Hollywood Sins

by N. K. Smith

  Chapter 26

  “Adra. Adra!”

  Something warm presses against my face. Although it’s difficult, I manage to open an eye. “Peter.”

  My eye closes again.

  “Adra. What’s going on? Jason says your car’s in the garage, and—”

  I struggle to open my eyes again as I reach out and tap my fingers against his cheek. “Peter’s here.”

  “Yes, I’m here. Did you drink all that whiskey out there or did you have a party?”

  I let my hand drop. “Parties require people, and one person’s just a person, not a people.”

  “What?”

  I chuckle to myself and let my eyes slip closed again. “Peter Truelove, the man whose love is true. Peter.”

  “Adra, what the hell are you on? Did you take those pills with the whiskey?”

  There’s something in his voice, something that could be scary if I let it, but lucky for me, I feel so tired that I can’t focus on things like voices or light or depth or anything beyond the soft darkness.

  “Mmmm,” I hum when I feel something fluffy and warm draw up over my body. Comfy bed, warm covers. “Need to sleep. Come back soon.”

  Chapter 27

  When I wake, I roll out of bed unsure of my whereabouts. I’m sluggish as I slip on loose clothes and look out the window. Las Vegas. Now that the coke’s out of my system, and my thoughts are a little clearer, Vegas seems like some place I’d come when I was super high.

  I don’t know what time it is or what day it is, so I’m in no hurry to go anywhere. I stroll through the suite and think about getting into the spa, but the clink of silverware against porcelain alerts me to the fact that I’m not alone.

  Heat fills my chest as I enter the dining area. Peter is there with his cell, flipping through something on the screen.

  “Peter.” I stretch and let a lazy smile play upon my lips. But then it strikes me how odd it is we’re in Vegas together and I can’t remember any of it. The smile fades.

  He doesn’t even look up. “Come look at this.”

  “What is it?” I walk to him. “Smells good.” Finally he looks up. I’m not sure I want to tell him that my comment was in regards to how he smells, so I nod down at his food and say, “Did you order me anything?”

  “You made all the blogs and magazines today, and almost every single morning talk show had—”

  I sit down and rub the sleep out of my eyes with the heels of my hands. “What are you talking about?”

  “Here. Look.” He slides his cell to me.

  Locker’s Confidential blog is up. I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to get rid of my blurry vision, but when I open them, Peter taps the screen and a video starts. Jeremy Locker himself is reporting and not just one of the other gossip personalities he employs.

  “Good morning! Well, many of us have had that experience of partying too much, right? You know what I’m talking about. The kind of party you just can’t remember much of in the morning. The kind where you start off at a buddy’s house but wind up across down town in some old woman’s shrubbery. Yeah, I’ve had those kinds of nights myself, but it seems one of our favorite Hollywood starlets had a Dude, Where’s My Car moment last night on the Vegas strip. This time, it wasn’t the usual paps who brought us the best footage. Many Vegas night owls submitted video of the increasingly irrational Adra Willows asking random people on the street if they knew where her car was.

  “I’ve watched all the footage and edited it into a comprehensive timeline of last night. It starts out with a Vegas visitor recording Willows standing on the Hawaiian Marketplace and ends with the twenty-five-year-old actress using her phone as she stares at Caesar’s Palace, looking incredibly lost.

  “Check it out.”

  The segment plays, and just as promised, it shows me from various cell phone cameras looking whacked out and lost. It shows me asking various people if they had seen my car. When a couple of them asked me what it looked like, I gave them a description of “shiny, with black wheels.” My whole body throbs with embarrassment. I risk a quick glance up at Peter but drop my eyes as soon as I see him looking straight at me and not the screen.

  When Jeremy Locker comes back on, he says, “We at Locker’s Confidential will refrain from speculating as to what exactly happened last night in Vegas, but it does beg the question: What is going on with Adra Willows? When and if answers come in, rest assured, you’ll find them here on Locker’s Confidential where we bring you the best by peeling back the red carpet and exposing the dirt.”

