Payton is busy texting someone when I trickle pathetically through the door. She’s at my side in a nanosecond after seeing the state I’m in. “What the hell happened to you?”
“I broke myself,” I kid.
She cradles my arm gently and removes the makeshift ice pack. The inner elbow area is already a deep shade of violet. She gasps at the sight of it.
“Don’t look at it! It’s gross!” I try to pull my arm away, but she doesn’t let go.
“Kendall, stop it. This looks bad. We should go to the hospital.”
“So we can sit in the waiting room for hours only to have some know-nothing doctor tell me he can’t do anything for it? Yeah, I’ll pass. Thanks.”
She sighs. “At least let me put an ice pack on it and wrap it in an ACE bandage.”
“I don’t have either of those things,” I say, sounding like an out-and-out idiot. She’s staring at me with a look of utter disbelief on her face. “What? I’ve never needed them before. I’m not usually this much of a klutz.”
“Yes, you are.” She shakes her head disapprovingly as she grabs her keys off of the coffee table. “I’m going to CVS. Keep that ice on while I’m gone,” she commands and is gone before I can protest.
Twenty minutes later, she bounds through the door like a hunting hound tracking a scent. She unloads the contents of a plastic shopping bag onto the breakfast bar: two self-cooling ice packs, an adhesive compression bandage, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a chocolate bar.
“A chocolate bar?”
“Believe me, you’re gonna need it.” She motions for me to sit on a stool. I watch as she deftly cracks an ice pack, wraps it in a paper towel and presses it to my skin. She binds the pack to my arm with a bandage. “Is that too tight?”
“No.”
“Good.” She opens the fridge, pours a glass of water, and places it in front of me, along with two ibuprofen pills. “You’ll feel better in a little while.”
I swallow the pills and grin. “Thanks. How did you know what to do?”
“Don’t you remember how beat up I used to get during soccer games?”
I laugh. “Oh my god, you were fierce on the field! They gave you that slogan junior year, ‘Payton Brings the Pain!’ I remember seeing it on those signs people in the bleachers were holding up.”
“Yeah, I brought the pain all right. I wrapped my ankles, knees, and shoulders at least a thousand times each,” she says as she guides me to the couch.
Once I’m seated, she kneels to undo my shoelaces and remove my sneakers. She sits down beside me, grabs the remote, and proceeds to flip through the channels. We settle on a documentary about genetic mutations and human chimerism.
“How’s your arm feeling?” she asks half way through the show.
“Not too bad,” I mumble and nuzzle my head against her bicep.
She lifts her arm around my shoulders. I lean into her and shut my eyes. I drift off to sleep, content with the knowledge that she loves me even if it isn’t quite in the way I want her to.
❄ ❄ ❄
It’s the morning of the Time Zone Ball. The front desk buzzes up around ten to let me know Gunner has arrived. I don’t bother inviting him upstairs, which I guess is sort of ill-mannered. My elbow is still pulsating with soreness, and I don’t feel like going out. I know this whole day is something I can’t bail on, so I force myself to get dressed.
Before I leave, Payton re-wraps my arm and stuffs the bottle of ibuprofen into my purse. “It’s looking pretty good, but you don’t want to aggravate it. Don’t lift anything with that arm. Take some pain killers in a few hours if it starts aching again.”
“I’ll be back long before I need to take more pills. We’re picking up my dress, stopping at his tailor, and then I’m coming home.” He won’t be getting an impromptu lunch invitation from me.
“Okay,” she says as I depart.
Gunner greets me at the front desk with a polite hello, but is swiftly distracted by my swathed arm. His bright green eyes inquisitively comb over the bandage. Maybe I should have worn a long-sleeved shirt? Jesus H. Christ, I am a hot mess.
“That looks unpleasant,” he remarks.
Genius he is not. The pretty boys never are. “It’s not that bad.”
We make our way to his car. We’re silent for most of the ride downtown, until we hit a patch of traffic. Great, now we’re gonna have to make small-talk.
