Love, Chloe

by Alessandra Torre

  He’d reached over. Slid his hand up my thigh, underneath my skirt, tracing his fingers lightly over the lace line of my panties. I’d pushed his hand away and he’d resisted, exploring further, the pads of his fingers persistent as they nudged past my underwear and pushed inside. I felt his breath, warm against my neck, the bite of his teeth as he nipped my neck. “You like him?” he’d whispered, his voice gruff, too loud in the silent theater, and I’d shushed him, digging my nails into his arm as I squirmed in my seat, his fingers knowing exactly how I liked it. I’d cursed his name as he pushed me further and further along the edge of oblivion, watching the movie through half-closed eyes as Joey Plazen had fucked his costar. I’d watched until the absolute last moment, when my head hit the back of the seat, and I’d fully succumbed to Vic’s touch.

  I blinked the memory away and tried to focus on Joey Plazen’s face without thinking of what lay beneath his jeans.

  “Hey,” I finally managed.

  “You’re Nicole’s assistant, right?”

  I nodded, not trusting my voice.

  “Cute.” He peered down at me. I said nothing, not crazy about his tone. “You mute?”

  “No.” I pushed myself to my feet. “Can I help you?”

  “Do me a favor,” he said. “Keep your boss out of my way.”

  “Out of your way?” That’d be difficult to do, seeing as they were co-stars.

  “Yeah.”

  I laughed. “Okay,” I intoned, in a manner that left zero doubt as to my sincerity.

  “I’m serious. She doesn’t belong here.” Joey Plazen’s sexiness was taking a serious nosedive. “And I need lunch.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “I think you have an assistant.” My phone lit up, Nicole’s ringtone playing, and when he glared at me I almost laughed. God, I’d seen that glare so many times. Threatening bad guys. Scowling at love interests. I’d seen it enough that there, on the set, surrounded by fake backdrops, it had no impact whatsoever. “Got to go,” I sang, answering the phone and stepping away, any response from him lost in the bark of Nicole’s greeting.

  Right before she ended our call, I glanced back over my shoulder, but he was gone.

  “Joey’s pissed.” Hannah popped her gum and wrapped a hand around my arm, pulling me into a dark spot between two trailers.

  “Why?” I didn’t look up from my phone, time short. In fifteen minutes, we needed to be at an all-cast meeting where our great director, Paulo Romansky, would finally make his first appearance. I didn’t want to be late, not with the thin ice that Nicole seemed to be on. The more I found out on set, the more I discovered exactly how disliked Nicole was by cast and crew. We were talking serious hatred being spewed, and it wasn’t for lack of her trying. She’d been bending over backward to try and win over hearts. We’d brought in sushi and afternoon cupcake deliveries, hired on-set masseuses, and she paid for everyone’s drinks at the bar around the corner on Friday night. Nothing helped. No one wanted her here. The general consensus, whispered over scripts and coffee, was that she had bought her way onto the project. Poured some condom dollars in, saved the movie’s financing, and got herself a starring role.

  But regardless of their snide comments and her crappy résumé, I knew that the woman could act. I’d watched her beam at Clarke. Giggle and wrap her arms around his neck. Lie so smoothly that if I didn’t know the truth, I’d have believed every word. I hadn’t seen her boyfriend since that day on the street, but I’d been paying attention, noticing the lies about her whereabouts and the extra cell phone she carried in her purse. She couldn’t play the part of the devoted wife so well without acting chops of some kind. Maybe Boston Love Letters was her chance to really show them off. Maybe now, with all of the pieces in place, she’d actually move into the limelight she seemed to so desperately crave.

  “I can’t talk Hannah, we’ve got that meeting—” She kept tugging me aside, like she had something urgent to say.

  “You can’t do that—just blow him off.”

  It took me a minute to remember who she was talking about. Oh, right. Joey Plazen. I dismissed her concerns with a laugh. “Whatever. He needs to get over himself. No offense, but your boss is an asshole.”

  Hannah’s eyes widened and she sucked in a deep breath of air, her dark purple nails biting into my forearm. I noticed, a moment too late, that she wasn’t looking at me, but behind me.

