Hollywood Ending

by Kellye Garrett

  “Maybe,” she said. That settled it. We were going home. I put my seat belt back on, ready for her to pull back into the street. Instead, she opened her door.

  “Maybe Dante can give you a ride,” she said.

  Ride? She was not coming with me. “You’re just going to leave me? To be sad and alone?”

  “You’re gonna mope anyway. You can mope while sitting on the couch at home. You can mope while waiting in the car. Or you can mope while people hand you free stuff inside. Call it multitasking.”

  The girl had a point.

  When we got to the Gifting Lounge, we found Kitt in the hall manning the list and ignoring the crowd of tourists and gawkers standing around not even pretending to look busy. That was what separated an LA resident from a visitor. We all noticed celebrities. Those of us who lived here just pretended we didn’t. While tourists took pics, we performed head-to-toe evaluations that we could casually mention over drinks with friends.

  Kitt waved us right over and for a brief minute I missed my fifteen minutes of fame. I’d peaked around eight minutes and fifteen seconds, when Chubby’s had sprung for a Super Bowl commercial. That thirty-second spot got me VIP entrance into every club in LA for the rest of month. Of course, the next month I was back to waiting in line with the other mortals. Good times regardless.

  “Hi ladies. So glad you could make it! Enjoy this complimentary beverage from Dom Perignon. Don’t worry. It’s gluten-free.” She handed us a champagne glass, our first freebie of the evening, then immediately followed it with the second—a bag made from a material so rough I could use it to exfoliate. I downed my shot as Kitt went into her spiel.

  “This is a one hundred percent biodegradable tote made from recycled soda cans discovered by homeless people living on the island of Manhattan. It gives them a sense of purpose as well as a source of income. The bag retails for $300 and one percent of the proceeds go to the Home Less Charity, which benefits celebrities no longer able to afford their homes in their Hollywood Hills neighborhoods. Please use them to hold any products that you wish to take home this evening.”

  I was impressed. Not so much about the Home Less Charity. More so that Kitt had recited all that without once looking at any notes. Sienna and I nodded appropriately. I noticed Sienna surreptitiously grab a second bag from the table. She clearly wasn’t here to play any games. I couldn’t judge her much. By that time, I was on free drink number two. Three if you count the one I took for the road.

  Biodegradable, homeless-employing bags and probably not-biodegradable shot glasses at the ready, we stepped inside. It turned out I didn’t need to permanently borrow the extra glass of champagne. There was plenty more where that came from. Servers walked around with trays of flutes for the taking. Good to know.

  As one might expect from the 18th Annual Silver Sphere Awards Official Gift Lounge Presented by the Brand New Toyota Prius, the first thing we encountered was, in fact, a brand new Toyota Prius. Someone had parked one smack-dab at the entrance. I wasn’t sure how it got there, especially considering we weren’t on the first floor. But I guess when there’s a will, there’s a way.

  The rest of the room was just as impressive. The W was the type of place that didn’t have conference rooms or meeting rooms. It had event spaces. Of course, the W’s event space looked just like a conference room. Only difference was that it had a permanent chandelier. It gave the entire proceedings the look of a really fancy trade show or—depending on your level of bougie—a blinged-out swap meet.

  About twenty vendors had set up shop, or should I say booths. None had skimped on branding. A candle vendor seemed to think SSO gave out awards for glitziest setup. They’d gone all out with lots of shiny, happy objects and shiny, happy people. Another vendor created a two-foot-tall chocolate replica of the Silver Sphere Award. And a manicure station had been set up to highlight a line of edible eco-friendly lacquers.

  I still hadn’t rectified my aborted mani attempt so Sienna and I immediately signed up for a later appointment, then went “shopping.” I finished glass number two as we headed back to the candle vendor, which had a complimentary tea station anchored on both ends by two Keurigs. Past experience showed me we had as much luck getting a man to Mars as I did of properly operating one of those machines, but the tea smelled so dang good that I decided to risk it.