  Peter takes his cell back and taps a few things. “Adra, I know you’ve been going through something huge since Elsie died.”

  I struggle to pay attention. It feels like he is lecturing me, and I don’t want my best friend in the world to lecture me. I may have to use some girlish tricks to get out of this. Yes, I’m ashamed and yes, he has a right to be worried, but I can’t endure one of his Peter Knows Best sermons. So I flash him a remorseful smile and drop my gaze to the table. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ve just been . . .”

  “You’re going to ruin—”

  Chewing on my bottom lip, I look back up at him through my eyelashes and hope it’s enough of an innocent girl act to get him to relent. I don’t think I can take the harsh disappointment I hear in his voice. “I said I was sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize to me, it’s your life, but alcohol, those anti-anxiety pills, and I’m pretty sure that over there is cocaine, isn’t going to be much of a life. I don’t think you need to apologize, but I think you need to get some help with—”

  It’s hard to keep the act up when he’s getting so feisty. I raise my head and meet his strong eyes with a steely gaze of my own. “I don’t need help. I just had too much fun. Partied too much.”

  His voice grows louder as his face falls, and it’s only now that I can see that he’s holding in some real anger. He’d been holding it in, and now it’s seeping out. “You couldn’t remember that you drove here. You couldn’t remember that you had a hotel room. You went up to random people on the street without a bodyguard to protect you. You—”

  “Okay, fine. Quit yelling. It was too much. I get it.” I swallow hard.

  Everything is silent in the suite. Without straining, I can hear his breathing. My own heartbeat thrums in my ears. In the quiet, my pretend innocence melts away to nothing and the frustration from Peter’s preaching goes away. What I’m left with is actual embarrassment and a little tiny kernel of something deep inside my chest. It might be small, but it’s strong. It is the seed that is the origin of everything, I think. It is the bud of all that I do. The quiet of the room brings me into awareness, that this seed, this small little thing within me, seeks out everything it can to be loved.

  The thing about being so lonely and wanting to be loved so much, is that sometimes I do stupid things in an attempt to be connected and to obtain love. Sometimes I can’t even see any other options, but I can now. Maybe if I tell Peter about the little place inside of me that stays empty no matter what I do to fill it, he’ll understand. Maybe if I let him in, even more than I have, maybe he’ll be the one who stays with me. He can fill that little void. “I’ve just become . . . What I mean is, I’ve—”

  Peter’s cell rings and interrupts my words. The screen lights up with a picture of him and Shyla on set. Peter silences the phone and flips it so the screen is flat against the table. “I’m listening. You’ve what?”

  The smiling image of Peter and his girlfriend reminds me that he’s not available to stay with me. That silent moment of clarity is gone. He can’t make a choice that’s already been made. There is no need for me to try. Besides, letting him in would drive him away. “Nothing. I was just going to say that I’m being a Hollywood brat.”

  “No, that’s Lili’s role. She’s the brat, and you’re the one who has her head on straight.”

  I suck in a deep breath as I turn my head to face away from him and lay it down on the table. “Like it
’s done me any of good,” I mumble.

  “What?”

  “I don’t have much to show for being the stable one, do I? Lili has gotten everything she wished for when we were kids. Awards, fame, money, the hottest boyfriends, never-ending job offers.”

  “What of those things don’t you have? I know you’re not with anyone right now, but you’ve never measured your worth by having a boyfr—”

  “I don’t care about that.” I know he wants more, but I stay silent.

  When he pushes his fingers into my hair, I almost relax into the touch, but I don’t let myself. It’s a friendly gesture, nothing more. And friends, even when loosely tethered to you, always leave. Peter has Shyla, and I don’t think she’s one to play nicely or share.

  All the anger has left his voice now. “What’s going on, Adra? I want to help. You’re going through something. That much is clear, but I don’t know what I need to do to—”

  “You don’t need to do anything, Peter. This isn’t something anyone can fix. It just is.”

  “Just like always, you won’t ask for help.”