  And then I heard the devil himself speak.

  “You girls done with your chat?”

  I grimaced, watching Hannah mutter an apology and dart out into the light. I stood, cornered and chilly in the shade, and crossed my arms. Screw his Oscar, screw his looks. I was sick of entitled assholes. “I’m sorry. Is chatting not allowed?”

  “Not when you’re on the clock.” His frown enhanced his dimple, a dimple I once had stuck to the inside of my locker. “The meeting’s about to start.” I fought the urge to roll my eyes at him.

  “Then I guess we should get to work.” I smiled brightly and turned sideways to squeeze past him. He stepped back and stalked toward the meeting.

  Diva. I killed a few minutes fishing for a pretend something in my purse. Once enough distance was present, I followed suit, glancing at my watch as I moved.

  I arrived to the meeting late. I tried to slip into the back of the room, but no one budged to accommodate my scrawny ass. The room was packed—stuffy and hot despite the freezing temperatures outside. I ended up in the doorway, my hand gripping the frame just so I could crane my neck over a crew of teamsters.

  Someone in front was talking, an unfamiliar voice droning on about call times. I found Hannah a few heads over, and raised my eyebrows in greeting. She gave me a small smile. “Who’s that?” I mouthed, pointing a finger forward, over the crowd, to the guy talking. They should have given the guy a box to stand on or something.

  “Romansky” she mouthed.

  Duh. I should have figured. But, with all the hushed drama around this guy, I expected his arrival to come paired with glittery spotlights and a marching band. Last week, he’d been in Japan, the set a clusterfuck of activity without its director, everyone prepping for the filming that would start tomorrow. Hannah turned back to the front, her clipboard up, pen moving, and I bit my bottom lip. Crap. Clipboard. Paper. Pen. All items that were sitting back in Nicole’s trailer. All items a good assistant would have, especially for a meeting like this. I heard the director rattle off a list of meetings and times, and I whipped out my phone and tried to type, tried to save at least one appointment. There was a low chuckle from my left and I turned to find Joey Plazen shaking his head at me. I felt the itchy crawl of embarrassment heat my cheeks. He tapped on a shoulder and the crowd parted, crewmembers crawling over themselves to clear a path, his steps moving easily toward an empty chair that looked like it was reserved for him.

  Through the parted bodies, the hole beginning to close, I got my first glimpse at the man at the front of the room, our director, the famed Paulo Romansky. A man I had seen before, one fateful afternoon back on the Upper East Side: Nicole’s hipster boyfriend.

  28. Oh. I Totally Get It.

  Everything suddenly made sense.

  Nicole’s secret fling.

  Clarke’s stern directive to watch her on set.

  Her role in a big budget film where she didn’t belong.

  The pieces fell into a big arrow that pointed directly to the man at the front of the room. Nicole was sleeping with the director. It was so obvious I was almost insulted.

  How stereotypical could she be? Everyone was walking around snidely suggesting that she’d bought her way onto the film, but oh NO. It was so much worse. Especially since Romansky was also married, to one of those Victoria Secret models with insured legs. I had a moment of pity for his wife but I’d seen plenty of photos of her. She’d bounce back. Literally. Her return to glory would be the perky boobs-in-a-million-dollar-bra type of bounce back.

  I lost sight of him and tried to spo
t Nicole over the scores of heads, over a hundred people crowding the room. So many people and Hannah said there’d be even more once filming started. I gave up on my search for Nicole and slumped against the doorframe.

  I needed a drink. I couldn’t imagine this meeting ending and having to face Nicole. Not when my face was getting all flushed and itchy and it felt like I was going to—of all things—cry. Cry! Where in the hell did that weakness come from? It wasn’t like I was emotionally invested in Nicole’s marriage, wasn’t like I’d just discovered the affair. But now that I knew who he was, it seemed even worse. Did Nicole even like this guy? Or was he just a stepping-stone she took to get this role? I could handle an affair for love, but cheating on Clarke for a role—that was where my brain stopped working.

  My mind flashed to Clarke, the intensity on his face when he’d cornered me in the house. “Keep an eye on her.” He’d said the words shortly, with a bit of an edge. “For me.”

