For Us: The Girl I Loved

by Wylder, Penny

  Her eyes glaze over, and I take the chance to press my forehead against hers. “We’ve transitioned back now.”

  “God, the rest of this day is going to suck.” I start to laugh and she slaps me on the arm. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know. I just love you.”

  “Love you too. Go out there and direct the hell out of everyone.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Especially you,” she says before she slips out the trailer door.

  18

  Amber

  Present

  Getting to the end of the day is like delicious torture. The way Peter put images in my head, I couldn’t stop thinking about him and what we did and what we’re going to do. He sent me texts too, counting down the hours.

  I’m walking to my car when my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I smile, expecting a teasing message from Peter about the fact that I’m going to be in his bed soon. But it’s not from Peter, it’s from Clay.

  Amber,

  I’ve spoken to the producers on the show, and they have some concerns about the direction of the storyline for the second half of the season. Can you come over to my place so we can talk about it?

  That’s…strange. There have been a couple of times that the wires have been crossed about who’s still in charge since Clay backed out so suddenly and his name is still on a lot of stuff, but it’s frustrating when this happens. The producers know that I’m here, and they’re still going to Clay for decisions about things like storyline?

  I know where Clay lives, I’ve been there before. I text him quickly to tell him that I’ll be right over, and I text Peter to tell him that I’ll be a little late.

  Clay Markham’s house is really spectacular. It’s one of those houses that could be in the movies, but as far as I know he hasn’t let it. Instead he throws fabulous parties there.

  The gate opens when I pull up and I drive in. This is a little further from Peter’s house than I wanted to drive, but this has to be dealt with, if only because I need to tell Clay that if he really wants me to direct the show, then he actually needs to let me direct the show and back the fuck off.

  Even though I like Clay, I really do, and I owe a lot to him, enough is enough.

  When Clay answers the door, I’m shocked. He’s wearing an open button-down shirt so I can see his chest. His hair is tousled like he’s been sleeping, but the smile on his face is breezy and open and he greets me with a big gesture. “Amber! Welcome!”

  The glimpse I get of his chest before he wraps me in an embrace is surprising; he’s got a good body. I’ve never thought of Clay that way. He’s got ten years on me at least, and has never been my type. When I was working for him he had a string of both women and men that he was sleeping with. “Hi, Clay.”

  “Come in, come in. Glad you got my message.”

  “Yeah,” I say, following him into his living room and sitting on the couch across from him. “I’m a little frustrated that the producers are still going to you about things like this.”

  He picks up a glass of wine from the coffee table and waves hand. “Oh, they didn’t.”

  “They didn’t?”

  “No, of course not. That’s your deal. I just said that to get you over here.”

  I freeze. “I’m sorry?”

  Clay knocks back the glass of wine and pours himself a new one from the decanter on the table. “I needed you to come over here because I want you.”

  Dread swirls in my stomach, and I’m suddenly aware that I’m much closer to him than I am to the door. But this is Clay, my mentor, the jokester and gossip of Hollywood. This is some kind of joke. It has to be. It has to be. “Clay, I don’t understand.”

  He smiles, and it’s not a nice smile. “You know I always thought you were beautiful. And I thought that you were good. That’s why I never went after you. I didn’t want to be the one that introduced you to the way things work here in the City of Angels, but now I know that’s not true.”

  “I—”

  “No,” he says, cutting off any response, “now I know you’re just like every other woman in this town trying to get ahead. You’ll fuck anything that moves for a better gig, and since you’re not as good as I thought you were, and I handed you the biggest job in your life, you owe me.”

  “Clay, you can’t be serious.”

  He laughs and drinks half the glass of wine. “Of course I’m serious. I followed you into the bathroom in Fantasia, and it doesn’t take a brilliant detective to see a woman’s knees on the floor or hear the sounds of a blowjob. And guessing from how your dress looked when you came out, more than that happened in that stall. If you’re willing to fuck a rising star to get somewhere, then you’re definitely going to fuck me. Because I made you, and if you don’t, I’ll make you the second round of the June Cavallaro scandal, and you’ll never work in Hollywood again.”

  I can’t breathe. The room is spinning and I feel like I might pass out, but I can’t do that because if I pass out then I won’t be able to get out of here. I stand up. “I don’t know if you’re drunk, Clay. Or stupid. Or if you actually believe what you’re saying, but I’m not having sex with you.”

  “I’m not stupid,” he says, standing too. He reaches for my arm but I move just in time. The second time I don’t. He has me by the shoulder, painfully pulling me closer while trying to push me down. “You and Petey’s little bathroom escapade will be in all of tomorrow’s papers if you don’t give me the same treatment you gave him—on your knees and more.”

  No. No no no. I jerk my shoulder out from under his hand and sprint for the door. “I have pictures,” he calls after me, walking behind me, following like a cloud of doom. “You might as well just fuck me and be done with it.”

  I reach the front door, and only stop for a second. “Fuck off, Clay.” But I can barely get the words out.

