“You picked it up in one summer?”
I nodded, proud of my accomplishments in this area. “You know how some people are crazy good at math? They just know how to do complex math from an early age or play piano really well from when they were younger?”
“Yes.”
“I’m like that with languages. Maybe it makes me a freak. But it’s just something I can do. I started teaching myself Asian languages when I was a teenager and I refined that here in college.”
“That’s amazing,” she said, shaking her head. “I guess you’re more than just the Hot British Guy.”
I stroked my chin. “Tell me more about this Hot British Guy.”
She reached into her back pocket for her cell phone, swiped her thumb across the screen, and showed me a text message from me. Labeled HBG.
“My text message name?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
I grinned wildly. “I need you to know that I completely approve of that name. And now I need to give you a nickname. How about Hot American Girl?” I suggested, but we both cringed at the same time.
“HAG,” she said, crinkling her nose.
“Sexy American Girl,” I offered, but then nixed it quickly, too.
“SAG is bad.”
I snapped my fingers. “We have the same problem with Beautiful American Girl. Damn you, hot American girl with the AG initials.”
She laughed and her lips curved up in the sexiest smile. I brushed the pad of my index finger against her lips. “Jess,” I said softly. “I’m so sorry I deceived you about the job, but all this?” I gestured from her to me and back as I looked in her eyes. They were big and round and looked so damn vulnerable as she nodded for me to keep going. “It’s all real. I think you’re hot and beautiful and sexy and funny and smart, and it drives me absolutely crazy how you try so hard to dislike me.”
She rolled her eyes. “What if I’m not trying? What if I really do dislike you?” she tossed back, her eyes sparkling now, saying otherwise.
“Then stop me before I kiss you again,” I said bending my head to her neck to layer a soft kiss on her skin. But just as I was about to map her with my lips, she pressed her hands against my chest.
“William,” she said, her voice a warning. “I don’t want to be used.”
“How is it using you if I kiss you?”
“Weren’t you kind of using me before?”
“And we’re using each other now. But we’re also not using each other because we’re being open about it. Yes, I needed to understand how you did your job, and now you’re telling me and that’s helping me with the most important thing to me—potentially staying here. And now you’re using me and I’m helping you with information so you can possibly get the most important thing to you—money for med school. So we’re using each other to help the other person get what they most want.”
I glanced down. Her hand was still on my chest, but instead of pushing me away, she fisted a handful of fabric. “Use me,” she said in a purr and tugged me in for a kiss. A quick, searing, hot kiss that fogged my head. The taste of her was intoxicating, like summertime and honey. Within seconds, I’d forgotten where we were, what we were doing, and who we were staking out. All I wanted was more of her.
She broke the kiss. “What did you really say to me in Italian?”
I brushed her hair from her ear, buzzed my lips along her neck, and nibbled on her earlobe. Then I whispered, “How much I want you.”
She gasped as if I’d just said the most scandalous thing. “William.”
I pulled back. “That’s the truth, Fredericka.”
She looked away, as if she were trying to avoid the prospect of an us. Jess was back and forth tonight. Hot and cold. She was kissing me, and pushing me away. Maybe she was warring with herself over whether she was truly mad at me or not.
“Moving on to my secret identity for the wedding,” she said, back to brisk, business-like Jess. “Can I just pick a simpler name? Like Claire?”
“Claire with the red hair,” I said, shifting gears, too. “What’s your alibi?”
“I’m a celebrity dog trainer, of course,” she said, with a glint in her eye. I recognized that look—it was the one she had when she was excited about a plan or a strategy.
“Naturally.”
“I can have J.P. make that ID for me by Friday. Claire Tinsley sounds like a perfect name for a celeb wedding guest–slash–celebrity dog trainer.”
“Great. You’ll be a solo guest, so you’ll come to the gates one hour before the wedding starts, and Sal—he’s with us and he’ll be doing the check-in—will have your name on the list as Claire Tinsley.”
“And then I just walk inside and blend in with the other guests?”
“Not that simple. They’ll be checking for cameras. They’re asking guests to leave their cell phones at the check-in.”
“Ouch. But that’s standard procedure at these events,” she said quickly.
“I don’t really know how you’ll get a camera in, Jess. I mean, I can get you in, but that’s as much as I can do. It’s not as if I can smuggle in a camera and disassemble it and leave it in parts in the kitchen cabinets, and then have you reassemble it like in some heist movie.”
“Let me think on the camera issue and whether any heist flicks are actually realistic and useful research for me when it comes to reassembly. But I’ll come up with something. I definitely don’t want you to get caught smuggling, and I promise you won’t get in trouble at all.”
“Aww. I think that might be the nicest thing you’ve said to me, Jess. Will you be wearing a wig on Saturday, too? Because you look hot in this red wig.”
“Maybe I’ll be a brunette with long wavy hair and a flouncy white floral party dress. No one would ever suspect it was me.”
“Good. And that’s the key to pulling this off. You’re just a wedding guest, you’ll take surreptitious pictures during the ceremony, and you get the hell out. Try not to talk to anyone. Even if we have you on the list, I don’t want anyone to know you or to be able to remember you. James is kind of a prick, but I don’t want to screw him over.”
