I sit down on a vinyl seat at a deserted gate and chug the bottle. Then I examine the paper.
In the picture I see Wendy's back. Almost all of it. She's wearing one of those tops that ties together with two skinny strings in the back like a bikini. Arlen's hands are on her shoulders as they kiss.
Why the HELL didn't I send someone to spy on Wendy when she went back to L.A. a day earlier than I did? Is this Wendy's idea of hinting? How can I have let my guard down long enough to let her do this to Arlen? There is no way Arlen would be part of this kind of publicity stunt. So as far as he knows, he's really kissing her. But the bitch isn't telling him everything—Wendy isn't playing fair. She's got Arlen embroiled in something he never signed up for.
My stomach seizes up, but I know it must be that rubbery chicken from the plane. I am Lola Scott. I HANDLE things. I do not get nauseated.
My exhaustion is forgotten as I head home. I have to fix this. Not just for Arlen the rookie star, but for Arlen the guy who saved my ass.
When I finally drive up to my house, dusk is beginning to fall. Arlen's truck sits a few yards away and light pours out of the garage. Great. I can do this on my own turf.
Chapter 41
ARLEN
Arlen couldn't stop thinking about that kiss.
He had cleaned up everything, put everything back in its place. Another job well done. Jesus. Another job?
So much had happened since he met Lola. Damn. He couldn't stop thinking about how good she'd felt in his arms. How good she'd felt completely wrapped around him in those skimpy pajamas.
But did it matter? At least to Lola? It had been the happiest moment of her life, finding out that her show had been picked up. It hadn't really been about anything she allowed herself to feel for him.
Right?
Nothing had changed between him and Lola. Had it? Had something changed between him and Lola? For three days he'd been wondering what it would all mean when she got back. Not that it could mean much. The kids would be coming the day after tomorrow and her show was starting. But still …
Could they get away with a few hours together before the rest of their lives kicked in?
Arlen heard a car coming up the drive and felt chills race up the back of his neck. It was the Tesla. She was back.
He stepped out of the garage, moving toward her as she climbed out of the car.
“Arlen,” she said.
Arlen froze in mid-step.
Arlen. Just the way she'd said it. Her voice rang with authority. Cold, professional command.
“Lola,” he said, his greeting cautious.
She pasted on a smile.
Good God, he thought. Do people actually fall for that? She looked like the damn Joker.
“Let's go inside,” she offered. “Get a drink.”
Arlen shrugged. “Okay.” He kept his voice neutral. He wanted to ask her what was wrong. But he knew she wouldn't tell him. Not until she was good and ready.
Maybe he was off the show. Maybe all the execs and ad people loved the show but hated him, and gave it the green light only on the condition that he got replaced.
Hmmm.
They went in the house and straight back to the kitchen where she poured him a glass of Scotch.
“Scotch?” Arlen raised one brow as he took a seat at the kitchen table.
Lola got a cold green tea for herself.
“Just tell me if I'm off the show.”
Lola's head jerked up in surprise. “What? No, you're not off the show. Why would you say that?”
“Because all you need is “The Imperial March” to complete the sense of Vader-like menace.”
Lola opened her mouth as if to protest, then snapped it shut. “Well,” she said, sitting across from him and clearing her throat. “To start with—” Lola shook her hair back over her shoulders. “Is there anything you want to tell me about you and Wendy?”
Arlen didn't move. He kept his dark eyes trained on Lola. Slowly, he stood up, pushing back the chair as he went. “You've got to be fucking kidding me.” His low voice rumbled. “You drive up without so much as a hello, drag me in here without telling me what's up, then come at me like I'm SOME DAMN TEENAGER WHO JUST GOT CAUGHT WITH A BOTTLE OF JIM BEAM?!”
Lola stood up too, her chair flying back. “You seem awfully defensive.”
“I'm not defensive. I'm LIVID! WHERE do you get off treating ME or ANYBODY like this? I am not some kid and you are not my parole officer!”
“So you and Wendy—”
“Oh, my God. Do you two PLAN this shit you throw at me?” Arlen stalked across the kitchen, clenching his fists so he didn't throw anything. “Wendy? I cannot stand her, okay? She shows up at my door this morning, says belittling things about Nick and Nora, then she tries to jump me. After insulting my dogs!”
Lola sat down and spread the paper out on the kitchen table. “Looks like you didn't exactly get out of the way when she jumped.”
Arlen glanced down at the paper spread across the table, ready to ignore Lola and her bullshit. But the picture ...
Arlen slumped into a chair as his legs gave way under him. He pulled the paper toward him. “This is my house,” he rasped.
Lola's voice came through just as thready. “I know.”
Arlen looked for almost a minute then whispered something harsh and guttural.
“What?” Lola asked.
“That BITCH!” Arlen sat there, breathing hard. “She did this. Wendy did this. This is NOT some random paparazzi shot. Damn it all to hell,” he said, his voice dropping into darkest bleakness. “She has no idea what she's done.”
Lola looked at him, her brows furrowed. “Arlen—”
But he sprang up from the table and shot toward the front door.
“Wait!” Lola rushed ahead of him to bar the door. “You don't know that this was all Wendy.”