  I put my third glass of Dom down, then grabbed a cup and headed to the machine on the left side of the table. I was trying to stuff the K-Cup in the hole area when one of the vendors approached. “May I help you?”

  I smiled. “Just trying to get some tea. It smells amazing. I can never figure out how these things work.”

  “That’s because that’s our diffuser. You’re smelling our home goods scented pod line. That’s our Pomegranate and Apricot White Tea scent.”

  I nodded appropriately. If she could act like having a K-Cup look-alike meant to smell like a tea meant to smell like a fruit was perfectly normal, then so could I. I was about to say something equally ridiculous when I heard a voice behind me.

  “Is Omari here?”

  I turned. There she was. The source of my relationship angst. Nina. I immediately wanted to thrust my phone in her face while screaming about the article. Instead, I played it cool. Since I wasn’t getting any tea, I snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. My other glass was too far away. I calmly took a long sip, then spoke. “He’s with his trainer. I saw the Gus the Gossip article.”

  I was proud at how casual I sounded. It was almost as if I hadn’t spent thirty minutes of my life I’d never get back hardcore obsessing about it. She looked at me blankly as I took another sip. If she wanted to play dumb, then okay. “About Omari and Toni. Making out.”

  “Oh, that. I don’t know where Gus gets this stuff.”

  She had the nerve to look innocent. I downed the champagne, then spoke again. “You. He gets it from you.”

  Nina looked taken aback. Or at least attempted to. She really was too young for Botox but had yet to let that stop her from monthly injections. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about a couple hours ago when you reminded Kitt to remind Gus to run some exclusive this afternoon. And Gus so happens to run an exclusive this afternoon about your client. Basically your only client. My boyfriend.”

  Nina continued to smile but there was a change in her voice. “I didn’t give anything to Gus and if I did, it would be because it’s why Omari pays me—to keep his name out there and help him get recognition and awards. Sweetie, jealousy looks about as good on you as that outfit.”

  And with that she walked away, leaving me to glare at her retreating back. She meant to intimidate me. It didn’t work. At least not much. I wasn’t becoming a jealous girlfriend. Right? Right? I knew I was. But still. I needed reassurance. Pronto.

  I found it at a lingerie booth getting an onsite bra fitting. “I’m not a jealous girlfriend, right?” I said.

  “Nope.” Sienna’s reply was so automatic that she sounded like a robot. What made it worse was she was holding her hands above her while a “lingerie expert” carefully lifted one of her boobs.

  The expert stepped back and eyed Sienna’s chest like a jeweler appraising a diamond. She spoke. “Normally I’d suggest one of our patented bras, but you still have a good three years left on your breast enhancement. You should go with something from our playful line.”

  And what that, she disappeared while I kept on. “I’m tempted to contact Gus. Let it leak I’m dating Omari. Beat Nina at her own game.” Technically, I was the one speaking, but it was really the champagne talking.

  I was feeling nice. So nice I got another glass when a server wandered by. As fun as the fantasy sounded, I’d never do it. Could never do it. Omari would kill me. Still, the thought was fun, even if it was just for a second.

  “Great idea,” Sienna said, still on best friend autopilot.


  I doubted she was even listening. Not that I let that deter me. “And if I’m acting like a jealous girlfriend—”

  “Which you’re not,” Robot Sienna interrupted.

  “—then it’s because Nina has made me like this. I mean, who plants stories like that? I just wish he realized how much of a big deal it is to me even if it isn’t to him.”

  “Exactly,” Sienna said. “Look, if this is bugging you—and it clearly is—you need to talk to him about it.”

  She could sense my hesitation because she spoke again. “You know I’m right.”

  “I don’t wanna.”

  “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “He tells me I sound jealous?”

  “Maybe, but at this rate, keep holding this in and one day you’re going to lose it. And they’ll be interviewing me for your Snapped episode. Talk to the man. He’s a not a mind reader. And he might actually understand.”

