Hollywood Sins

by N. K. Smith

  Elsie was like my mentor, and now she’s gone. She’s dead. I know we had a bit of a falling out, but it would have resolved itself. I’m not sure I’m strong enough to go it alone. If I had just sat down with her and explained why I wanted a no-nudity clause in my future contracts, she would have backed down.

  I know she would have.

  The sound of Hettie’s wooden chair scraping against the concrete floor brings me back into focus. “I’m sorry? I didn’t hear what you said.”

  Hettie’s smile makes me feel even more like a failure. “I said, we can get you started on serving food. Just follow me.”

  If I ask Hettie, a woman I know nothing about, for help, I bet she’d give it to me. I bet she’d help me like she helps everyone else. But I don’t ask. Because how can I tell her I’m dead inside? How could she take that seriously when she works with people with so many more problems than I have? She wouldn’t. She’d roll her eyes and chalk me up to being a selfish, spoiled celebrity. It’s stupid of me to even think about asking for help and wasting her time.

  I stand, follow her to the kitchen, put on a hairnet and an apron, then go to the hot bar where Hettie shows me how to serve the food. It’s not difficult—one scoop of this, one scoop of that, send them down the line.

  When she leaves, I question why I’m here again. All I’m doing is putting food—I don’t even know what kind—on their plates. I can’t seem to look at them, but maybe these people are used to stuff like that.

  God, this is the worst thing I’ve ever talked myself into doing. If Peter saw me . . .

  If Peter saw me, he’d think it was great that I’m volunteering, but he’d be disappointed by my disgust. He’d think I’m being a spoiled Hollywood brat about this whole thing, and one thing I decided long ago was that I never wanted to be a spoiled Hollywood brat, so I force my head up, and I look directly into the eyes of the man on the other side of the counter. “Hi.”

  “Ma’am,” he says and gives me a short nod as he accepts his food. He looks about eighty, but I’m willing to bet it might only be a fraction of that.

  “Have a good day.”

  “Yes, ma’am. You as well.”

  I can feel the small but real smile pushing onto my face. The next person in line smiles back at me, and then the next. Twenty minutes later, a woman about my age stands in front of me. She has a tattoo on her cheek, partially covered by a deep greenish-black bruise. I feel sick at the sight because someone gave her that bruise, and I’m pretty sure that tattoo means she’s owned.

  “You that girl, right?”

  I’m a little taken aback because she’s spoken to me and no one else here has initiated the conversation. “What girl?”

  “You was in that movie, but you was a kid.”

  I place a scoop on her tray and try to make my shaky smile look genuine. “I was in a few movies as a kid. Which one do you remember?”

  The woman rolls her brown eyes up to the ceiling like she’s trying to think of the name. “I don’t know. It was with that tall boy, and you was runnin’ away from home on your skates.”

  “Right Away Afar,” I tell her. It was the second movie in the series with Peter and Lili. “You remember that one?”

  She nods. “I watched it every day.”

  “You did?” I tilt my head a little, wishing she would look me in the eyes, but she won’t. She keeps her eyes down, focused on the food.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause the girl you played, Charlene, gave me hope that I could change my life, too.”

  I set the spoon back into the green stuff someone told me was spinach. “Can I have lunch with you?” I don’t know why I asked her, and I don’t know why I want to eat with her. I’m not hungry, and I’m not sure this stuff is even real food—I’ve never seen spinach that looked like that—but there’s something about her that makes me want to talk.

  “If you want.”

  I walk to Hettie, wiping my hands on my apron. “I’m going to sit down with that woman, okay?”

  “Well there’s—”

  I’ve already walked away and pulled off my hairnet before she can say anything else. I find the woman sitting in the very corner of the room, her back to a wall. Her head is down again, and she jumps a bit when I pull out the chair.

  “You ain’t got no food.”

  I nod, but she’s staring at her food again, so I say, “Yeah, I forgot.”

  “You forget to eat a lot?”

  “Sometimes.”

  She glances up at me. “It looks like it.”

  Well, that was offensive. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re skinnier than most of these homeless folks here. That’s something ’bout rich people I ain’t never gonna get. You rich, yet you starve.”

  On instinct I pull my arms around my abdomen. With one hand, I feel my ribs. With the other, I feel my bony hips. “You’re right. It’s totally insane.”

  She’s eating so fast it makes me a bit nauseous to watch her, but I sat down to talk. “So why’d you want to change your life, you know, back when you were a kid? What was going on?”

  “You don’t wanna know. You’re here for community service or something.”

  “I’m not.” A slow smile spreads over my face. “I’m not even here to research a role. I just want to feel something.” There’s a certain sense of freedom that washes over me after I say it out loud. It’s for me more than for this woman, but I get the feeling she isn’t going to judge me or be overly concerned.

  Again, she looks up at me, but this time she makes no comment, just shakes her head.

  “Okay,” I say, “So don’t tell me why you wanted to change your life, just tell me if you did.”

