“Likewise,” I mumbled, my face still buried under the pillow.
“Devon, may I please speak with you downstairs?” Chaz asked.
“Why, certainly, Chaz,” Devon said, aping the polite tone his agent had adopted. “We’ll try and keep it down, June. Snooze it.”
There was no way I was snoozing through this. No sleep for the mortified.
The moment chatter resumed downstairs—at a much lower volume—I scrambled out of bed and into Devon’s T-shirt and boxers, the first items of clothing I found on the floor. Stealing across the thick carpet of the bedroom, I crept cautiously to the landing. I couldn’t see the kitchen from my vantage point, but I could hear what was going on down there.
“If you’re going to bring someone new into the mix, you have to at least give me a head’s up so I can do some damage control,” Chaz was in the middle of saying.
“There’s no need for damage control here,” Devon cut in.
“Look at this and tell me there isn’t.” There was some faint clicking, like someone was working a phone or laptop.
“That’s not a great picture of her,” Devon said after a long pause. I frowned. Not a good picture of who? I sat on the first stair and bent forward, my torso pressed against my lap, trying to see what they were looking at. No dice.
“You’re not kidding, that’s not a great picture of her,” Chaz said. “Did you even read the headline? I like it even less. ‘Who’s the Rando Holding Hands with Devon Ray?’”
“It could’ve been worse.”
“It is worse,” Chaz shot back. “This is implying that you’ll hook up with anyone. It harms your brand. You’re supposed to be unattainable—every woman’s idea of the perfect guy, the one they can never have because you’re above them.”
“Is that seriously my brand?”
“You’re a perfect specimen of man, Devon,” Chaz said. “Of course that’s your brand. If you were going to drag some souvenir back from your little vacation, you should’ve warned me. I would’ve arranged to have you fly into San Diego. Sacramento. Tijuana. Wherever the fuck other than LA. You landed right in a nest of paparazzi. Hell, if you enjoy slumming it so goddamn much, I could’ve popped you all on a Greyhound bus from Dallas to Malibu.”
It had become very, very clear that the item under discussion was me. Slowly, and as quietly as I could, I inched back up the stairs, standing on the landing even though I felt dizzy. What had I gotten myself into, and how could I get myself back out? I wanted no part of this life, analyzing every facet of appearances. It made me sick.
I slunk back into bed and retrieved my phone. I knew it would be a mistake, but I had to do it. I had to know exactly what they were talking about. I searched the headline that Chaz had read aloud. My heart sunk immediately.
Chaz was right—the photo was awful. It had been taken in the terminal at the airport. One of my eyes was halfway closed, the other bulging open, dazzled by the flashes. My mouth was agape—no poker face for me—at the spectacle, my dark hair limp beneath the hat that didn’t quite hide enough of my face. And I was clutching Devon’s hand like I was terrified. Of course, I had been terrified, but I wish it hadn’t been so effectively captured in the photo.
I looked like an idiot. Worse yet, the whole world saw it.
“Don’t look at that garbage.”
I hurriedly shut my phone’s display off, but it wasn’t before Devon had seen what I’d been ogling.
“Seriously, June,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting his hand on my knee. “That shit will only make you feel bad.”
“Well, I do feel bad,” I said, my voice shaking. “I wish I’d had sunglasses, like you.”
“This is my fault,” he said. “Chaz is right—I shouldn’t have dragged you through the airport like that. I know better. I know what it’s like. It’s just…I’m used to it. It’s an ugly thing to be accustomed to, but that’s just my life. It’s not yours, and it was a shit introduction to LA.”
I shrugged. “Well it’s over now.”
Devon hesitated. “That’s the thing, though. It’s not over. Especially not now. It’s kind of just getting started.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, trying to ride out the sickening feeling of my stomach dropping out from under me.
“People are going to try to figure out who you are,” Devon said. “I’ll be followed specifically for the chance to get a photo of you, to get you to react to awful questions so the photo can be purposefully terrible. You’re probably the highest bounty in Hollywood right now.”