He gestures to my elbow. “What happened, anyway?”
“I strained a muscle lifting weights a few days ago.”
I expect him to burst into a round of obnoxious laughter, or say something sexist about how girls shouldn’t bother with free weights. Instead, he flashes a sympathetic grin. “I’ve done that a few times, tried to bench press way more than I could handle.”
“It was stupid of me. I knew I was pushing myself too hard.”
He smiles. “Don’t beat yourself up. It happens to the best of us. You’ll heal and be at it again in no time.”
So, he’s handsome and friendly? I’m sure he could’ve found a date for this shindig without having to be set up by his handlers. It might be prying, but I feel the need to ask him about it anyway. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why did you agree to this set up? It’s not like there’s a shortage of women who would enjoy an evening with you, and we don’t exactly know each other all that well.”
“That’s sort of the reason. I was blown away by your performance in In Heaven’s Arms, and I thought maybe if we got to know each other better, you might want to work with me someday.”
“That’s sweet, but you didn’t have to go through all the trouble. I’ve seen one or two of your movies. You’re a very good actor.”
“Aww shucks. Thanks.”
We arrive at De Leche with relatively little fanfare, which is surprising since that rarely happens when two movie stars are seen in public together—especially when said movie stars are of the opposite sex.
I speak with the manager while Gunner wanders around the studio. He’s astounded by the plethora of eveningwear surrounding us. The wonderment in his eyes is entertaining. “Why is women’s fashion so complicated? When guys want to dress up, we have two choices: suit or tux.”
I chuckle. “I don’t know. Women are more fickle than men.”
He snaps his fingers. “That explains a lot.”
“Don’t quote me. I’m only hypothesizing,” I reply as a member of the staff presents my gown. “Gunner,” I call.
He turns around and focuses in on the dress. “Our stylists coordinated it perfectly. I think my white tux will go great with that dress.”
“No, my stylist is abysmal. She wanted me in this hideously puffy magenta thing. I picked this one out.”
“Magenta? Isn’t that a day-glow color?” he asks, his tone somewhere between amused and horrified.
“Kind of.”
“Thanks for not going with her pick. I’m plenty manly enough to pull it off, but I don’t think any guy should ever wear a pink cummerbund.”
He’s gorgeous as hell and actually funny, yet I’m not the least bit enticed by him. I’ll pretend there’s nothing weird about that at all. “Do you think we’ll find a cummerbund to match?” I ask once we’re back on the road.
He shrugs. “I was hoping you might be able to help with that. According to my stylist, I’m the kind of guy who wears plaid with paisley. That’s why I need a stylist. I wanted him to take care of all the details, but I was told that you insist on handling the details yourself.”
“I like to play dress up as much as the next girl, but I don’t like letting others dictate what I wear.”
“Independent. I dig that in a woman.” He slips his hand onto my thigh.
There it is—the classic come-on. Won’t he be surprised when I don’t get all swoony about it? “Yeah, that’s a rare quality these days.” I grab his wrist and lift his hand off of me.
“It is,” he retorts flatly.
From that moment on, he acts lik
e a spoiled brat—and I mean he sulks right up until the instant I get out of the car in front of my building. “The limo will be here at nine,” he says simply before speeding off.
God, I am so sick and tired of guys playing sweet to get into my pants! Does that crap ever work? Maybe it does on stupid girls, but not on me. I cannot wait for this party to be over. On the elevator ride up to the apartment, I decide that my New Year’s resolution is to fire Lawrence before he can hatch his next lame publicity stunt.
I’m not even fully through the door when I pick up the fragrant, somewhat spicy scent of pasta sauce. “Are you hungry?” Payton hollers from beyond the stove. “I’m making lasagna. Or, I’m trying to make it anyway.”
“I’m famished. And it smells delicious to me.”
She grins. “How’d it go with Gunner?”