  She lets out this low, dark chuckle as she straightens her neck and levels me with her eyes. “What do you think? I’m gettin’ a free lunch at a shelter while my pimp is sleeping. You think I changed my life?”

  Something inside of me deflates. The fact that I was right about her being owned is a brutal victory. I wish I’d been wrong. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah,” she says.

  Just when the silence gets to be too much and I’m about to leave, she starts to talk again. “I saw the preview for that movie you’re in.”

  “I’m in lots of movies. Which one?”

  “The one with you looking like hooker.”

  At first I think she means Outside the Club, but then she continues. “You saving a bunch of crazy looking people.”

  “That’s The Last Hope. It was a fun one. I got to kick ass a little.”

  She nods and scoops a spoonful of something gray into her mouth. I think it’s supposed to be mushroom gravy and potatoes, but I’m not sure. “Maybe if I get the chance I’ll see it when it comes out on TV.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “You ain’t need to know my name.”

  “I just thought—”

  “Yeah, you like everyone here. You want my name ’cause you feel sorry for me.” She leans over the table and looks me right in the eyes. “But I ain’t a little girl anymore. You can’t sell me any hope like you did with that damn movie. Ain’t no pretty boy on a skateboard gonna come save me. Ain’t no police gonna make it better. Ain’t no one gonna take care of me but me.”

  “You’ve got a black eye, how is that—”

  If it’s possible, her closed expression hardens even more. “You go sell your ass to Hollywood’s hottest, to the ones who’ve got money just to watch you shake it onscreen. I’ll sell mine to the rest of Hollywood, the ones who would rather spend money on a blow job than seeing a movie.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. All I can think of to say is, “I’m sorry. I was just trying—”

  She shakes her head again as she lowers back down into her seat. “Everybody’s always trying. Just stop. I’m doing just fine.”

  The woman won’t look up at me again, so I say nothing as I stand up and push in my chair. I feel a bit lighthea
ded and dazed as I make my way back to Hettie. “She’s a prostitute.”

  “Yes.”

  “Someone beat her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why aren’t we calling the cops?”

  “They’ll just follow her until she finds a john and then arrest her when she tries to make a deal. It won’t stop it from—”

  “That’s bullshit!”

  The other volunteers stop serving food as my voice reverberates through the room.

  “I know. We just try to stick to our mission statement and be here for when—”

  “But she needs help now. Why are you acting like this isn’t a big deal? There’s a woman over there who—”

  “Because it happens every day. I know this isn’t your everyday, but it’s mine. It’s tragic and horrifying when you realize the levels of exploitation in the world around you.”

  “But you can’t just—”

  Hettie gives me this smile like she thinks I’m a cute kid playing an adult. “Some people won’t take help even when they’re in desperate need of it. And if you force them to take it, it’ll be a wasted effort, and worse yet, you’ll drive them away. It’s best just to let the person know help is available, and let them make their choice.”

  “Bullshit,” I say again, more to myself than to her. Shaking my head, I tear off my apron. “I’m not doing this shit. You’re not fixing the fucking problem. You’re not even putting a bandage on it!”

  “Ms. Willows, there’s not a bandage big enough to cover this. If you’ll just—”

  Once again, I walk away from her, but this time I head straight out the door where I ignore the yells of the photographers. I shove my sunglasses down on my head and walk to my car. “Take me home,” I say to the driver as soon as I’m in.

  I don’t waste any time. I reach under the seat in front of me and pull out that magical little vial, pour some out onto the little black address book I keep with me, and start moving the white powder into lines.

  Chapter 25

  Fuck charity. It didn’t make me feel good at all. All it did was make me feel guilty, and I’m so tired of feeling guilty. I don’t know what I was thinking when I went to that damned shelter two weeks ago.

  ***

  “Peter, it’s Adra.”

  “It’s three in the morning.” By his groggy voice, I know I’ve woken him up, but I can’t focus on that now.

  “Yeah,” I say as I swipe at my nose. “I lost my car.”

  “You what?”

  “Yeah, I went out driving, and I lost my car.” I don’t tell him that I went out looking for coke, got lost, parked some place to ask for directions, and now I can’t find my car.

  “How did you lose your car?” He sounds like he isn’t even awake yet. I shouldn’t have called him.

  “I don’t know.” I can’t feel my toes, my heart is thumping against my chest, my lungs feel like they’re being squeezed, and my eyes don’t seem to work well right now. Everything is blurry. “I left it right over there.”

  “Over where?”

  I hear rustling which means he’s getting out of bed. “Over there by the garbage thing.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What?” His voice is louder now. There’s a little panic in his voice, and it only increases my own rising hysteria.

  “I don’t know!” I yell into my cell.

  Peter takes a deep breath in. He’s calmer when he continues. “Take the phone away from your ear and look at your GPS.”

  Oh. Right. My cell’s GPS system will tell me right where I am. I do exactly what he says. “I’m on the corner of Flamingo and Las Vegas.”

  He’s quiet for a minute.

  “Peter?”

  “What the hell are you doing in Vegas?” The confusion and anger in his voice feed my dread and fear again. My heart thumps so hard it feels like it’s crawling out of my throat. Jesus. Maybe my heart’s giving out. Maybe it’s—

  “Adra?”