“Bounty?”
“Photos of you will probably fetch a higher price than photos of me,” he explained.
“Oh.” That didn’t sound pleasant at all.
“This isn’t really what you had in mind, is it?” Devon asked unhappily. “I’m so sorry, June. I know what you must be thinking.”
“How did I get into this and how do I get myself out of it,” I intoned, rubbing my face with my hands.
“Chaz has an option,” Devon said, but I shook my head.
“I heard what Chaz said. He said you’re slumming it with me.”
“Chaz was being a dick because he was upset,” Devon reasoned.
“I don’t trust him.”
“I do.” Devon tucked a piece of my hair back behind my ear. “I’ve known Chaz longer than I’ve known anyone in the business. You can call him a dick. That’s reasonable. But he’s a dick who knows what he’s doing, and that’s invaluable to me.”
“What’s Chaz’s suggestion?” I asked. “Hide my ‘rando’ face in a paper bag the next time we venture out? Never go out? I bet that’s it. He wants me to begin a hermitage.” I was supportive of that second idea. Devon’s house was big enough that I was sure I’d get lost in it. It would be impossible to be bored. I would never have to face the music, growing fat and pale—but protected.
“No,” Devon said. “Chaz says you should face everything head-on, and I agree.”
“What?” I spluttered. “Just let the paparazzi take shitty photos of me and the Internet write shitty stories? No, thank you.”
“He suggested you should do an interview.”
“That sounds even worse.” I could only imagine the types of questions I would field, the statements that would get taken out of context, the anxiety I wouldn’t be able to escape for the duration of the ordeal. That was an idea that could only backfire.
“If you let people know who you are, it’ll be on your own terms,” Devon persisted. “You would have control. Chaz knows this side of the industry intimately. He’d vet the interviewer—and the questions. He’d coach you beforehand. This is what he does. This is what I pay him to do.”
“I don’t think I want to do this.”
“I don’t think you have much of a choice,” Devon said gently. “Think about it, June. If you try to remain anonymous, they’ll never leave you alone. This is the best option. Do the interview.”
“Is this what it’s like all the time?” I asked mournfully. “Is this your life, worrying about what people say about you, how you look, who you’re with?”
“Fame and fortune come at a pretty steep price,” he confirmed. “I’m sorry I dragged you into it.”
“I could always sink back into anonymity in Dallas,” I said, almost hopeful. “That’s a good plan, right?”
“Only you wouldn’t be with me,” he said. “I think that’s a bad plan.”
I sighed. I didn’t know what I thought anymore. “I want to be here with you, Devon, but I really hate the paparazzi. There has to be something that can be done about them. They shouldn't harass you as badly as they do.”
“Beat them at their own game,” he encouraged me. “Do the interview. Control your image. Chaz can take you under his wing for this.”
“I don’t think Chaz likes me very much.”
“He doesn’t like anyone. It keeps him honest.”
“I’ll do the interview, then,” I said with a long sigh.
<
br /> The next day, Devon had to run errands and attend some professional commitments. I got dressed and was ready and waiting for Chaz when the agent let himself into the house. He came bearing coffee.
“Glad to see Devon away at the things he’s supposed to be doing,” Chaz remarked by way of saying hello.
“I guess,” I said, noncommittal.
“You’re an enormous distraction to him,” he said. “I hope you know that.”
Well, I did now. I didn’t know what to say to this brusque man. Devon promised me Chaz would grow on me. I didn’t see that happening at all.
“Devon’s a grown man,” I said, deciding to take my stand. “He does whatever he wants. I don’t control him. And as much as you wish you did, neither do you.”
Chaz studied me for a few long and uncomfortable moments. “Too much sass,” he decided. “You come off as bitchy instead of spunky.”
“I’ll work on that,” I said.
“Too much sarcasm.”
