles, I followed a guy who had been sneaking around the office. And how he had called me on my cell phone (something I still didn't know how he got) and then how I had been run off the road and barely managed to escape from the car.

Damon's face had turned ashen almost, taking in every detail with a look of shock and confusion and anger.

"So who do you think it was? Why would someone try to kill you like that? I mean, no offense man, but you aren't anybody THAT famous," Damon said, standing up now and pacing the room as he lost himself in thought.

"That my friend is the $64,000 question. When I get out of here, I'm going to set out to figure that out," I said, trying to sit up in the bed. Damon rushed over to stop me.

"No, no, hey bro take it easy. The doctor said you can leave first thing in the morning but he wants you to stay the night just in case there was any kind of internal damage. Let me go get him in here and you can explain what happened," Damon said, walking out the door.

I collapsed back onto the sterile pillow of the bed, the drabness of the room sedative in it's decorum. The doctor and Damon returned in a few minutes and after mentioning the part about being run off the road, the doctor called for the one duty police officer in the hospital to come and take my statement. By the time I finished telling the story for the third time, I was exhausted. Damon told me that he would let me get some sleep and left me alone in the room flicking off the light as I slipped off into a drug induced dream.

The next day, after checking myself out from the hospital, I returned to the office, determined to find out what happened. I was surprised when I arrived to find that the entire staff had gotten me one of those oversized novelty cards and signed it. And on top of that, Damon presented me with a normal size card, adorned with signatures from some of the firms best and brightest clients.

"I acted discreetly about this, getting as many as I could last night. I didn't want to tell anyone why you were in the hospital so that it didn't sneak into the papers again like what happened with Natalie. So I just told them you were sick," Damon whispered as he handed me the card.

"Thanks man, I really appreciate that. But right now, I want to get to the bottom of this thing," I said as I walked quickly into my office.

"Uh Dean," Damon called to me as I opened the door.

"What?" I said, stepping in and in the process bumping right into and knocking over Alyson Hannigan.

"Oh! Geez Alyson, I didn't see you standing there! Damon, why didn't you tell me that she was in my office?" I said, shooting him a scowl from across the room as I bent down to help her up.

"I tried to. But you didn't slow down," he said. I shot him another dirty look but then returned my attention to Alyson.

"I'm terribly sorry," I said as I helped her to her feet.

"That's ok. I heard you outside but I shouldn't have even been waiting in your office in the first place. That's what waiting rooms are for I guess," Alyson said sheepishly.

"No, don't worry about it," I said as I made my way to my desk. "I'd ask you to come in and have a seat but we've already taken care of that part I think. Now, to what do I owe this privilege?"

"Well, I had made an appointment with you last week. Damon said this was the only time you were available. So I get up early and drive all the way here to see you and then he tells me that you were in the hospital all night! Are you okay?" she asked, a look of concern on her face. Alyson wore a jean jacket with a white t-shirt underneath and a pair of black Capri pants. Her short red hair was pulled back behind her ears.

"No, it's fine. I'm fine. Just a little late getting in, that's all," I lied. Part of me was putting up my business front while another part of my mind was still stuck fiddling with the puzzle in my head over what happened yesterday.

"You sure? Your face looks a little, well, swollen," she said, pointing to my right cheek. I ran a hand over it and it was a little hard and puffy I could tell.

"Yeah, it's no problem. I just had some trouble with my jaw. Any ways, what's up?" I asked, changing the subject.

"I came to ask for your advice on my career," she said with a deep breath.

"Well, I'm your agent. That's what I'm here for. You want off of Buffy, is that it?" I asked, shuffling some paper work on my desk but not really paying attention to her.

"No, I love 'Buffy' and being on the show and all that. I was talking more about my film career. I want to do more movies, but I'm afraid that I'm going to be type cast as the 'One time, at band camp... ' girl," she said. Her legs were crossed and she bounced an ankle up and down on her thigh. I had seen many women do this before - it meant that they had something on their mind and they were determined to do it.