“Yes, I do. Now get out of my way.”
“Arlen—”
“How much do you think a photographer would get paid for a picture of some guy pushing The Amazing Wendy Hunter off him?”
Lola opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“Because that is exactly what happened. That picture was taken the second she launched herself at me. Then I pushed her off. But that's the picture that made it to the tabloids. Wendy must have paid someone A LOT of money for that shot. So much that any others were worth nothing in comparison.”
Lola lowered her eyes.
Arlen took a step back. “No,” he said quietly. “No, no, no, no no. Please tell me you did not know she was going to do this. That you didn't plan it with her.”
Lola's head shot up. “No! I DID NOT.”
But Arlen was shaking his head. “You know. I can tell that you know. What the hell did you two cook up in New York?”
“Arlen, we didn't cook up anything. I talked Wendy down from wanting to know every damn thing about you. I convinced her that you needed to remain a mystery until the pilot aired. She agreed.”
“So that damn picture is your version of wrapping Wendy Hunter around your finger?”
“That's not fair.”
“Fair? We're getting into that? Okay. What's not fair is that I get ambushed by this damn show AGAIN. I have never been anything but upfront with you and Wendy, but the two of you can't stop using me.”
“Wendy is so out of line for doing this to you.”
“Am I hearing you right, Lola?! You get to use me and fuck with my life, but she can't? Really? That's your stance on this? And I'm supposed to believe you?”
“This isn't my fault. I would never—”
“YOU'RE IN CHARGE! OF EVERYTHING! Isn't that what you've always wanted? And this is your first big play in the world of movers and shakers.”
Lola looked at him. Swallowed. Didn't break eye contact. Took a deep breath. “I will fix this.”
“You can't.” Arlen croaked. “You two have no idea what you've done. No idea.”
With that, Arlen pushed Lola out of the
way and left.
Chapter 42
LOLA
Wendy isn't picking up her phone. I toss my cell into the cup holder in the center console. Damn it. She hasn't been answering since I got home last night. And no way am I going to deign to leave that harpy a message. I am going to have to spin this in a vacuum. And I am going to have to do it without lying. If the show catches fire and gets popular, fans and paparazzi will dig and dig and dig. Any lie told at this stage will become totally exposed. So ice skating Bigfoot is out.
When I get up to the second floor, I almost trip over my feet when I see Ray's face. I have never seen him look so—so—so doleful.
I swallow. “Tell me straight, Ray. What did Tom say?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Tom? You mean about this?” He waves the offending paper. “Couldn't be happier. Tripping the light fantastic at all the publicity.”
“What?!” I squawk. “Then why the Princess-Di's-funeral face?”
Ray looks at me, his jaw clenching and his eyes glittering with ire.
Ray is mad at me? Ray? Mad at me?
“Have you seen him?” he demands. “Does he know? He's going to hate this.”
“Arlen?” I ask.
“YES, Arlen!”
“Holy hell, Ray, why is everyone blaming me?”
“BECAUSE YOU'RE IN CHARGE!!!”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Because it's true!”
I lick my lips and nod. “Yes, I've talked to him about it and no, he's not happy. I'm going to fix this.”
“How? By neutering Wendy?”
“Ray, have I ever let you down before?”
“Have you ever, in your career or in your life, dealt with someone like Arlen?”
I pretend that I don't know what he could possibly be talking about. “What do you mean, someone like Arlen?”
“A real person.”
I put my hands on my hips. “What are you saying? That we're all just puppets?”
“Pretty much.”
I huff.
“You know what I mean, Lola. He's like the guy from the sticks who shows up at the Oscars to collect his award for Best Documentary about the devastation caused by parasitic beetles.”
I sigh. “I know what you're getting at,” I say quietly. “But you're thinking of him as an unknown quantity that might throw me off my game. I'm thinking of him as the reason that I absolutely MUST fix this.”
Ray sighs. “But Lola, what he needs is a real fix, not an industry fix.”
“I know.”
But I don't know. I don't know what the blazes is going on.
Chapter 43
LOLA
They're just friends.
Wendy kisses everybody.
Actually, they hate each other. So the studio makes them kiss each other at least once a day.
Wendy is a nympho.
I'm sitting at my desk typing out publicity scenarios like they're pitches for a Saturday Night Live sketch. But it must be done. And I've always believed—and built a career on the idea—that before you write something good, you have to write something.
My head jerks up suddenly as the door crashes open. Arlen slams it shut behind him and stands there looking wild. “I quit.”
His words are so steely and even that they send a pulse of fear straight to the hollow of my stomach, making me feel like the floor just dropped out.
“Arlen, sit down. Please. Let me get you something,” I say, rushing to my mini-fridge.
“All I want is out. Now.”
And like that he's gone. Whooshed right out of my office like that bird out of Apollo's place at the end of Galactica.
“No!” I rush after him, chasing him down the stairs just like on the first day. Except this time I need to save his ass, not vice versa. In the parking lot, I sprint ahead of him and stop just in front of him. “You can't quit.”
“I want to help you Lola, but I can't afford to. Not for one second longer.” He pushes past me and climbs into his truck.