  The lingerie expert returned and handed her a bag stuffed full of bras. Sienna smiled her thanks and the vendor asked for a quick photo. It wasn’t a fan selfie. She wanted a pic to use for their marketing efforts.

  “Of course,” Sienna said. “I can even take my shirt off.”

  There was a pause as the lingerie expert considered it. Finally, I broke in. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Fully clothed is fine.”

  They both nodded. Sienna posed for a few pics holding a variety of bras and then turned to me. “It’s time for my edible mani. You gonna be okay?”

  I nodded. That’s when I realized I was drunk. Off three-ish glasses of champagne. Great. Apparently gluten didn’t just prevent food from tasting like cardboard. It also helped me hold my alcohol. Too late now.

  I still had fifteen minutes to kill before my own appointment so I attempted more free retail therapy. My aimless wandering led me to my second surprise of the afternoon: the Focals booth. What made it even better was that they were giving out not-yet-released next generation versions of Emme’s birthday present. I immediately grabbed one, then looked around. The vendor was busy talking to someone I sort of recognized. I grabbed another. Might as well get one for myself, too.

  Emme would be so happy—and actually surprised—when she opened two pairs on her birthday. She could brag to all her friends on that online game where they just sat around doing laundry. I was so happy—read, drunk—I skipped to my nail appointment.

  The most noteworthy thing about my manicurist was her nails. Understandable. Free advertisement and all. They were a complicated stiletto design covered in shiny silver that made her look like the female version of Wolverine. For a brief moment I worried she might slip mid-mani and stab me with one.

  I took a seat anyway. Even the risk of impending stitches was not enough to deter me from a free manicure, especially one I desperately needed. I’d soaked the remaining gel off myself but hadn’t had time to put on polish. She took my left hand in both of hers and began to gently rub them as she spoke. “I’m Shine. What are we doing today?”

  I imagined myself jabbing dagger nails like Shine’s in Nina’s face the next time she ran an “exclusive.” The only thing that stopped me was they looked like a pain in the you-know-what to get off. “Just a regular manicure is fine.”

  “Great.” Shine proceeded to get to work. Her hands were soft and in a weird way calming. Like she probably gave the most amazing massages. “You enjoying the suite so far?”

  “I tried to make tea in a diffuser,” I said, then smiled.

  She acted like my response was the most normal thing she’d heard all day. Considering this was Hollywood, it just might have been. “Have you tried the sensory deprivation tank yet?” I threw her a look, signaling I hadn’t. She took her cue to continue. “It’s the latest thing. Rock the Float sent over a few of their new take-home pods for guests to try out. You should sign up ASAP because the spots are going quick. I just saw Mack Christie heading up there.”

  I literally jumped at the sound of his name, almost causing poor Shine to clip off more than just a cuticle. Mack Christie was here getting his sensories deprived while poor Lyla was still dead? Not fair. And not cool. At all.

  The Voice had basically told me we needed a confession from Mack. In my drunken stupor, I took it as a sign that we happened to be in the same place at the same time. The investigation gods obviously wanted me to talk to him. Stat.

  I jumped up and snatched my hand away from poor Shine. “I have to run to the bathroom.”

  Then I went to find Mack. Of course, I also used the bathroom.

  Finding the sensory deprivation tanks wasn’t hard. There were helpful “human arrows” that consisted of actual humans holding arrow posters every fifty feet, directing me to another floor, where Rock the Float had taken over a trio of hotel rooms off in a corner of the hotel. They’d even slapped names on each door. Tranquility. Serenity. And Check-In.

  I was surprised to not see any entourages or bodyguards hanging around in the hallway, but then I remembered this was the W. No way they let anyone loiter in the hallway and disturb paying guests. The assorted celeb hangers-on were all probably hanging in Check-In. I only had to step inside to discover I was correct. They’d removed the bed and replaced it with office equipment. One lone woman employee sat at a table in the middle of the room between a couch and table full of healthy snacks. Gag.