He busied himself with unloading the coffee from the carrier, dropping his messenger bag on a chair pulled up to the countertop.
“A skinny mocha frappe for you, no whip,” Chaz said, daintily handing over a slushy of coffee to me. “I thought this would be right up your alley.”
“You think I need to lose weight,” I said flatly, accepting the beverage.
“I think you could avoid being bloated on national television, yes,” he said. “Your weight is just fine, thankfully. You look like you take care of yourself.”
“Thanks?” I said, unsure if it was a compliment. I didn’t really take care of myself. I just had a forgiving metabolism. But I figured Chaz didn’t need to know that. He already thought so little of me.
“There’s really no time to waste, so let’s just skip the small talk and get right into it,” he said.
I blinked, surprised. I hadn’t considered what we were doing to be small talk, but things were obviously very different in Hollywood. I was quick to figure that out.
“Kelly’s an old friend of mine, so there won’t be any curveballs,” he said, sipping on his own caffeinated drink. I had to wonder if his was a skinny, too. “What we’re looking for is a fun puff piece. People—especially women—are going to be jealous of you because you’ve seemingly landed Devon Ray.”
“The unattainable man,” I muttered.
“Keep that sarcasm up and they really will hate you,” he warned. “I can see the social media posts now—backwater bitch doesn’t even appreciate she’s with Hollywood’s hottest leading man.”
I blinked at him, shocked into silence.
“What?” he asked, blinking back, taking another sip of his drink. “I think in 140 characters. Oh, are you offended at ‘bitch?’ You have to grow a thicker skin—immediately. If I’m going to make you cry, you might as well pack your bags and go back to wherever, Texas.”
“It’s Dallas,” I informed him, but he ignored me.
“What’s really going to matter is what you look like,” he continued. “That is what people will be most interested in—unless you fuck up and say something stupid, which you shouldn’t do because I just told you it would be a fuck up. Understand?”
“Should I just smile and nod whenever she asks me anything?” I asked, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “Can you get her to only ask ‘yes’ questions? They might think I’m a bitch if I say no to anything.”
Chaz didn’t look impressed. “We’re going to have to drain all of that bitchiness out of you, or it will show up on camera. The worst thing you can do is make them hate you even more than they already do. If you’re going to do an interview and introduce yourself to the entire world, don’t you want them to at least like you a little bit?”
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” I complained.
“Oh, poor little girl,” Chaz whined. “A movie star fell in love with her and she didn’t ask for any of this.”
What the hell was that? Was that really how Chaz viewed me? Would that be what people thought of me?
“I don’t think I want to do the interview anymore,” I said.
“Stop it,” he scoffed. “Of course you’re doing the interview. I already told Kelly you were doing the interview. If you back out now, even that’ll be news. And it definitely won’t be good.”
“Then help me do the interview well,” I said. “Stop insulting me. I delivered pizzas for a living before this. I don’t know what I’m doing, and Devon said to trust you.”
Chaz sighed. “Look. Take whatever anxiety or doubts you’re having about the interview and magnify them by a metric fuck ton. That’s how terrified I am of it.”
“This isn’t helping.” My eyes darted around, looking for the nearest exit.
“What I’m trying to tell you is that I’m going to help you,” Chaz said. “Everything that happens in this interview is going to blow back on Devon, and if anything negative tries to stick, it’s my job to unstick it. I can’t have him looking bad. He’s my meal ticket. That’s an unkind way to put it, but it’s the truth. So my job is to keep him looking good, and now that extends to you. You’re going to do fine because you’re going to do exactly what I say. Right down to the haircut.”
“Excuse me?”
“I didn’t stutter.” Chaz tapped on his phone, texting someone. “You’re going to have to look good. Didn't I tell you that was the most important thing? And even I know that’s not a good length for you. It does your face a disservice.”
Was he saying that my face was pretty or my hair was wretched? Had the man ever given a compliment in his life?