  What good would keeping my eye on her do? What would I do with more information? And wasn’t that why Nicole had given me a raise? To keep her dirty secrets?

  I groaned and dropped my head to my chest, too confused to know what to do. In my back pocket, my cell buzzed, and I fished it out of my pocket. It was a text, from a name I’d rather not see right then.

  Clarke.

  The text was short and deadly. Seen anything?

  I stared at it, no idea how to respond. The meeting ended, bodies bumped against me in their exit, and I still stared down at those letters.

  Seen anything?

  C9. C9. C9

  Carter lived in C9. Not that I’d been thinking about it. But I couldn’t stop imagining the what ifs. Especially when I was alone in bed, my body lonely, my hands wandering, my cool sheets sensual in their brush against my skin. What if he knocked on my door? What if I was in bed, like this, just waiting? What if … I rolled over in bed and pulled my blanket over my head.

  C9. It was one floor and three doors away. I didn’t know how long I could fight against it. I swore his damn apartment was calling my name.

  29. How to Lie Without Lying

  I zipped up the front of Chanel’s coat, buttoning the top button and adjusting the hood, her tiny tongue darting out and catching my wrist. I smiled at her, picking up her tiny body and heard his voice. “Chloe.”

  I set down Chloe in her travel bag, taking my time before I turned to face him, trying to smile. “Mr. Brantley. Good morning.”

  The words came out well. Smooth and casual. Like my heart wasn’t pounding. Like my mind wasn’t racing over what to say when he asked the question that I knew was coming. I’d never responded to his text. I couldn’t think of how to. Finally, after four or five hours had passed, I decided to just ignore it. Because, you know, that always made problems go away.

  Clarke stepped into the kitchen, the click of his shoes painful on the polished floor. I held the edge of the counter tighter and leaned against it, trying to think of something to say. The air suddenly felt thick. Hot.

  Clarke stopped three feet from me. Close enough I could see the worry in his eyes, the pinch of his forehead, the bits of silver in his dark hair. Silver. He seemed too young for silver, yet too masculine for anything else. I looked at him and couldn’t understand why Nicole would want anything else. How could she kiss Paulo when she had Clarke?

  I looked away, reaching for my coffee cup and took a sip, hoping caffeine would help.

  “Was I right? Is she…” he paused as if the words caused him pain. Closed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. Dropped his chin for a moment and when he raised it, every feature was hard, his next words dark and low. “Is she … sleeping with Joey Plazen?”

  The small bit of coffee in my mouth threatened to spew forward in a Pitch Perfect stream of embarrassment. I clamped my lips shut, swallowed hard to force the coffee down, and it went down the wrong pipe. I coughed, wheezing as I gripped the counter and leaned forward. Clarke moved closer, a concerned look in his eyes, and I waved him off. His sexy hands rubbing my back might be the only thing that could have made my condition worse.

  When I finally regained my breath, tears at the corners of my eyes, I tried for composure. “You think she’s sleeping with Joey Plazen? Seriously?”

  His eyes darkened. “Don’t protect her.”

  “Listen to me.” I squared my shoulders and met his stern gaze head on. “Joey Plazen hates her. I’d never tell Nicole this, but he complains about her to every cast member who will listen. There is absolutely no chance they’re having an affair.”

  He yanked out his tie, letting out a heavy sigh. “Are you sure? I thought…” He ran a rough hand through his hair and scratched at the back of his neck, tilting his gaze back to mine. “It’s just…” he continued, “something’s off. And it’s been off before.” He lifted his chin. “In Paris.”

  I knew what he was referring to. Five years ago. There’d been rumors, then photos, then footage from the hotel elevator. Nicole had been filming a tiny made-for-TV movie that no one knew about, until her affair with her co-star had made all the gossip sites. Her co-star had been married to a pop music superstar and had publicly begged forgiveness, but Nicole had always vehemently denied the evidence. The story had fizzled out, but the Internet never forgot, the story still popping up in my Google search.

  “I swear, nothing’s going on between Joey and Nicole. Nothing.” I emphasized the last word, and his frame relaxed a little.