"Ok. But Alyson, those movies aren't exactly a bad thing. They've made almost $500 million combined in box office receipts alone. Do you know what kind of power that has when I go to the bargaining table with a studio? It's tremendous," I said to her.

"I know that. And again, they are a lot of fun to do. But I want something else. I want something deeper, something besides a catch phrase and a running gag," she said.

"Like what?" I asked.

"Well, something more dramatic. Something more... sexy," she said, shaking her head in self agreement with what she had just said.

"Sexy? Alyson, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you've only gotten into this business as far as you have not because you are sexy. You're cute, your attractive. You have that girl-next-door look going for you. Sorry, but Sarah Gellar is the type who exudes sexiness. Not you, not in the roles you have done so far in your career," I said. I hated being so blunt, but sometimes stars egos get out of control and they think that they can do any kind of role.

Alyson looked shocked - as if someone had just killed her beloved puppy or something. She stood up from her chair furiously.

"You! You can't say that... you're my agent! You can't... I mean, I'm... don't tell me... I am too sexy!" she said, the anger in her voice rising. Her copper red hair flew wildly around her head, her face turning a deep shade of red in her anger and frustration, her high cheek bones and freckles looking like spotted apples.

"Alyson, calm down. I've had a rough past 24 hours. I didn't mean to be so harsh on you, it's just... I have a lot on my mind, that's all,"

Alyson sighed to herself and I could tell she was mulling over if I was being honest or not. "I wish you could tell me why things were so rough, but Damon out there said that it was a personal problem. Regardless, I still can't believe you don't think I could pull off a sexy role. Didn't you see my pictures in FHM?"

"Yes, I did. And that was quite the interview you gave. But again, it all comes down to how the audience perceives you. Buffy fans wouldn't have a problem with it I'm sure, but the rest of the general public I'm not so sure about. And to get those kind of vamp roles, you have to be sure about it or else the studios will go with someone else," I said to her, reclining back in my chair. My jaw and head throbbed mercilessly and though I enjoyed Alyson's company, I simply wasn't in the mood to get into a long argument with a star over her roles.

"Hmm... well, I'll tell you what. Why don't you come over to my place tonight. I'll fix you dinner and then I'll show you how sexy I can be," Alyson said with a wry smile as her fingers danced invitingly over the leather of the chair she sat in.

I pondered the invitation for a moment - my mind and most of my body said to just go home and recuperate, but as always my dick had other ideas. "Alright. What time?" I said with a half smile, half sigh.

"Let's say 7:00. You have my address in your Rolodex, right?" she said. I nodded. "Great! Ok, I'll see you then. Oh and Dean, it would be very gentlemanly of you to bring some wine you know,"

"I'll see what I can do. See you at 7:00," I replied as Alyson walked out of the office, her hips swishing as she walked. Was she really not cut out for a sexy role? I honestly didn't know. I knew that tonight though, I'd find out.

That afternoon, I busied myself with a mountain of contracts and submitted forms by wanna-be actors and actresses. It was incredible the amount of girls that came in and left their resumes. Girls of all colors, dispositions and types - black, white, asian, thin, voluptuous, runway model thin, brown hair, blond hair, black hair, GREEN hair... after a while, they all started to look alike. Part of me felt bad that most of these women would try so hard to get into the business and yet never make it. Some would return home heartbroken; others would wind up staying in town, finding another wanna-be actor (or actress) and shack up together, further expanding LA's population. And even a handful ended up in the adult film world, making pornos for the quick money that it brought about. And yet, here I was in the middle of everything, knee deep in some of the hottest stars and I hadn't done a damn thing to earn it. The accident the night before had put things in perspective - maybe I needed a change of scene. Maybe I needed something new and fresh. But now was not a good time, I couldn't just walk away. Not with so much to do and so many people depending on me...

I rubbed my temples and traced my hand over my jaw, feeling the slight swelling that made my cheek puffy. I had downed four Advil just a half hour earlier and was still waiting on it to kick in. Around 2:00 though, Damon came in and sat down and gave me something else to think about besides my busted mouth and the meaning of the Hollywood business.