“I totally understand,” she said, then her phone beeped. She checked it and read a message out loud. “Source says they’ll be finishing up the read-through within an hour, then heading to Burbank. All systems go.” She tapped out a reply, then turned to me. “And now for my part of the information exchange. That was a message from my client, letting me know that his source says the targets will be heading to the rendezvous point shortly.”
“So that’s how it works? Random tips?”
“I don’t know who his source is and I don’t ask, but it’s probably some assistant on the The Weekenders. Generally speaking, the sources are either assistants, hotel doormen, maître d’s, or publicists.”
“And are they all on the take?”
“Some of them. When the tips come from assistants, it’s either because they’re power hungry and this is their way of feeling in control, or they’re getting paid off by the photo agencies to call in locations. Then there are tips that come from assistants because the stars want their photos taken. It’s this weirdly symbiotic relationship. Stars supposedly hate us, right?” she said, referring to the paparazzi.
“Sure,” I said, agreeing with her.
“But yet they need publicity. They need to maintain their fame. There are only a handful of stars so big and so secure in their careers that they don’t need to court the press and the paparazzi at all. Everyone else, they kind of want and need to be seen. Then, there are stars who make sure to have very specific photos taken. You know Range Treadman?”
“The Australian actor,” I said, feeling like I’d answered a game show question correctly. Given my lack of interest in celebrities, the fact that I’d known the name of even one felt like a huge accomplishment.
“He takes his kids to the same playground every Monday at three fifteen. He’s always there, always happy, always involved with his kids. An
d every photog shows up because his press people put out an alert to let all the agencies know where he’ll be. Because he wants to have the image of the family guy out there. So he goes to the playground, acts like he doesn’t see us, but smiles the whole time. It’s his way of controlling his image. He makes it seem as if we just happened to catch a shot of him on the playground.”
“What about all the shots of stars leaving their gyms or going to yoga? Is that the same thing? They want to be seen being fit and healthy?” I asked, rattling through some of the questions James had said he wanted answered for his PR client.
“A lot of photogs and their agencies just keep a running list of who goes to which gym,” she said, then named the locations of the most popular gyms for the famous. “Then photogs just camp out and wait. Some of the regular guys who shoot all day—they just have these spots they go to and kind of lie in wait for stars to come by. A lot of personal trainers tip us off, too. Trainers are the biggest gossips in the world. They also know their stock rises if they’re outed as the trainer of someone famous.”
“This is great,” I said, mentally filing away the juicy info.
“And then there are some trainers who might not be tipsters yet, but you still see them in so many pictures with so many different stars that you start to recognize them as well. Like Nick Ballast's trainer,” she said, and I arched an eyebrow in question. The name felt vaguely familiar, and it tripped on the edge of my tongue as a name J.P. had mentioned once.
“He’s on The Weekenders. With Riley. Former child star, had a weight problem for a bit, now works out like crazy. His trainer has this goatee,” she said, stroking her chin. “They’re always together now because Nick is Mr. Exercise and Healthy Eating these days.”
“Gotcha.”
“And I suspect Nick wants to make sure those pictures get out,” she said, and her voice sounded slightly strained when she talked about Nick.
“What about the pictures someone doesn’t want out? The meltdown shot, the yelling at the front desk clerk shot, like Jenner Davies? Because you couldn’t miss that video. It was everywhere.”
“Sometimes, those are just sheer dumb luck. Or a series of tips, and you keep whittling them down and following someone till you finally get the money shot.”
“Speaking of the money shot, I’m guessing we should get going?”
“Yes, but you know how you said they’re going to be checking everyone for cameras at the wedding?”
“Right.”
“I think I’m going to need to check you right now.”
“What? You still don’t believe I am who I say I am?”
“I believe you, but that could be because you’re an incredible actor. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I need to be the only one getting pictures right now of Riley and her director.”
“You’re going to pat me down?” I raised an eyebrow and grinned, then held my hands up high and spread my feet wide. “Have at it, Doctor Leighton. Have at it.”
She looked at her feet. “I’m just being careful.”
“Please be very careful when you touch my stomach, then. As you know, I’m highly ticklish.”
* * *
Jess
* * *
I started by placing my hands on his shoulders. They were strong and firm. Running my hands quickly down his arms, I felt his biceps and triceps next, and they were so sculpted and toned to perfection that I did everything I could to catalog the proper names of the muscles so that I would only think about him scientifically, and not about the way he felt under my hands.
Because he felt fantastic. He had the kind of body I could hold on to all night long. The kind I wanted to explore with hands, lips, and tongue.
Moving quickly over his chest, then down to his flat belly, I pressed my lips tightly together so I wouldn’t make a sound, or release a breath, or even utter a word because his abs were so trim, defined, and neatly lined. If I wanted to, I could have traced the edge of each one, lined the contours of his smooth body. I closed my eyes for a second, inhaled sharply through my nose, and patted his hips, outer thighs, and down to his calves.
“There, done. You’re good,” I said as if I were a TSA agent finishing a pat-down.
“You didn’t get my inner thighs, Jess,” he said in a totally serious voice, egging me on.