  “Okay.” He wiped a hand over his face and straightened. “Thanks. I’m sorry to even ask.”

  “It’s okay.” I smiled, like a good little honest assistant. Didn’t even check out his ass as he turned and left the kitchen. Returned to packing Nicole’s bag and avoided Chanel’s critical gaze.

  For a good little honest assistant who hadn’t lied, I felt filthy.

  I was in Nicole’s trailer when I heard her scream. The sound faint, it came from outside and I locked my phone, almost grateful for the interruption. I had just started playing Vic’s voicemail, one left the night before, his words slurring but intentions clear. He loved me, he wanted me, would I please forgive him … the same message I had heard ten times before. The same message, just like the others, that I saved, too weak to hit the delete button. I’d already listened to it four times, my behavior bordering on pathetic. I stuffed the phone in my pocket and swung open the door. Jogging down the steps, I followed the sounds of a Nicole Brantley hissy fit, rounding a set stage and almost running into the drama.

  Set 5. Lights were on, cameras up, and bodies were gathering, every person within a hundred feet gathered around like it was free queso day. Nicole was screaming at Joey, her arms waving, fingers pointing, and he was laughing, a combination that lit her anger on fire. Hannah passed me a bottled water and giggled. “She flubbed a line,” she whispered. “Joey made fun of her. It didn’t go over well.” I took the water and realized the opportunity I was missing. Grabbing for my phone, I recorded the second half of the fight. Then Paulo waded in, avoiding the stabby motions Nicole was making with her finger, and stopped the drama. I ended the recording, and stuck my cell back in my pocket.

  “Planning to sell that?” Hannah whispered in my ear, giving me a whiff of her granola breath.

  “No!” I hissed.

  “The gossip mags will pay bank for that shit.” She nodded toward my pocket. “Just don’t let anyone see you. You’ll be banned from set quicker than it takes Joey to jack off.”

  I made a disgusted face and she laughed, pushing on my shoulder. “Lighten up. Come over to Makeup with me. I need to introduce you to the new girl there.”

  I let her pull me through the set, sending a final glance back at Nicole, who was getting a shoulder massage from Paulo. The woman needed to be careful. I hadn’t heard any whispers yet of an affair, but someone would catch on. That was all she needed, for everyone to realize it wasn’t Nicole’s bank account that landed her this role but something else.

&nbs
p; In my pocket, my phone burned hot against my butt. Hannah had a good point, one I hadn’t thought of. Once I used the video, I needed to delete it.

  I texted the video to Clarke. It seemed like a good idea. The video protected Nicole while putting to rest any of Clarke’s concerns about an affair between her and Joey. A brilliant move on my part, if I could say so myself.

  Clarke texted right back.

  Thx. Sorry I was paranoid.

  A harmless text, one he’d probably sent during a meeting, his attention half on the words as he nodded in response to something an associate said. I opened the text in a corner of Makeup, sitting Indian-style against a wall as I listened to Hannah barter Joey memorabilia for free makeup.

  It’s okay. I understand. I typed the reply, then locked my phone and stuck it in my pocket. I understood, all right. More than he knew, not that he cared about my baggage. I closed my eyes and leaned against the wall. Wondered how late today’s schedule would go. The prior night, we’d been on set until eleven, my feet physically aching by the time Dante dropped me off at home. And our mornings had been starting at 6 a.m. There weren’t enough lattes in the city to make me a morning person. I started to doze against the wall when my phone buzzed again.

  You just made my day. This has been haunting me.

  I typed back. No problem. I thought of u when they started yelling. It’s not really her fault. Joey’s been an ass.

  Well … she can be a diva. Thanks for putting up w/ her. How’s ur week going?

  I smiled. Wondered how much to share. It’s good. Exciting. I like being on set. Are u going to come by?

  I stared at my words, the dots indicating his response pending. Why had I asked that? It was a horrible idea to put in his head. Then again, it would be helpful to know if he was going to come on set. Make sure that Nicole and Paulo weren’t humping in the bushes when he strolled in. I smiled at the image, a bit of wicked glee at the idea of her getting caught.