  Sitting up, I roll my shoulders back and pin him with my hard eyes. “That’s because I don’t need any.”

  “It didn’t sound that way when you woke me up this morning, confused as to where you even were. Do you know how crazy that made me?” Peter has always thought the eyes were the windows to the soul, and he moves his side to side like he can look through mine and into my soul. But right now, I think my eyes are just flesh filling the empty void between bones. “Adra, I love you. You can’t just—”

  I stand up. I’m not going to sit here and listen to him tell me how much he loves me. How my friendship means the world to him. “Thanks for coming to help.” I put on a bright smile. “I promise to chill with the partying. I’ve got a film coming up soon anyway.”

  For a moment, I think he’s not going to accept my topic shift, but after he’s finished studying the varnish on the tabletop, he looks up at me, putting on a fake grin of his own. “So New York for three months?”

  Thank God, he’s going to let this go. I knew he didn’t want to deal with it either.

  “Yes!” I bounce on the balls of my feet. It’s something I’ve done since childhood to show my excitement, so I know it’ll convince him that I’m not as far gone as he thinks. “It’ll be good to get out of LA for a bit.”

  Peter scoots his chair back and stands up. “Maybe I’ll come out to visit you. My next one doesn’t start for another month, and it’s all shot in California, so—”

  I don’t want to go into details. It’s all too much right now. So I say, “That’s great.”

  He reaches out and holds my shoulders with his gentle hands. “I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t be, I’m the sensible one, remember?”

  He just looks at me.

  I can’t hold his stare. Hot tears burn at my eyes.

  One second I’m crying alone, and the next I’m in his arms with his lips pressed against the top of my head. I feel absolutely stupid weeping like this over I don’t know what. It’s not Elsie, it’s not my parents, it’s not the drugs that have left my system, or the awards I haven’t won, or my too-thin body, or the skin I’ve shown. It’s not any of that, or maybe it’s all of it.

  There is just an emptiness inside of me, but it’s not like it’s always been there and that’s what hurts so much. It feel like something’s been ripped from me, and the void feels foreign and strange.

  “Adra,” he whispers. That word, my name, pushes me back to the reality that he’s comforting me out of pity, and I am not a victim.

  I sniff and pull away from him. “I probably have to check out soon, so . . . ” I leave the sentence unfinished as I chuck a thumb behind me before turning and leaving him standing there.

  The thing about an impromptu trip to Vegas is that it doesn’t require much, so I have nothing to grab, or to pack up, and nothing to occupy my time. I end up sitting on the edge of the spa, feet dangling in, staring out into the bright desert, and wishing I had reserved some blow for a time like this.

  When did this happen? When did this jump from an occasional snort after the first time with Elsie to getting high every day? And if I just told Peter that I wouldn’t party so much, why is my immediate thought about getting high? I should be worried about this. And Peter’s right here, right now. If I was going to ask anyone for help, it’d be Peter.

  But I can’t bring myself to do it. I’ve been weak my whole life, and I don’t want to cement that into Peter’s awareness now. All those thoughts before were bogus. Letting him in wouldn’t bring him closer to me. Letting him in would just push him further away.

  I’m strong. I can do this. I have a new project to keep my mind focused.

  And I have hope that soon the empty space within me won’t even been noticeable.

  Chapter 28

  I want to get high. I want to get high. I want to get high.

  I can’t get high.

  I can barely do anything but think about getting high though. It’s there right at the edge of my vision. I can almost see it. I can almost smell it. I can almost taste it. The want of . . . getting high, I guess. Because it’s not just coke. I don’t care how or where it comes from. I just want to get high again.

  But I can’t be high. I know I can’t.

  It’s the want that is full-bloom in my chest that’s driving me crazy. It’s the racing thoughts in my mind that keep from me from focusing on anything else. I don’t think anything will ever take it away.

  I mean, nothing beyond getting high again.

  Two days clean. I start my new film in a few days.

  I want to get high.

