by Fiona Riley
“I know that look. You’re up to something,” Tremont said when the flashing lights stopped. He stood by her side and offered her a bottle of water with a straw.
She turned her back to the media line and waited for her signal to move on to the next photo stop on the carpet. “Mm. Is that so?”
“Oh, yeah. Girl, I can practically smell your mischief.” He took back the bottle and capped it. “What’re you thinking?”
“Truthfully?”
“Always.”
“I was wondering if I accidentally intentionally fell if that would get me off this carpet before our little smile-but-don’t-talk charade fell apart.”
“Don’t you dare.” Tremont’s face was far too serious. She’d only been joking. Sort of.
“I can totally do it. I did all my own stunts in that car movie last year. They told me I looked like a seasoned stunt double.” She took the compact he held out for her and touched up her lipstick.
“Oh, I have no doubt that you can gracefully fall. What I doubt is that it will do anything but amplify the attention on you. Plus, I know you aren’t wearing any underwear under that dress, so with the way things are going for you, you’d probably end up showing everyone your hoo-ha.”
“Hoo-ha? What are you, twelve?” She used her finger to blend the color across her bottom lip.
“Would you prefer I call it your lady bits? How about your pink—”
“You could call it a vagina. Because that’s what it is.”
Tremont grimaced and put his hand up. “That sounds so dirty. Ew. The whole thing is gross and wet and ew. I’m going to puke. I don’t understand you people.”
“You people? And what people would that be?” Emerson was so glad he was here with her. She felt safe.
Tremont looked left and right before he leaned in and whispered, “You lesbians.”
“You and your labels.” Emerson didn’t bother trying to contain the deep, throaty laugh that bubbled up. She felt no need to align herself with a label or to follow anyone else’s rules about who she could be attracted to. She’d had male and female partners in her life. She was drawn to the person, and it just so happened that most of those people were female. “You know, I could say a whole lot about your extracurricular activities, but I’m too much of a lady for that.”
Tremont’s skeptical look was so comical she laughed harder. “Girl, please. I can’t get any man to go on more than one date with me because you are needy as fuck and require all my attention, all the time. No man wants to date someone who is at the beck and call of some prima donna.”
There was a truth in that statement that sobered her momentary joyfulness. Tremont didn’t date anyone seriously. He hadn’t in a long time. But it wasn’t that he couldn’t find the right guy. It was his job that got in the way. And not in the way he teased her about now, she wasn’t overly demanding—at least she didn’t think she was, anyway. It was more than that. She was a target for attention and exploitation, and Rachel was making that clear with her statement today. Tremont had stopped dating when people started recognizing him as her best friend and personal assistant. Too many dates had shown more interest in her fame and celebrity than in him. And though he joked about it, she knew it bothered him. It bothered her, too. She’d found that her celebrity ruined people’s lives, one way or another. And that was the same reason why she was single. She’d broken her vow to remain unattached when she got involved with Rachel. She thought that maybe it could work since they were both in the public eye. But clearly that had backfired in the most gloriously devastating way. Rachel was just like everyone else—the only exception being she had a bigger audience to air Emerson’s dirty laundry to. No, this proved it—she could never trust anyone. Ever. Except for Tremont. And her sister. Shit. She had to call her sister.
“What? I was joking. Don’t look so serious,” Tremont replied.
“Did you call Deidre?” Emerson started to panic. How could she have forgotten to call her sister? “Tremont, I need to call her. I need to—”
He stepped close and reached out to take her elbow. His touch was gentle and his tone was soft as he said, “Em. It’s okay. I called her. She knows. She said she’d be free tomorrow to talk. Don’t worry.”
She was still holding the mirrored compact, but her hand was frozen in midair. A part of her was afraid she might drop it. Tremont must have noticed because he reached out and took it from her, but not before she got a glimpse of the people standing in front of the next marked spot on the carpet.
“Fuck. James Drake is here.”
Tremont looked over her shoulder and scowled. “I hate that asshole. Hold on.”
He waved back toward Chandra and motioned for her to join them. She had been hovering off in the distance, looking down at her tablet and talking quickly into her headset as usual. She was always conducting some sort of complicated PR dance at these things. Emerson had asked about it once. She wanted to know why it looked so stressful. Chandra had laughed and told her that there were seating changes and set updates that happened up until the very moment of each event. Sometimes that meant Emerson had to be someplace entirely different than was previously planned. And depending on where that was, a little negotiating might be needed. She was grateful to be ignorant of most of it.
Chandra jogged over. Her expression was bleak. “You heard, huh?”
“Heard what?” Emerson didn’t like it when Chandra looked worried.
“Yeah, what are you talking about?” Tremont was annoyed.
“Well, that depends”—she was stalling—“on why you waved me over.”
Emerson and Tremont shared a look. Chandra’s headset squawked, and she grabbed her ear. She spoke quietly into the mouthpiece and frowned.
“Spit it out, Chandra. You’re freaking us out,” Tremont said.
“Rachel’s here. Five marks back,” Chandra replied.
“She’s here?” Emerson felt herself start to unravel.