  “I don’t know! I can’t find my car!”

  “What’s going on with you?”

  “Peter.”

  His sigh is harsh. “Stay put. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “How long is it going to be?” I feel like I should know the answer, especially if I drove here.

  “Four or five hours. Maybe you should check into a hotel.” Good. Peter’s calm again and being smart. He’s always smart. Smart and knows what to do. It makes me feel better.

  I look down at myself. Jeans, T-shirt, sandals. No bag. “I think my purse is in the car.” I check my pockets. “I’ve got cash though.”

  “Go to the nearest hotel and check in. I don’t get how you . . . never mind. Just check in and text me which hotel.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry.”

  Peter sighs again. “I’m on my way.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “No, I’m not mad,” he says in a rush. “But I don’t fucking understand what’s happening with you. How the hell are you—”

  I cut him off when his voice reaches a volume and pitch that scares me. “Don’t be mad at me.”

  When he speaks again, his voice is calm. I don’t know if he’s forced himself to act calm or if he really is calm. “Just get to a hotel—a safe one—and stay put, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Following Peter’s advice has always yielded good results in the past, so I do as he instructed. I walk into Caesar’s Palace but stop because something seems off. It’s like déjà vu or something. I look around, then take a few steps forward again. It feels like I was just here.

  A vague recollection washes through my brain. I remember walking around the statue of three women and up to the desk. It seems so familiar, that I retrace my remembered steps. When I’m get up to the desk, the guy behind it says, “Ms. Willows, how may I assist you?”

  “Do I have a room here?” I whisper the question in hopes the clerk will pick up on my desire for discretion.

  He tilts his head to the side. It’s just a slight movement, but I catch it, along with the narrowing of his eyes. “Of course, Ms. Willows.”

  Relief floods me, but I have to act cool. If I show how happy I am not to be lost, he’ll think something’s wrong, and maybe he’d contact the media. The hotel probably has rules against that, but you never know if someone’s going to sell you out for fifteen minutes of fame. “I can’t find my key.”

  “I would be happy to replace it. We’ll recode it for security.”

  I can’t remember my room number, but I’m pretty sure he’ll write it on the sleeve, so I don’t ask. Instead, something else pops into my mind. “Have you seen my bodyguard? I’m pretty sure I came with one.”

  Again, he gives me the same look. “Are you feeling well, Ms. Willows?”

  “Stop calling me Ms. Willows. I’m fucking Adra, okay?” So much for acting cool.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says before hurrying to recode a new card. “You do have your own security detail.” He points to a column, and I see a familiar face.

  “Jason,” I whisper.

  The man slides the card across the marble. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  I nod. “Can you send food up to the room?”

  “It would be my pleasure. What would you like?”

  “I don’t know. Just, you know, food.”

  “We have—”

  I cut him off with a shake of my head. “No. I don’t care what it is. Pick something vegan for me and send it up. And a bottle of whiskey. Anything top shelf.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I draw my eyebrows together and purse my lips. “It’s fucking Adra.” I grab the card, spin on my heel, and stomp over to Jason. “What the fuck?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Obviously he knows more about what’s going on than I do. “How long was I gone?”

  Jason checks his watch. “Four hours.”

  “What?”

  “Are you okay?”<
br />
  “I’m fine. Why didn’t you come with me?”

  “You told me not to. You said to stay right here.”

  Well, there’s no arguing with that, so I lead the way to the elevators. Inside, I wait for him to push the buttons. He does, and when the doors open again, he gets out first. I follow him to the room. As soon as I walk in, I remember checking in.

  I text Peter: Caesar’s Palace Augustus Tower Spa Suite.

  My bag is lying on the table by the door. I guess my car’s probably okay, too.

  While I’ve used security in the past, it’s mainly the guys at the gate of my house. I’m not used to having a bodyguard at such close quarters. I’m not sure what to do with Jason, if he should stand guard at the door or come into the suite, so I just walk away. He can make that call.

  I strip and soak in the spa while I look out at the lights against the black sky. Maybe I should live in Vegas. Even if I can’t remember the actual transaction, at least I scored some great coke.

  There’s a knock on the door and a few seconds later, Jason delivers my food. I don’t even care what it is, I scarf it down. When I’m done, I get out of the water and towel off. I let the towel fall to my feet and walk to the bar naked. Jason is nowhere to be seen, but even if he was out in the open, I wouldn’t care. My bottle of whiskey is waiting for me, and that is far more important than slipping on clothes.

  Sleep sounds awesome, so I drink a glass, then pop a lorazepam and drink another glass. It takes a few minutes of walking around, but my legs grow weak. It’s a good feeling since I’ve been awake for far too long. I’m pretty sure my coke high has lasted a couple of days.

  I have no idea how long I’ve been in Vegas or how much Jason has seen me do, but right now, I can’t seem to care. On shaky legs, I make it to a bed and fall down. I remember nothing else after my head hits the fluffy pillow.