"Dean, I have an idea. I think I know how we can find out more info about those guys that tried to kill you last night," Damon said excitedly.

"Oh yeah? How's that?" I asked.

"Well, a few years ago my roommate in college kept getting these weird calls from this guy in the middle of the night, saying some really bizarre things. At first we thought it was funny but then the guy kept doing it, every night, at different times. So we got his phone number through star 69, but every time we tried to call HIM, there was no answer. When the calls kept on coming, my friend finally just got pissed off and hired a private investigator. Within a few hours, the guy had given us his address, name, where he worked and his license plate number. We waited for the guy to get home and I think scared him a little and the calls stopped. And it's all due to the PI," Damon said.

"That's great man, but I don't think that the description I could give would be enough to let him track it down. We should probably just call the police," I said.

"I thought you didn't want them getting involved because it was too high profile?" Damon asked. He had me there, I had forgotten about the buzz it might cause if some cop said something to his kids about it.

"You're right. Hmmm... have you got this investigator's number?" I said.

"Right here," Damon replied, handing me a small business card. It read FRANK MCALLISTER - INVESTIGATOR and gave a phone number and email address, although surprisingly no office location.

"Thanks. I'll give him a call in a bit," I said. Damon headed out of the office: "Don't mention it. Just trying to help,"

I played with the card in my hands for a few minutes, thinking about what he said. This guy might know his stuff, but could he really hunt down the two thugs who ran me off the road based solely on my description of them and their cars? It was worth a shot I suppose - if they knew I was still alive, they might come after me a little bit harder next time and I might as well get the jump on THEM.

I dialed the number, letting it ring six or seven times. I was two rings away from hanging up and telling Damon he gave me the wrong number when a gruff voice, almost identical to the ones you imagine a private detective would have, answered. "What?" he said.

"Is this Frank McAllister?" I said.

"Yea, that's me. What do you want?" he said hoarsely. I could only imagine what this guy looked like.

"I was referred to you by one of your past clients. Well, not your client exactly, more of a friend of,"

"Get to the point. You've got my number, now what do you want?" he interrupted. I resented being interrupted, but I hoped that meant that he wanted to get straight down to business.

"Well, I had an incident last night with two men who tried to kill me and I need your help in tracking them down. The problem is, I have no idea who they were. Can you help?" I asked.

"Maybe. Give me their description and everything that happened," McAllister said. I spent the next ten minutes reciting (for the third time) the whole scenario and what had happened, straining to remember everything I could about the incident. The entire time I was greeted by silence on the other end and when I finished, I thought he had hung up, or at the very least was ignoring me.

"Uh-huh. Is that all?" he finally said. "Anything else you can remember?"

"No, that's it. I just got out of the hospital this morning and," I said, abbreviating my spiel because of his apparent distaste for long-windedness.

"Alright. Let me get your name and number and I should have something for you in a few hours," McAllister said with a heavy sigh. It seemed like it was a strain to him just to hold a conversation with me.

"Well, I'll be at home probably by the time you call, so call me there. 555-0417. And my name is Dean,"

"Ok Dean, I'll give you a call when I learn anything. We can discuss payment at that point," McAllister said, hanging up without so much as a goodbye. I glanced at the phone in bewilderment, wondering if I'd ever get anything out of this.

That night I headed out to Alyson's house, borrowing one of the company cars to get there. Alyson lived alone, in a fairly normal upper middle class neighborhood not too far from a lot of the happening places in LA. Her house was a two-story pueblo design, the exterior a soft mix of pastel oranges and greens. Anyone who happened to drive by would hardly assume it was home to such a rising star as Alyson, but I think that she wanted to keep things that way - to stay normal and "connected" to the roots of the rest of society.

She had left the porch light on for me, as well as a note inside the handle of the door: "Dean, come in. I'm upstairs taking a shower." the note read. Following her advice, I stepped inside. I was immediately overwhelmed by the wafting scent of food being prepared, some sort of baked chicken with a hint of spices to it from the smell.