  In my car, I can feel the bile rising. I need to find a place where I can throw up that’s not on the street, but I need more than that. I need Peter. I drive down the hill from his house and pull into the first spot I find on Sunset Boulevard, in front of a casual restaurant. I burst into the restaurant, startling a couple of people, and I manage to dial Peter’s number just before I’m in the bathroom and hurling my guts up. Peter answers the phone, but I can’t speak. Not right now. I’m sure the sound of vomit isn’t what he expected when he took my call.

  I can hear the panic in his voice. “Amber? What’s going on.”

  “I need you,” I say, weakly.

  “Where are you?”

  I tell him. I’m not sure what the restaurant is called, but he assures me that he’ll find it and then hangs up. I throw up again, and my body keeps going until there’s nothing left to throw up. Even then I’m gagging.

  It’s not lost on me that I’m in a public bathroom, the scene of exactly what put me here, which brings on another round of heaving. But I finally manage to stop my stomach from rolling and flush the toilet. I don’t move from the floor. I need to wipe my mouth. I need water. But I’m not moving, not until Peter gets here.

  I can’t stop imagining that I’m going to walk out of the bathroom door and Clay is going to be standing there, that he followed me and is going to corner me publicly. I know that’s probably not true, but I can’t shake the feeling.

  Not long after I get control of my stomach, the tears follow. I feel stupid, because nothing happened, but I can’t stop crying.

  The door opens, and it's Peter's voice. "Amber?"

  I must be loud enough to hear, because I don't have to answer before he's pushing into the handicap stall and is on the ground with me pulling me into his lap. I didn't lock the door because I was too busy losing whatever food I'd eaten today.

  The minute he puts his hands on me, my body relaxes, because it's safety. It strikes me that this really does mean that we've moved past everything, because there was a time when if you asked me if Peter Holleman was the person who made me feel safe, I would have said no. He holds me tight as I bury my h
ead into his shirt and fight for control, even if I don't need it with him. It takes a while.

  But when I'm not crying as hard, he finally asks, "What happened?"

  Thinking about it nearly sends me scrambling for the toilet again, but I hold on, digging my fingers into his shirt and jeans. I'm suddenly tired, practically swaying, and I realize that I haven't said anything. "You threw up?" he asks.

  I nod.

  "We should get some food or sugar into you. Are you okay to go out into the restaurant? I'll find us a place in the corner, no one will be the wiser."

  I'm not usually in this part of town, and there wouldn't be any paparazzi interested in me going to Clay Markham's house, and having some kind of drink to wash the bad taste out of my mouth sounds nice. "Okay."

  He helps me to my feet, and I wash my mouth while he looks for a booth or table, and he holds my hand while he guides me to it, and doesn't let it go when he sits across the booth from me, or when the waitress comes and he orders me coffee and a slice of blueberry pie. My voice is raspy as I speak. "You remember that I like that?"

  "I remember everything, Amber." I look down, and he adds his other hand to hold mine. It's cradled, and comforted. "What happened?"

  This seems like a completely different world from the one we were living in this afternoon, where we were sexy and teasing and happy. It's absurd. But he needs to know. "Clay texted me as I was leaving the studio and told me that the producers had concerns about the story, and I was pissed that they were still going to him about things like that. So I met with him. But he lied."

  And then I tell him the rest, word for word, as far as I can remember it. About Fantasia, and the pictures, and his assessment that since I'd had sex with Peter that I owed sex to him too. Peter's hands don't tighten on mine. They're soft and soothing, but I can see the way the rest of his body goes tense with anger and that he's clenching his teeth.

  The waitress brings the pie and I have to let him go to eat it. I finish telling him how Clay followed me out of the house and I came here, not wanting to be sick on the side of the road. "What are we going to do?" I ask, fighting off the welling up of emotion that comes with telling him all of that. "It's Clay Markham. He says he took pictures. It doesn't matter how careful we are because of who he is. If he says he's going to make sure I never work again, then he is. It's going to happen. I'm so sorry, Peter."

  Peter looks at me, eyes blazing. "Don't you ever apologize. None of that is your fault. I had no idea that Clay would do something like that, and the fact that I almost worked with him without knowing that he's that kind of monster makes me sick." He slips out of his side of the booth and comes around to mine. He slips a hand around my waist and kisses me on the forehead. "Are you okay to stay here for a few minutes? Because I'm going to talk to him."

  "What are you going to say?"

  He shakes his head, hand tightening on my hip. "I don't know yet, but I'm going to fix it. Eat your pie. Order yourself another piece, and don't leave. I'll be back soon."

  There's a lump in my throat, but it's okay. I know that he means it when he says he's going to fix it. There's a warmth in my gut, the sense of relief that being taken care of brings. Peter doesn't lie. He's going to fix it. I find a smile somewhere inside me. "Try not to kill him."

  Peter doesn't return that smile. "I'll try." And then he's up and striding out of the restaurant. I see him send a text before he gets in his car, and then he's driving away.

  I order another slice of pie.

  19

  Peter

  Present

  I can't remember a time in my life when I've been this angry. Before I turn on my car, I send a text to Michael telling him where to meet me, because I'm going to need someone there to remind me not to kill this bastard, and Michael is a pretty good choice for that. We haven't spoken since I had him kicked out of Fantasia, but he'll have my back. I know he will.