“I had to explain the difference between polyester and satin. Then he picked out a royal blue bowtie and cummerbund set and proceeded to give me attitude when I told him it didn’t match my gown. And, oh yeah! He groped my thigh.”
She mumbles a few choice words under her breath and flings a spatula into the sink. “He touched you? Without your permission?” I see her fists clench as an ember of anger ignites into a full-scale wildfire. Through gritted teeth, she mumbles, “I can kill him for you, if you’d like. He’s a mediocre actor at best, so I doubt anyone would miss him. Then you could go to this thing tonight with anyone you want. Hey, bonus!”
Has she always been so protective of me? Come to think of it, yes she has. “It’s okay. If I had people killed every time they touched me without my permission, I’d be living on a pile of bones.”
“That would most likely be bad for your image, huh?”
“Yeah, I’d probably only ever get cast as a criminal or dominatrix. Though both of those would be fun to play.”
“I’m sure your fans would love to see you in pleather or a prison uniform.”
“They’ll have to settle for me in chainmail. That’s what’s next for me at least.”
“That’ll do, I’m sure. Now, get your butt over here so I can check your battle wound.” I simper over to her and hold out my arm. She undoes the bandage and presses lightly on the flesh around my black-and-blue. “Does that hurt?”
I grimace. “Only a little.”
“The swelling’s gone down, but the bruise is gonna stick around for a while.”
“The makeup team will handle it. They’ll be here early enough to figure something out.”
“That’s good.” She turns her attention back to the stove, removes a pan from the oven, and examines its contents warily. She shrugs. “I suppose if it looks like lasagna and smells like lasagna, it must be lasagna.”
She’s so adorable, I have to laugh. “Aww, honey, you learned how to cook!”
“Wish my mom could be here to see it. She won’t believe it when I tell her.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll vouch for your newfound culinary prowess.”
❄ ❄ ❄
Lawrence arrives at seven sharp with the makeup and hair team in tow. As soon as he walks in, he’s droning on and on about “the giant bruise that will be very noticeable in a sleeveless gown.” I tell him to relax, because I gave the crew a heads up. They’ve come prepared with an abundance of smudge-proof cover-up.
I’m already dressed and seated before a lighted mirror, enjoying a crisp, cold beer and waiting for Frank to finish prepping his curling iron, when I catch a glimpse of Payton’s reflection. She is stunning in her gown. I’m talking every-last-bit-of-oxygen-sucked-out-of-the-room kind of stunning. Everyone pauses to stare at her. Her mouth slips into this frightened grin like she wasn’t expecting five sets of eyes to settle on her so suddenly.
“Wow, Payton,” Lawrence says as he jumps off the couch to his feet. He’s met her a few times before—when he accompanied me on publicity trips to New York, and Payton reluctantly agreed to meet us in the city for lunch—but has never seen her fancied up. “You are going to steal the show tonight, my dear.”
She blushes. “Thank you.”
“Felicia,” Lawrence calls, “why don’t you do Payton’s makeup while Frank and Brit do Kendall’s hair?”
“Oh no, that’s okay,” Payton stammers.
“Let her do it,” I direct. “And when she’s finished, Frank will straighten your hair. You’ll be flawless.”
She sighs and sits down in the chair next to me. “Okay.”
❄ ❄ ❄
“Flawless” doesn’t cut it. If I knew of a better word to describe Payton in this moment, I’d use it. But flawless is the best I can do. Her hair is pin straight and shiny, like coffee-colored taffeta. She has shimmering gold eye shadow on her lids, which makes her amber irises stand out like I’ve never seen before. I’m afraid I might actually be salivating, so I force myself to look away.
“Okay, ladies, you are good to go,” Felicia states as she closes up her cosmetic kit. I air-kiss her cheeks and thank the team as I escort them out.
“The limo should be here for us in a few minutes, Kendall,” Lawrence notes. He hands me my purse and marshals me in the direction of the door.