Tremont shushed her. “Don’t lose your shit now. Not in front of that Drake fool and his camera crew.” He looked at Chandra and shook his head. “We’re skipping the next mark. All the marks. No more carpet.”
Chandra looked as stressed as Emerson felt. “Do you think that’s wise?”
“I’m not doing it.” Emerson was careful to keep a false smile on her face as she spoke. The last thing she needed was to give anyone any reason to think she was freaking out as badly as she was freaking out. “Get me out of here.”
Chandra nodded and spoke into her headset. The person stationed at the next mark was calling out to them and waving them forward, but Emerson had no intention of stopping. Rachel was closing in on them, and she knew she couldn’t face her without falling to pieces in the process.
“Emerson! Here! Look here!” She ignored the calls and looked for a way out. Chandra had to figure something out fast, or she was going to tear a hole in that award show banner backdrop and book it.
“Emerson!” A sharp, piercing whistle caught her off guard and she turned without thinking.
The sound came from a pretty auburn-haired woman who was hanging over the railing at the next mark. She didn’t recognize her, but that wasn’t anything unusual. She didn’t know a lot of media at these things. But she did recognize the man standing directly next to the mystery woman, and he was staring right at her.
“Emerson, is it true that your sexual relationship with Rachel Blanche got her fired?” Drake’s voice was deafening in the silence that followed the shrill whistle. The cameras flashed. Emerson was too stunned to answer.
“Go.” Tremont grabbed her elbow and hurried her into an opening in the backdrop that Chandra held back for her.
She had no idea how things had gotten so out of hand so fast.
“It’s okay, just breathe.”
Tremont pushed the water bottle into her hand, but she couldn’t drink it. All she could think about was what her expression had been when Drake got his question out. Had she reacted? She’d been
so stunned by the whistle she didn’t have a chance to stifle her emotions.
“Find out who that woman was.” Her voice sounded far away.
“What woman?” Tremont continued to pull her along the back of the red carpet toward the amphitheater.
“The banshee whistler that works for Drake. Find out who she is and make sure we never cross paths again.” She tugged her elbow from Tremont’s grasp and increased her pace toward the building. She needed to get inside before anything else happened. She needed to get inside before everyone saw just how badly she was shaking.
Chapter Three
“Are we almost done?” Hayley looked over her notes and confirmed that all her interviews had loaded to the cloud at work. She was particular about rechecking that, after one assignment ended with her phone in a toilet and all the recordings flushed down the drain with it.
Scotty adjusted the strap on his camera bag and patted it. “Yup, all packed up and ready to go. I’ll call over for the car. Meet you out back?”
Hayley nodded and pulled off her lanyard, shoving it into her pocket as she waited in the corner of the backstage press area. Most of the other reporters had filtered out, and it appeared that only staff came back toward this section, if the rolls of cable coiled and thrown about, discarded folding chairs, and empty coffee cups littering the floor were any indication. It was hardly the place for anyone of importance—that was one of the reasons she’d come back here. She wanted to be hidden from view for a chance to catch her breath.
She leaned against the corner as she took off one of her shoes and massaged her foot. She was not used to standing around in heels, and she was eager to get home and banish these back to her closet where they belonged. She was happy with the work she’d gotten done with Scotty today. They’d talked to a few celebrities and their PR people, and it hadn’t been nearly as bad as she’d anticipated it being. She had plenty of fodder for her two-hundred-word border piece. Sharon would be pleased, and hopefully she could get back to her own work without any more controversy.
But she knew the real story was the one that nearly got away: Emerson Sterling. And the only reason it was nearly at all was because of Grandma Ginny’s notorious dinner whistle. Had she not resorted to the secret, sonic boom signal that had been passed down to her and honed through a lifetime of summers in Maine trying to wrangle her cousins from the woods behind the family cabin, she never would have gotten Emerson to stop long enough for her to see that there was definitely something going on with the troubled starlet. She had looked more than shocked. She looked almost scared. And Hayley had instantly regretted her actions.
Her assumptions had been all but confirmed when Rachel showed up just moments after Emerson’s Houdini impersonation. They’d missed each other by less than three minutes. It was almost as if Emerson had gotten some intel to flee.
In contrast to Emerson’s team stating that she would not be giving any statements, Rachel had been more than candid and willing to talk to Drake and anyone that would listen. She managed to keep it mostly vague, but she encouraged everyone to wait for the rest of her statement and played to the affections of the camera. It was almost sickening after having seen Emerson’s reaction immediately before. Rachel seemed to be flourishing in the attention and adoration.
Hayley couldn’t shake the feeling that she had set something in motion with that whistle. She’d practically set Drake up for a home run with his question—she’d literally silenced the crowd for him to be heard. He’d thanked her for it afterward. The guilt she felt rivaled her dislike for him in that moment.
The sound of approaching voices jarred her out of her daze.
“Don’t talk to me.” An angry female hiss came from around the corner as the footsteps got louder. It was so fast and sharp Hayley couldn’t recognize the voice’s owner.
“Oh, please, don’t kid yourself, Em. I’m just trying to get out of here in one piece.” Rachel Blanche’s voice, on the other hand, was unmistakable.
A male voice chimed in, “I’ll believe that when you can prove to me more than ten percent of what is on your head isn’t weave.”