  I've been to Clay's house once before, when he was courting me for the show. It looks different to me now that I know who he really is. I only have a half-formed plan, but I don't even care. This has to be dealt with, and now, before Clay has a chance to ruin everything that Amber has worked for.

  Banging on the door, I wait until I hear shuffling footsteps on the other side. The door opens, and Clay is there. No shirt, hair disheveled, he's practically drooling. And I notice something that Amber didn't tell me about. His eyes are so bloodshot that they're red. I push past him, because like hell am I going to let him shut me out of the house. "I heard you threatened Amber."

  Clay starts laughing. Not a normal laugh, it's maniacal and piercing. "I didn't threaten her, I told her that she needed to pay her debt. You already got paid you pretty little pansy. She sucked your cock and now she needs to suck mine. It's only fair."

  It takes everything I've got not to put his head through a wall. I do shove him into it though, and I put myself as far into his space as I dare. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Why would you ever say that to a woman that you work with, let alone one that I thought you respected?"

  His body is limp, and he lets his head loll on his shoulders while rolling his eyes. "Perer. Perter. Peter. You're young. You don't know how this works yet. Sure, Amber is fine. She's not brilliant. But people like it when you mentor girls like that. They call you sensitive and give you more jobs and you get all the other women dying to fuck you. But Amber, she's not just a decent director, she's hot. You know. And I made her. The least she can do is give me what I need as a thank you. You know. You fucked her."

  I throw him up against the wall again. "You piece of shit." My fist is raised and I'm about to throw the punch when the door opens.

  "Woah!" Michael jumps in front of me, "What the hell are you doing, Peter?"

  Lowering my arm, I have to take a breath before I speak. "You're high, aren't you, Clay?"

  "What the fuck does that matter?"

  "It matters a lot you dickhole."

  Michael puts his hands on my shoulders and shoves me back. "Peter, what is happening."

  I glance at him before looking back at Clay. Not willing to take my eyes off him. "This fucker lured Amber here with a lie about the show and then proceeded to blackmail her into sex and who knows what else. She barely got out of the house."

  Michael goes pale. "What?" He turns to Clay too.

  "She's going to fuck me, or everyone is going to know what a little whore she is," Clay says viciously, holding out his phone. It's a blurry picture, and the angle is clear that it's under a bathroom stall, but it's clear enough that it's Amber and me. My cock is in her mouth, just like those pictures that made the papers that made her freak out in the first place. Michael glances over at me, and I know that I'm going to get an earful later about Amber, but he's smart enough to know that this isn't the right time.

  I have to think. Because I honestly have no leverage. It hits me. I can't give him anything that he wants, but I can take something away.

  "If you ever go near her again," I say, "I'll release the story about your drug use. You're famous for your killer parties, but you're also famous for being clean. It will ruin your reputation."

  Clay laughs again, that high pitched laugh that makes me sick to my stomach because I used to hear it all the time from my mother. She would never see reason either. All of this is like déjà vu, and I hate it. I swear to God I'll never touch anything harder than Tylenol in my life.

  "Who would believe you?" he asks. "You're just a little rising star. Undercover hasn't even premiered yet. If it's my word against yours, I win, and you're a liar."

  I don't even think about the next words before I say them. "Then I'll tell them it was both of us. I'll say that you and I took drugs together, and that I'm deeply sorry. The press loves a good mea culpa. And since I'll then go to rehab and show that my blood tests are clean, I'll come out like yet another reformed Hollywood boy. I'll deal with the fallout for the rest of my career if that's what it takes. But people are going to know about you."


  Michael is frozen beside me, and I know that he must be dying inside, but this is the only way. I'm not going to let him do this. Not to Amber, not to anyone. The look that Clay gives me is pure poison. "Fine. I'll stay away from your precious little Amber."

  "Good. But not enough. You will remove your name from any remaining contracts affiliated with Undercover so that Amber has complete creative control. And you will sign an agreement not to speak about Amber publicly in any way and to not visit the set while the show is being filmed, and you will delete all copies of that photo and any other ones you have."

  He sneers. "You think this makes you powerful? You don't know what power is in this city. You'll lose eventually."

  "I'll make the call right now," I say, pulling out my phone.

  "Fine," he says. "You can keep your show. It's going to fail anyway. It's not good enough."

  I turn to Michael, who's eyes are wide. "You can handle the legal side of it?"

  He nods. "I can."

  "Good, let's go." I walk toward the door, and I hear Clay snicker. I turn, "And if for some reason you think that you can still call and put this in the papers before all the legal stuff is worked out, I've been recording all of this. I'll happily send out copies to whoever wants to listen to you claiming that a woman you mentored owes you sex because she dared to want to learn from someone who's considered the best in their field."

  Clay slumps against the wall, and finally, I think I can relax. There's no options for him. No matter what he does, it's going to end badly for him. And even high out of his mind, he knows that. I blow out a sigh of relief as we close the door behinds me.

  "Holy shit, Peter," Michael says. "You couldn't have given me a heads up about what I was walking into?"