  She wasn’t alone but she was clearly the only one working. A handful of people milled about. Mack Christie’s requisite entourage. Though conversation never stopped, all turned to appraise me as soon as I came in. Within .01 seconds I was dismissed as “nobody important.” They turned away in unison. I wasn’t offended. At all. That was the official greeting in these parts. Call it the Hollywood Hello.

  The plan was to wait it out so I ignored them, pretending to busy myself looking at a flyer someone had thoughtfully taped on the closet door explaining the At-Home Sensory Deprivation pod, a truly immersive experience allowing one to get in touch with one’s innermost feelings by recreating life at its origin—the womb. Frankly, I was surprised they didn’t refer to exiting the pod as a rebirth. Missed opportunity there. I checked the price tag. One could own their very own isolation tank for $3,000. Or one could just turn out the lights and get in one’s bathtub for free.

  The flyer also included instructions on what to do for your appointment. Apparently clothing was optional and you needed to key in 2222 to enter the guest room.

  “Hi!” The Rock the Float woman came up next to me. “Are you our second 5:30 appointment? The pod is ready and waiting.”

  Ugh. She clearly was not going to let me just loiter. I shook my head and did an immediate—if somewhat awkward—about-face to leave. The good thing about being a lower than Z-list celebrity was everyone immediately forgot I was there. I intended to use it to my advantage. Instead of heading back toward the elevators, I turned toward Tranquility and Serenity. Mack Christie was in one of them. I just needed to figure out which one and get inside to talk to him.

  It wasn’t the smartest idea, but unfortunately I had a history of chasing after murderers. Why stop now? I tried Serenity first. The lock had both a key entry and a number pad. I typed in 2222.

  It buzzed.

  I stepped inside, immediately locking the door behind me and sliding the security bar for good measure. Then I took in my surroundings. There wasn’t much. Like with the check-in room, they’d taken out the bed. But instead of ho-hum office furniture, they’d replaced it with what I could only assume was mankind’s latest, greatest invention: The At-Home Sensory Deprivation pod. It looked like it could have shipped a baby Superman from his home on Krypton. It was round and shiny and definitely wouldn’t fit in the décor of anyone’s apartment I knew.

  I waited, expecting Mack to pop out any second, curious to see who was depriving him of sensory deprivation. When he didn’t, I marched over and knocked on the outer pod.
Then I waited. Nothing. I knocked again, more insistent this time. Again, no answer. The thing needed a doorbell or something. I listened for movement inside, worried maybe I’d picked the wrong room. Maybe no one was in there. Or maybe, just maybe, sensory deprivation actually worked.

  There was a button on the side of the pod. It wasn’t labeled but I figured it for how one communicated with the outside world and they communicated with you. I pushed it and spoke. “I know your secret. I know what you did. You will pay.”

  I sounded pretty kick-butt, if I do say so myself. But again, I got nothing. Blurg.

  Mack Christie wasn’t in there. I’d picked the wrong room. I was heading back to the hall to check what was behind door number two when someone knocked on the room door. The voice was muffled yet I understood every word—even through my champagne haze. “Hotel security. Open up!”

  Fudge.

  I didn’t answer. Big shocker there. They tried again. “Open the door.”

  No and thank you. Even if they typed in the code, I’d put the deadbolt and the security bar on. It gave me a false sense of confidence. I was alone. I wasn’t hungry—for now. I would need to use the bathroom, but that was the thing with hotel rooms. They all came equipped with one.

  Security wasn’t getting in. At least not anytime soon. I had every intention of waiting it out … until I heard the sound of what could only be the pod opening.

  Nineteen

  I wasn’t opening the room door. Jumping out the window was definitely out. My only option was to hide. Stat. But there wasn’t a bed to crawl under and the pod was already occupied. I chose the closet.

  I squeezed in and closed the door as best I could, sending up silent prayers that Mack hadn’t heard a thing. Maybe he’d assume I left before security stopped by. Or that I was some super cool, kick-butt black girl detective who could scale a balcony—instead of a scared one who hid in a closet.