“I trust you.”
“Are you sure? You don’t want to check my thighs? Just to be safe. I could be hiding something,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“Are you? Hiding something?”
“Honestly, right now it’s not very hidden.”
I bit my lip, and tried so hard to resist. But I couldn’t help myself. I cast my eyes downward and caught a glimpse of the bulge in his pants. Restraint flew out the window. “You liked the pat-down?”
“I did,” he said, his eyes darker, wilder. His voice was huskier. “Is this all clear now?” he gestured to his crotch. “I’m not using you. I meant everything I said in Italian, and everything I said in English, too, about you being sexy, funny, and smart.”
Sharp, hot tingles took my body hostage. They demanded squatter’s rights in my heart. My brain was commandeered by a heightened desire that flooded every damn cell in my entire system. I wanted to climb on top of him and kiss him. Then strip him down to nothing and touch him all over. I wanted to lick him up and down. Hell, right about now I simply wanted to feel him against my body, clothed or unclothed. I craved contact, connection, and the purity of the chemical reaction we had. We were science, we were two substances in a lab that mixed perfectly, whether it was the banter or flirting or the way we seemed to want to pounce on each other.
Whatever it was, I found myself letting go of my worries over control, balance, habits. Gripping them less tightly the more time I spent with him.
I didn’t want to admit that I liked him, but I couldn’t keep it hidden any longer. “I feel the same about you,” I said. Giving voice to those words made me feel as if a superhero of vulnerability had bestowed me with her powers momentarily. “You make me crazy, but I like that you make me crazy, and I think you’re great, too. But we also really need to go. We should take one vehicle as we head to the stakeout spot.”
“Right. Two would be more suspicious.”
We strapped on helmets, then I hopped on his bike and wrapped my arms around the abs I’d felt a few minutes ago. As I pressed my chest against his back, I was close enough to sniff his neck and the ends of his hair and the clean, freshly showered, hot guy scent of him.
He’d taken a shower, too.
For some reason, I trusted that shower, and what it meant, so I let go of another small kernel of doubt that I’d been holding on to. With it gone, I brushed my lips against his neck, and he groaned in response, grabbing my hand and holding it tight against his trim waist. Then he said something to me in Italian that sounded very close to what he’d said before.
“I want the same,” I whispered in his ear as he revved the engine and took off.
21
Jess
* * *
I definitely didn’t have to do squats tonight. My thighs were going to be rock hard. I’d been crouched down for thirty minutes, behind a low stone wall around the edge of a parking lot that a car detailer shared with a body shop. On the other side of the street was a smog-testing facility and a tire dealer. At my feet lay a crushed Big Gulp cup, a sandwich wrapper, and several empty bags of chips. This must have been a prime lunchtime picnic spot for litterbugs.
Keats was right—the warehouse section was the perfect location for sneaking around since no one was around. This stretch of street was deserted at night.
With my camera strap around my neck, I was ready for whenever I saw the star and her director show up. I wasn’t sure how far away they were, but timing in L.A. has a way of stretching and unfolding many times. They could just as easily arrive in seconds or in hours.
“So, yeah. I’ve got a lot of intel right about now on how the paparazz
i work,” William said in a dry voice.
“Okay, what have you learned, my protégé?”
“Well, my mentor, I have learned that it is, in fact, almost identical to how being a private detective works.”
I laughed. “Yeah, pretty much. Lots of waiting, and watching, and hoping, and then just a few seconds or so to take a picture.”
“Sounds like my job.”
“And the tips aren’t that different, either,” I said, as I ran my fingers absently up and down the camera strap. “So really, what does your client think he or she will learn? That the most intrepid photogs are invisible? Or that we hang out in trees like lemurs ready to spring?”
“As you swing around the city wearing super-spy goggles with bionic vision, right?” he asked, miming putting on a pair of glasses.
“I left those at home tonight, but yes. I do usually wear my bionic glasses.”
He shrugged. “I guess that is the sort of stuff the PR shop wants to know. But honestly, it probably won’t make a difference. I have a hunch this is one of those cases where the publicity firm’s client is probably doing something shady and isn’t owning up to it. Like this guy, the director Avery Brock. He’s a dick,” William said with a sharp edge to his tone.
I turned to him. “Yeah. He is.”
“He’s giving my countrymen a bad name. This’ll be, what, his third affair with an actress he’s directed?”
I counted off his alleged priors in my head. First, there were the tales of his tryst with the just-turned-twenty-one, lovely Plum Lange who played the best friend of the head cheerleader in the high school football flick The Rivalry and whose name was a source of endless puns in the tabloid headlines—she was a plum Plum. Next came the stories of his escapades on the set with Andromeda Blue, who starred as a teen drifter living on the road in Lonely Nights Without Me. Andromeda, who went by Andy everywhere except in the title credits for her films, had appeared quite heartbroken in the photos I’d seen of her after the film’s press tour and their time together had ended. She’d gone sunglasses and sad eyes all the way, since she’d reportedly been in mad love with him. Avery probably batted his big brown eyes and told many a self-deprecating joke to win back his wife’s favor after that one.
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