Damage Control (The Hollywood Series Book 2)

by Jae

  Lauren settled on the recliner across from Grace and watched her pile condiments on her hot dog. During her career, she’d had lunch with many actresses, and most of them just picked at their salads instead of eating heartily.

  Not so Grace. She pushed up the sleeves of Lauren’s sweatshirt, picked up the hot dog, eyed it for a moment, and then took a big bite. “Oh God. So good.”

  The moans and little sounds she made while she ate made Lauren squirm. She’d watched love scenes in movies that sounded less erotic.

  Grace looked up and licked a bit of mustard off her fingers. Somehow, she managed to make even that look sexy.

  Lauren averted her gaze and reached for her bottle of water, feeling the need to cool off. Bringing Grace here, into her private life, hadn’t been one of her brightest ideas. Apparently, her libido wanted to share more than just hot dogs.

  “Thank you,” Grace said when her first hot dog was gone.

  “It’s just hot dogs.”

  “Not just for the hot dogs. For everything you did today. Like you said, running from a dog and climbing a brick wall isn’t covered in your contract, so thanks.”

  Lauren reached for her own hot dog so she didn’t have to look at Grace and see the gratefulness in her eyes. It was easier to think that she’d just fulfilled her duties as a publicist, nothing more. She tilted her head in silent acknowledgment and said, “That second hot dog is yours.”

  “I shouldn’t,” Grace said, even as she reached for it.

  Chuckling, Lauren heaped relish on her own hot dog.

  After polishing off the last crumb of her second hot dog, Grace insisted on doing the dishes.

  “That’s not necessary,” Lauren said. “I have a dishwasher.”

  “Does it rinse the plates and put the food back into the fridge too?”

  “Uh, no.”

  Grace sent her a telling gaze. “Well, then I guess one of us needs to do that. And since you cooked…”

  Lauren gave up and followed her to the kitchen with a clipboard. She leaned against the breakfast bar and watched Grace put the mustard and ketchup back into the refrigerator and rinse the plates and bowls. How surreal this was. Grace Durand, three-time Golden Globe winner, was in her kitchen, doing the dishes. Lauren shook herself out of her haze and lifted the clipboard. “Let’s talk about what to tell Stan tomorrow morning.”

  “Not much we can tell him,” Grace said. “Not as long as Jill isn’t ready to tell the public that she has MS.” When she bent to put the plates into the dishwasher, her dress slid up a little, revealing a smooth expanse of thigh.

  With some effort, Lauren forced her gaze back onto the blank page. “She should really think about doing it soon.”

  “I understand why she’s hesitating. She mostly plays spunky sidekicks, characters that are upbeat and full of life. What if casting directors think someone with MS can’t convincingly portray those characters once the public finds out?”

  Lauren didn’t have a good answer for that. Life as an actress sometimes simply wasn’t fair. “Okay. Then what do you want to tell Stan?”

  Grace closed the dishwasher, turned, and leaned against it. “Can’t we simply tell him that Jill and I are just two friends who wanted to spend a quiet night away from the set?”

  “That sounds too much like a romantic getaway,” Lauren said. “But I like the premise. How about we rephrase it a little?” She scribbled something down, describing the stressful life on set—five o’clock call times, fourteen-hour days, endless repetitions because the director wanted one more take—and then stating that the two actresses had retreated to the hotel for its whirlpool and room service. That was how most people viewed actresses anyway. She held out the clipboard so Grace could read it.

  When Grace finished reading and looked up, admiration sparked in her eyes. “Brilliant. You really have a way with words.”

  “The inn did have a whirlpool, didn’t it?” Lauren asked. Stan was an old-school journalist. He’d check out each and every little detail of their story.

  A tiny wrinkle formed on Grace’s forehead. “I have no idea. Once I finally had Jill in bed, I didn’t leave the room.”

  Lauren pointed at her with the pen. “Don’t say that to the press.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “You’ve got a dirty mind.”

  Chuckling, Lauren led her back to the living room.

  Grace sat in Lauren’s recliner, both feet up, Lauren’s MacBook on her lap while Lauren rummaged around in the next room.

  “Did you find anything?” Lauren asked when she returned with a first-aid kit.

  Grace nodded and pointed at the website on the laptop’s screen. “They do have an outdoor whirlpool.”

  “Great. I’ll send Stan the statement tomorrow morning, then.” Lauren put the first-aid kit on the coffee table and opened it. “Now let me see your knees.”

  “They’re just a few scrapes, nothing serious.”

  “Even scrapes can get infected,” Lauren said. “It’s better not to take any risks. I don’t want to have to handle headlines like ‘Grace Durand hospitalized with an infection she contracted when she climbed the wall surrounding Jill Corrigan’s property in a sapphic midnight remake of Romeo and Juliet.’”