  ***

  Fourteen days. That’s how long I’ve managed to keep myself clean. My mood is all over the place, and my newest film isn’t helping. Keep in Mind forces me to constantly shift emotions, and the way the shooting is structured, in any given day, I have to go to extremes.

  Elias, the director, says I’m doing great, that my performance is top tier stuff, but I can’t tell anymore. My character, Ellen, is a mess. Suicidal thoughts and plans, abrupt emotions, stormy relationships, paranoia, and risky behavior. Well, now that I think about it, it seems like just another day in Hollywood.

  Except I’m not in Hollywood. I’m in New York. I think changing the scenery has helped me to break the cycle of using drugs, wanting more, getting higher, and buying more. I mean, I still want to buy drugs. I still want to use, but I don’t. When my moods are elevated and stable enough, I go out for dinner and drinks with the rest of the cast. They like to have a lot of fun, and when I’m with them, I find it easier to let myself be free. Free to be me.

  Still, I don’t think any of them are lifelong friends. We are casual acquaintances, and we won’t stay in contact after this movie is in the books.

  “You’ve had too much to drink, little girl.”

  I look over and smile, a slow smile. Jude McGuinness, whose whole being vibrates with erotic raciness, sexual confidence, and almost otherworldly wisdom, stares back at me. His years of touring the world as the quintessential American rocker have given him an air of intelligence that only experience can provide. I can tell every time I look into his eyes that he is wise beyond what a normal twenty-eight year old man should be. Of course, maybe it’s just years of perfecting an image, and I’m just too stupid to tell the lies from the truth.

  “I haven’t had anything to drink.”

  He laughs. “Well, then, you’d better start.” He pokes my sweaty water glass. “This stuff is making you stare off into space.” Jude leans into me and wiggles his shoulder against mine. “We have peepers over there, so don’t give them any fodder for the morning edition.”

  I glance around the restaurant. People have their cell phones out and aren’t hiding the fact that they’re snapping pictures of our group. I guess I don’t blame them. Maybe seeing this group of celebrities is the coolest things that have happened in
their lives. But a few feet away outside the big window are all the people who make money on a regular basis for stalking the famous. They have their cameras pressed against the glass.

  The idea that there are people outside who want to sell a photograph of me staring off into space sickens me, but I’m in front of people whose opinions matter to me, whether we’re friends or not, so I turn away from the window and paste on a grin. “Thanks.”

  Jude winks. I should start a conversation. That’s what other people do in these circumstances. How did I become so socially awkward? “So, how do you like acting? Is it a big change?”

  He widens his eyes, and I watch, almost enraptured as he runs his tongue along his bottom lip. His mouth is a bit of a thing for the world at large. Much text and photo space in print magazines and on the Internet have been given to those full, pouty lips. I’ve never thought much about them, but when you’re right next to them, they are mesmerizing.

  “I thought my first film would be a huge thing, you know? But it’s oddly similar to going out on stage and rocking for a few hours.”

  I pull my eyes away from his mouth and focus on his eyes. Those light cinnamon eyes. “How so?”

  Jude shrugs. “It’s an act, you know. I’ve never been that dude on stage. When I got my first record contract, a couple of people from the label schooled me on how I needed to be, what I needed to do, who I needed to portray in order to sell records, so Jude McG was born,” he says as he spreads his hands out and moves them in opposite arcs. “I’ve learned everything is an act, so stepping into this role, isn’t that hard.”

  “You’re playing an addict,” I say with a chuckle. “You don’t find that challenging?”

  Leaning into me again, he brings those cherished, talked-about lips close to my ear. “I’ve got experience. No worries, though, I’m clean and sober.” He chuckles “I mean, I still dabble, you know? Don’t tell my manager.”

  His whisper hits my ear and sends chills down my spine. The proximity of this American sex god is partly to blame for my body’s response, but so is the fact that he has just admitted that he’s been into drugs. It’s not surprising, but the hope that maybe I’ll get to do some with him puts my body on edge and gets my mind spinning. I want to get high.