“You look spiffy in your tux, Lawrence,” I turn to him, straighten his euro tie. “I’m surprised a man with your outstanding fashion sense could possibly think that a complete oaf like Gunner Roderick would be a suitable date for me.”
“Another guy you don’t like?” he moans. “I’ll add him to the list.”
“Next time, try to find me an escort who won’t get handsy with me, okay? I don’t think that’s asking too much.”
“I’ll do that.” He nods. “Payton, hun, will you come down to the lobby with us? I’m sure Lauren will be here on time. She’s very punctual.” He leers at me. Yeah, yeah, I get the hint. It’s yet another awesome quality Lauren has that I lack.
“Yes, thank you,” Payton says.
She and I are shoulder to shoulder during the elevator ride, even though there is no solid reason for us to be standing so close together. I can see she’s sweating despite the fact that she’s trying so hard to remain calm. “Don’t be nervous,” I tell her. “Pretend you’re at one of those jock parties you always dragged me to in high school.”
“I never wore a $5,000 dress to any of those jock parties. And no one tried to take my picture either.”
“No one tried to take your picture because they knew you’d break their legs.”
She snorts. “True.”
The elevator opens to the lobby. We step off in stride, Lawrence following close behind. Almost immediately, a white limo pulls up the drive. Gunner and his publicist, Stacy, step out. Lawrence greets them with smiles and handshakes. I smile at Stacy and shake her hand. Gunner, however, can go straight to hell and roast for all eternity.
He offers me his arm. I loop mine through his and lean in very close to his ear. “I can pretend to like you tonight and continue to do so for however long we’re forced to be seen out and about together, but do you see that gorgeous girl over there?” I signal toward Payton. “Her family is very Italian and very New Jersey. If you touch me inappropriately again, she might arrange your disappearance. And I won’t stop her. Nod if you comprehend what I’m saying.”
He shakes his head stiffly. I almost laugh. Instead, I call Payton over and introduce her. For a tick, I think Gunner might piss his pants. It’s not always a good thing that people automatically equate the word “Italian” with “mob hit,” but in this case, it’s comical.
A moment later, a second limo pulls up. Lauren’s posse hops out and she trails behind them. Right away, my attention is on her. She’s in a white spaghetti strap gown adorned with black crystal accents down the back. Well that’s friggin’ perfect. She looks to die for!
She enters the lobby, ropes Payton into a hug, and kisses her cheek—not a faux-kiss, an actual lips-meet-skin kiss. A violent upsurge of nausea abruptly locks my stomach in a vice. I’m not sure whether I’m going to throw up or faint, but I’m positive some
thing terrible is going to happen. To my surprise, Gunner steadies me by slipping his arm around my waist.
“I know you told me not to touch you, but you’re looking kind of green,” he whispers.
I hold onto him tightly until I’m able to regain my composure. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
I suck it up, stutter out an overly pleasant ‘hello’ to Lauren.
“Your dress is amazing!” she returns.
“Yours too, sweetheart!” I turn to Gunner. “Please, get me out of here,” I mumble.
He answers with a wide, genuine-looking smile that causes me to second guess my distaste for him. “Okay, people,” he calls loudly. “We should get rolling. Don’t want to miss the press!”
Everyone titters in agreement. We herd to our limos like cattle, and I can’t help thinking that we’re all a bunch of desperate fame whores. I get one last look at Payton before she vaporizes behind darkened glass windows. She’s beaming. Great.
❄ ❄ ❄
We arrive at the Beverly Regency to a choir of screaming fans. They’re penned up behind steel barricades, holding out pictures and posters. Some of my fans are clasping hardcover copies of The Relishing. It’s noisier and crazier than usual, and word only recently got out that I’ve been cast in this film. There’s a very good chance I could be trampled if I get too close. Still, I can’t stand how these people are kept in cages—how the bloodsuckers in charge of these events separate the haves from the have-nots with impenetrable dividers and beefy security guards.
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