  Grace had to laugh at the headlines that Lauren kept making up. “You’re right. We can’t risk that. I prefer movies with happy endings.”

  Lauren soaked a cotton ball with antiseptic and knelt next to the recliner.

  They both looked down at Grace’s legs. Several scratches covered her knees, a few trailing down to her shins. Most of them hadn’t broken the skin, but some had been bleeding. Half-dried blood and bits of dirt now clung to her legs.

  “This might sting a bit.” Lauren lowered the cotton ball, hovering just an inch from Grace’s skin. “Ready?”

  Grace nodded and braced herself. A burning pain flared through her when the antiseptic touched her skin. She clamped her hands around the armrests of the recliner and looked at Lauren, the dark head bent as she worked on getting the dirt out of the wounds.

  Lauren’s hands, broad, with long fingers, moved gently over her skin.

  Grace couldn’t remember the last time someone had taken such tender care of her.

  When Lauren was done with the antiseptic, she squeezed out a bit of antibiotic ointment and used cotton swabs to dab it onto the scrapes without touching them directly.

  Grace thought it was overkill for a couple of harmless scrapes, but she didn’t have the heart to tell her.

  Finally, Lauren placed Band-Aids over the deepest cuts, re-capped the tube of ointment, and clicked the first-aid kit shut. “There.” She smiled up at her. “All better now.”

  Grace cleared her throat. “Thank you, Dr. Pearce.” She put Lauren’s laptop on the coffee table and stood.

  “Do you want me to drive you home now?” Lauren asked.

  “That’s not necessary. I’ll call a service that I sometimes use to drive me to the airport. They’re very discreet.”

  Lauren frowned. “I can drive you.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but remember the headline you quoted earlier? How would you like to handle a headline about Grace Durand getting out of the car of a known lesbian in the middle of the night, wearing said lesbian’s clothes?” Grace tugged on the sweatshirt she was still wearing.

  “Hmm. You might have a point there.”

  Grace called the service. By the time the driver arrived, it was nearly two in the morning. Yawning, Grace walked to the door and turned back to Lauren.

  They smiled at each other.

  “Thanks again for everything,” Grace said, meaning it.

  “You’re welcome. Good night.”

  “Good night.” One foot already outside the apartment, Grace remembered som
ething and turned back around. “Your sweatshirt.” She moved to take it off, but Lauren shook her head.

  “Keep it. Remember—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. You don’t want to handle headlines about Grace Durand catching pneumonia.”

  “Exactly.”

  They shared another grin, and then Grace left.

  What a crazy day, Grace thought as the door closed behind her. Somehow, though, Lauren’s presence had made it all okay. She hoped tomorrow would go just as well.

  CHAPTER 8

  Lauren jerked awake. After untangling herself from the sheets, she rubbed her eyes and sat up. Remnants of a dream still clung to her hazy mind like cobwebs, images of running across a lawn with Grace, scrambling up a wall, and then patching up Grace’s knees. Pretty much a realistic repeat of last night—only that when Lauren had glanced up with the cotton ball in hand, Grace had lowered her head and kissed her.

  She pressed her hand to her tingling lips and tried to tell herself that it was perfectly harmless. Millions of people worldwide had dreams like that about Grace Durand, right?

  Yeah, but those people don’t have to work with her. Maybe she should put some professional distance between them and cut out the friendly banter that had somehow made it into their interactions.

  Finally more awake, she realized that bright sunlight was filtering in through the shades. Her head swiveled around.

  The glowing numbers on her alarm clock told her that it was already after eight. Why hadn’t the damn thing gone off? Had she forgotten to set the alarm before finally drifting off to sleep around three?

  No time to figure it out now.

  She jumped out of bed without checking her e-mail, as she usually did right after waking up. She was showered, dressed, and on the way to the office in record time. When she walked into the lobby of CTP, there was only one thing on her mind: coffee.

  “Lauren!” Tina’s urgent voice reached her before she could start her search for a cup of the coveted beverage. “Thank God you’re here. I’ve been trying to reach you for the last hour. The press has been calling all morning for a comment from you or Ms. Durand.”

  Frowning, Lauren reached into her pocket and pulled out the phone she’d grabbed on her way out. She’d turned it off before the handprint ceremony yesterday and had then uncharacteristically forgotten to turn it back on.

  Now, as she powered it back on, it chimed frantically. She had eleven missed calls, three of them from Stan Zaleski, three from the office, and five from various reporters.

  Oh shit. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t good. “What happened?”

  “Uh, maybe you should just listen to your messages or read your e-mail,” Tina said, clearly not wanting to be the one who gave Lauren the bad news.

  Nearly plowing down an intern, Lauren rushed to her office and powered up the computer while she listened to her messages.

  The first one was from Stan. “Lauren? This is Stan Zaleski. There’s been a change of plans. Can you call me back, please?”