I made my way to the kitchen and saw that Alyson had set out a plate for each of us and that a pan of the chicken I had smelled was cooling in the middle of the table. Hearing footsteps behind me, I turned around and was amazed to find Alyson standing there.

Wearing just a light purple silk robe that barely covered up to her thighs, Alyson's red hair hung wetly by her shoulders. She wore no make up, but didn't need it - the heat of the shower was enough to bring out the cute freckles on her face, giving her face a rosy glow. The overhead light of the kitchen hit her copper red hair at just the right angle, giving her the appearance of a fiery lioness, ready to devour her freshly fallen prey.

"Hi Dean! I'm so happy you decide to come and that you read my note," Alyson said, planting a quick kiss on my cheek. Her skin and body smelled soft and clean, the soap of the shower giving off a slight perfume like smell that was almost dizzying.

"I'd never miss a meal with a client Alyson, so you shouldn't have worried about that," I said, taking a seat at the table. She joined me across the way and we began to eat. The chicken was delicious - a tangy herbal lemon flavoring added to the chicken breast to give it just the right amount of moistness. With it came wild rice, mixed and served with freshly sliced onions and peppers. On top of that was a helping of steamed green beans and corn. All of this Alyson made herself and as I remarked to her upon finishing, it was absolutely exquisite.

"I'm glad you liked it. Cooking was a hobby for me as a little girl and, well since this acting thing took off, I don't have as much time to do it. So I enjoy those rare chances I get to prepare food for anyone," Alyson said. "Would you like some champagne?"

I nodded and she brought the bottle over, holding it in her hands, the mouth facing me.

"Would you open this? I always have the hardest time getting these damn things open," Alyson said, gripping the base of the bottle. I twisted in the corkscrew and pulled hard. For a second, I thought the cork wouldn't budge, but then with a loud POP it came out. The force of it startled Alyson and she jumped back instinctively. For just a split second I could see the faintest tip of her nipple poke out through her shirt as her small breasts jiggled with the sudden movement. And then like that it was gone.

I must have been staring because I didn't notice that the champagne was starting to bubble up and out, a small trickle hitting the floor.

"Oops! Here, get your glass," Alyson said with a laugh as she lifted the bottle upright, taking a drink straight from the dark green glass to catch the slight overflow. I held out my glass as well as hers and she poured us both some drinks. We talked for a while, cracking jokes about mutual Hollywood friends and the like, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn't get the image of her nipple out of my head. Not wanting to seem over eager, I acted as if nothing had happened.

Within half an hour we had moved out to the living room, where Alyson had kept the lights dim and had some soft jazz playing in the background. Alyson had finished her third glass of champagne and was getting quite tipsy, her words starting to slur a little as she spoke.

"You know, I bet that Sarah Michelle is a slut. I bet she wants it and gets it all the time from Freddie," Alyson said, waving her glass around a little erratically. I had seen this before - stars getting trashed and then bad mouthing friends. Most of the time it was never an issue but more often than not I had diffused many a situation over the phone between two pissed off women.

"Oh, I seriously doubt that. From what I hear, she doesn't have sex that much at all. Freddie apparently isn't... umm, well I think that they are both really busy," I said to her. (If only she knew the truth!)

"Bullshit! I'll believe that when pigs fly!" Alyson said, finishing off her glass. There was an awkward pause in the room, the music becoming more clear now in the still silence.

Trying to get the conversation started again and to try and figure out why I was there to see how "sexy" she was, I said "Well Alyson, I better get going. It's been a long day,"

I stood up, but Alyson jumped to her feet, the sudden movement making her giggle a little.

"No! You can't go! I didn't show you how sexy I am!" Alyson said, her face showing signs of sobering up. My guess at this point now was that whatever she had planned had made her very nervous and she needed some liquid courage to get through it.

"Well, I don't know. I mean, it's pretty late and I have to be in the office in the morning and all," I said, feigning an excuse. The image of her nipple now raced through my head and I couldn't get it out. The air was filled with some kind of electric excitement, like a charge right before a lighting strike when you just KNOW that something is going to happen any second now. That's how things felt now in the room as Alyson swayed a little on her feet in front of me.