“You’ll have hair and makeup done prior to the interview, of course,” he said, not bothering to look up from his phone. “But you can’t go in there expecting a miracle. You have to arrive looking good or it will find its way out that you came to the interview a hot mess. We also have to go shopping. Ugh. I’ll just have a personal shopper bring some selections over in your size. That’s the better plan. I’ll just bring all of this to you. You shouldn’t be seen in public until you have your new look.”
It was a relief to me that I didn’t have to be seen in public with Chaz. I honestly had no idea why Devon tolerated his presence. Chaz hadn’t grown on me one bit, and he hadn’t done anything to build my confidence about the interview.
An army of beauty and appearance professionals arrived at the house shortly after we finished our beverages, going over possible questions Kelly might ask.
“Smile!” Chaz kept barking. “Who’s going to be sure of you if you look unsure of yourself?”
He continued to coach me even as a stylist had me leaning back over a sink, scrubbing my scalp raw.
“What do you think of LA?” he asked, still fiddling with his phone.
“I think it’s very new and exciting,” I said, mimicking the exact tone of the answer he’d fed me earlier.
“That’s not very believable,” he said, frowning at his phone before flicking his finger over the display several times. “Aren’t Texans supposed to have an accent?”
“Some do,” I said. “I don’t. I lived in Dallas.”
“Can’t you just talk with an accent?” he asked. “Come on. We need them to pity you. If they pity you, they have less room for hatred.”
“Why would they pity me over an accent?” I asked.
“Because people go to classes here to get rid of things like Texas accents,” Chaz intoned.
“I’m not faking an accent,” I said. “What if someone found out I was faking it?”
“True. Fine. You win that one. No accent.”
I tried to watch my appearance’s progress in the reflection of the cabinets in the kitchen, where we were all working, but my view was blocked most of the time by a beautician or Chaz. I could only track what was going on by the hanks of hair dropping to the floor at my feet. I hadn’t had a professional haircut in my entire life. Nana had always trimmed it up for me until her hands had become too unsteady, and then I’d just gone to budget p
laces to keep it out of my face.
As soon as my hair was cut and styled, a couple of tall, silent women made a move to strip off my clothes.
“Whoa, wait a second,” I protested. “What the hell is going on?”
“Personal stylists,” Chaz said. “They want to see what clothes will work for you.”
“I can undress myself,” I said. “Can’t we do this somewhere other than the kitchen?”
“What, are you shy now?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “I’ve seen your everything, June. What else do you have that’s going to surprise me? A tail?”
I huffed a sigh and began trying on clothes, shivering in the cool air of the kitchen, at the clinical disinterest of the stylists. We finally settled on an outfit that Chaz loathed the least—a pair of skinny jeans, ankle boots, a slouchy tank top and a leather jacket—and it was on to the makeup.
“You need to do this makeup as close to what they’re doing now every single day,” Chaz said. “You’re prone to dark circles, and in Hollywood, that means you party too much.”
“I don’t party too much,” I said. “I party hardly at all.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” he said. “Ask questions. Learn this routine. Or I’m sure we could have a stylist come every day and help you get ready. Plenty of actresses do it. I just thought you’d enjoy your privacy.”
I tried to keep track of the steps and the brushes and the pots of powder and tubes of liquids as the makeup artist kept a running commentary of what she was doing, but it got hopeless as soon as she broke the airbrush out. There was no way I was going to learn how to airbrush my own face.
When I was finally primed and powdered and as perfect as they were going to get me, I got to stare at myself in the mirror.
Only it wasn’t myself.
It was some imagining of just who Chaz thought I should be—styled to a fault, not a hair out of place.
“This isn’t me,” I told him, looking at my sleek bob that shined beneath the lights overhead. There wasn’t a square centimeter of my face not covered in makeup. I had eyeshadow all the way up to my brow bones. At least my outfit was a little bit cute, but I was not in love with my face—not one bit.
KILLIAN: A Mafia Romance (The Callahans Book 2) Page 44