I run to the back bumper and hustle up into the bed.
Arlen slides down the window at the back of the cab but he does not turn to face me. “Get out of there, Lola. You cannot ride in the bed of a pick-up. It's illegal. And you have gotten me into so much trouble already.”
“Arlen,” I say, scooching up to the window. “I don't think we're on the same page here. Wh—”
“Lola, you don't even have the book. This isn't your story.”
“But I want to help. Please, clue me in.”
Arlen doesn't say anything.
So I forge on. “How can you be in trouble?” I ask. “You're a grown up. And I'm your boss and you're not in trouble with me. Who else is there?”
Arlen looks down and stays silent.
“Arlen, if you quit, do you know who you'll really be in trouble with? The studio.” I sit down and lean my back against the cab. “They'll sue you if you try to jump ship.”
“Let them. I don't have anything.”
“You have a house.”
“Why would the studio want my house?”
“They wouldn't. But they'd take it. Your quitting would kill the show and cost them millions. They'd take their pound of flesh.” I turn around. Arlen is looking at me from the front seat.
“Let them take it,” he says.
“Arlen, what will happen to Nick and Nora if you lose the house? And where will your kids stay when they come to visit? Can I please come sit up there with you? Please?”
Pause. “Sure.”
“Promise you won't drive away?”
“No. And your ass will not fit through this window, so don't even try.”
“I'm coming around,” I say. “Please don't drive away or lock me out.”
Arlen doesn't say anything.
But instead of getting out of the truck bed at the back bumper where I got in, I go to the side of the truck and lean out and forward, opening the passenger-side door of the cab. Then I hop out of the truck, landing hard on the pavement. But at least I'm right next to the open door. I climb in.
Arlen looks at me. “You're a regular Indiana Jones.”
“Thank you,” I say, tossing back my hair and deciding to ignore his sarcasm. Agility has never really been my thing, and I'm totally okay with that.
I take a deep breath and get ready to get down to brass tacks when the truck lurches forward and we speed out of the parking lot.
“Hey!” I shout. “Where are we going? Take me back! This is kidnapping.”
“You were just pretty damn voluntary about getting into my truck.”
“So?”
“So, I can take you wherever I want and it's your own fault.”
I sit back with a huff and click my seatbelt into place. But Arlen doesn't try to leave the studio lot with me as his hostage. No, sir, Arlen Black is too smart for that. Seriously, has the guy absconded with contraband before? He drives across the lot and to the outskirts banked up against the back of the hills. We're surrounded by all the studio's warehouses and workshops and construction machinery. Of course Arlen would know about this place. He can probably hone in on sawdust and heavy work equipment the way Aquaman can zero in on fish.
He parks on the side of a dusty road where his truck does not look at all out of place.
“Okay,” I say, taking off my seatbelt and turning to him. “What about your kids, Arlen?” I ask again. “Where will they stay if you have no house?”
“That's just it, Lola. The kids aren't coming.”
“What do you mean, they aren't coming?”
“The kids aren't coming because of that picture,” he explains quietly, but with enough grit in his voice to shut me up. “I've got to quit so I can get them back. Then, hell, we'll all stay at your place since you're never home and this is all your fault.”
And for the splittest of split seconds I can hear kids shouting as they careen through my house, sliding through the halls, gliding on their socks across the smoo
th tiles. And God, they would love my giant TV and all the—
“Stop!” I shout, squeezing my eyes shut. I pop them back open.
Arlen is looking at me like he's registered that I'm nuts but doesn't really care. “Stop what?”
“Stop the damn world from turning for just one second and fill me in, here. Please, Arlen,” I say, getting it together. “Please, just tell me what's going on.”
Arlen turns to me, so our faces are inches apart. “You've got your backstory for Sam, right?”
“Right.”
“Even stuff I don't know about that hasn't shown up anywhere yet. You have it all in your head, right?”
“Yes. I created him, Arlen, from the ground up. I know what he used to wear to elementary school and what bands he listened to as a teenager. Why?”
Arlen leans back against the seat. “Because I'm trying to figure out if you're going to use what I'm about to tell you.”
I sit back as well. “Fair enough. The answer is … probably. But Arlen, good writers do not lift things right out of life and splash them onto paper. We write from everything we know. Everything that's in our minds, hearts, and souls. So what you tell me, yes, it might spark an idea. But I doubt it would be recognizable once it's part of a story. But I won't use any of it if you ask me not to.”
“Like you left me alone when I asked you to?”
“I didn't owe you my life back then.”
Arlen barks out a laugh. “Well, if Walter White had his own screwed up ethos, I guess you can, too.”
“You're comparing me to Walter White? First Wendy, and now Walter White. Who's next? Walter Winchell?”
“Hmmm,” Arlen considers. “That one's actually pretty close.”
“Ooooh—he was pro-McCarthy!” I splutter.
“And a writer who knew how to wrap Hollywood around his finger.”
I sit there huffing with a tight jaw.
“But supposedly he had a sad end,” Arlen remembers. “And I wouldn't want that for you.”
I look at him, feeling suddenly very bereft. “We were talking about you.”
“Me?” he says. “For me, things got sad before I even turned thirty.”
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