“Oh, joy. Tremont is here to add commentary.” Rachel turned the corner and stepped into Hayley’s sight line, where she turned and faced the male voice. “Call off your gay dog, Emerson, before I neuter him.”
“Fuck off, Rachel.” Emerson Sterling stepped forward with a threatening glare. “You’ve done enough damage for one day.”
Rachel laughed and crossed her arms. “What’s the matter, Em baby? You didn’t like my headline? I thought it was rather creative.”
“You mean that starved-for-attention ploy to steal some of my celebrity since you got canned? I’ve been warned to stay away from falling stars and burning bridges—and you, Rachel, are white hot,” Emerson spit back.
Drake materialized next to Hayley and reached for his phone just as a furious looking Rachel lunged forward and grabbed Emerson by the arm, spinning her on the spot. The sound of Drake dropping his bag must have caught Rachel’s attention, because in a single motion she leaned close to whisper something into Emerson’s ear and flashed Drake a quick smile as he aimed to take the shot. Something in Hayley snapped. Before she realized what she was doing she’d reached out and smacked the phone out of his hand. The phone hit the ground with a thud and someone near the starlets called out for security.
Drake swore and shoved Hayley as he reached for his phone, almost knocking her to the floor in the process. She grabbed the back of one of the folding chairs nearby to steady herself and watched the rest of the action unfold in front of her. Rachel’s distraction and pose for Drake had given Emerson’s assistant enough time to step between the women. Rachel had lowered her voice but whatever she was saying was being heard loud and clear by Emerson, who looked somewhere between furious and mortified. Someone she assumed was from Rachel’s team emerged and dragged Rachel off in the other direction. It had happened in a blink, and it was over just as fast as it had begun.
“What’s your fucking problem?” Drake growled at Hayley and took a menacing step toward her.
“The show’s over.” Hayley squared her shoulders and narrowed her gaze. She’d made one mistake tonight already. She wasn’t about to let him capitalize on her naïveté again. “Go home.”
“Sharon was right about you. You’re as underhanded as they come.” He leaned back and gave her a once-over. “I underestimated you. That won’t happen again. I’m going to make sure you pay for this.”
“Hey, back up there, fella.” Scotty’s voice came from over Drake’s shoulder as he pulled him away from Hayley.
Drake shrugged off Scotty’s hand and stormed past Emerson’s assistant just as security arrived. Emerson’s expression was blank and unreadable. Hayley wondered what she was thinking.
“Let’s go, Hayley.” Scotty nudged her toward the exit.
Hayley nodded and glanced back once more, briefly making eye contact with Emerson. Though they were a distance apart in the backstage area, Hayley could still see the vividness of Emerson’s eyes. They were a perfect storm of blue and green. Her eyes were one of her signature attributes and Hayley could now attest to them being more incredible in person. The magazines and paparazzi shots did them no justice at all. Hayley could have sworn there was something brewing behind those eyes just now.
As Scotty ushered her toward the back door and into the night, a nagging sensation settled in the pit of her stomach. Something told her that the events of tonight were far from over. And the uncertainty of that made her feel sick.
* * *
“Hayley, my office, now.” The voice of her boss, Jonathan Ula, boomed over the intercom on her desk phone.
“What now?” Hayley whined and shoved her chair back. She’d not had the best week. In fact, since that press event she covered for Sharon, her life had been miserable. The fluff piece she did was well received, but rumors swirled about a heated backstage confrontation between Hollywood’s two most dynamic and e
xplosive stars. And though it had been far from a catfight in Hayley’s humble opinion, there was definitely something happening between Emerson and Rachel. It was undeniable. But what it was, she doubted she’d ever know.
One of those rumors was started by Drake and placed Hayley right in the thick of it. It turned out Drake had teased, Someone close to the wounded star Rachel Blanche reported a heated quarrel with her speculated ex-lover Emerson Sterling backstage. He went on to further accuse Emerson of having spies that infiltrated opposing media sources to keep the fight a secret. It didn’t take long for his insinuations and carefully worded articles to lead to the conclusion that said spy worked for the Hollywood Sun and her name rhymed with Bailey. When Sharon got in the next day, she’d made it clear that not only was their debt not settled, but that Hayley was not to be trusted. A point she made known to all the other writers and staff at the Sun. God, she disliked that woman.
Hayley trudged to Jonathan’s office, trying to ignore the side-eye half the staff was shooting her way. Sharon had forged a lot of loyalty over her years working in entertainment, and Hayley was feeling like the odd woman out, again.
She knocked and waited. She’d missed a deadline earlier in the week, and when she did submit the piece—late—it was disorganized at best. She’d been expecting to be disciplined, but that didn’t make her any less nervous in this moment.
“Come in,” Jonathan called from behind the frosted glass.
“You wanted to see me, Jonathan?”
“Close the door, have a seat,” Jonathan grumbled in reply.
He walked around to the front of his desk and sat down. Even though he was barely in his fifties, his face looked tired and worn. Something that long nights, lots of coffee, and dozens of cigarettes between deadlines did little to improve upon. “Tell me about Emerson Sterling.”