  The next one was from him too. “Stan again. I’m in a bit of a predicament. One of our writers didn’t send in his article on time, so my boss wants the article about Grace Durand to go live sooner. Can you send me her statement tonight?”

  Lauren started cursing.

  Then Stan’s voice came again. “The article just went live. I’m sorry.”

  Listening to the messages of bloggers and reporters who wanted more information about Grace’s newfound sexual orientation, Lauren clenched her jaw and opened her browser. Seconds later, Stan’s blog post appeared on her computer screen.

  Lauren skimmed it quickly.

  Unlike the sensational garbage Tinseltown Talk had published, this article was intelligently written, and Lauren agreed with a lot of what was said. Instead of focusing just on Grace, Stan Zaleski had written about the don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy of Hollywood studio heads and casting directors who pressured actors and actresses to stay in the closet, fearing they’d lose money due to the part of their audience that might not like gays and lesbians in leading roles. The sad thing was that many of the studio execs, agents, and other power players were gay themselves—and Stan vowed to expose their double lives, starting with Grace Durand.

  He’d included the picture of Grace and Jill climbing the stairs to Jill’s trailer, holding on to each other, and romantic snapshots of the Ocmulgee Riverside Inn at sunset.

  At the end of the article, he’d stated that “neither actress could be reached for comment,” which made them look even more as if they had something to hide.

  The blog post had gone live not even twelve hours ago, but it already had hundreds of comments, some of them from fans claiming they’d always known that Grace was a lesbian and Nick just a “beard,” while others were links to blogs and websites that had already picked up the story.

  Lauren shoved back the keyboard tray. She didn’t want to even glance at Twitter, knowing that a storm of speculation had most likely descended upon them. What had started out as a mention in a gossip rag that no one took seriously had now turned into a media hurricane.

  She itched to pick up the phone to call Stan and rip into him, but she knew it wouldn’t do her any good. What was done was done. Now she needed to focus on damage control—and fast.

  A hand on her shoulder startled Grace awake, nearly making her jump out of bed—and out of her skin. She bumped her head on the headboard as she jerked upright and clutched the sheet to her chest.

  Her mother loomed over her in a pink skirt suit.

  For a moment, Grace thought she was still dreaming, having one of the nightmares in which her mother dragged her out of bed and to a casting call, where Grace stood in front of the casting director naked and utterly unprepared. But when she pinched herself, the image in front of her remained.

  “What are you still doing in bed?” her mother asked, her hands on her hips. “Haven’t you seen what’s going on?”

  Well, apparently not, since I was sleeping. Grace bit her lip so she wouldn’t say it. “I had a late night after Russ’s party,” she said instead. No need to tell her mother where she’d been. It would only lead to discussions since her mother wasn’t a big fan of Jill—or Lauren.

  Her mother took a step back and stared at something on the floor. The color drained from her heavily made-up face. “That ugly thing isn’t yours, is it?” Her gaze went to the bathroom door. “Oh my God! Is there someone in there?”

  Still not fully awake, Grace glanced from the bathroom to her mother and finally to the floor. Lauren’s Boston University sweatshirt lay beside the bed next to her dress, where she’d stripped it off before falling into bed last night. “Oh, you thought…? No, that’s just Lauren’s.”

  But that didn’t seem to calm her mother’s concerns—quite the opposite. “Lauren?” she screeched. “That…that publicist? You mean you and she…?”

  Grace sighed. Why did she have to deal with all this drama so soon after waking up, after a night like the last one? She reached for the bathrobe draped over a nearby chair, slipped out of bed, and put it on. “No, Mom. Nothing’s going on between Lauren and me. She just lent me her sweatshirt; that’s all. I’m not gay, remember?”

  “Then what’s this?” Her mother reached into her large purse and threw a printout of a celebrity website onto the bed.

  Grace caught a glimpse of her own face in a photo before her mother threw another website printout on top.

  “And this?”

  This one had a photo of Grace and Jill on the set of Ava’s Heart, their shoulders touching as they looked at a page of last-minute script changes that Jill held.

  A glossy magazine landed on top of the printouts. “And this?”

  With trembling fingers, Grace picked up the magazine and leafed through it until she found th
e article about her and Jill. It was peppered with photos of the inn where they had stayed while shooting in Macon. The tabloid called it their romantic little love nest.

  Shit. Grace plopped down onto the bed and reached for the cell phone on her nightstand. Just when she was about to call Lauren, the phone started to ring and Lauren’s name flashed across the display. Grace quickly accepted the call. “Did you see it?” she asked instead of a greeting.

  “Yes,” Lauren said, sounding as if she was gritting her teeth. “Stan ran the article last night, and a couple of other bloggers picked up the story within an hour.”

  “It’s not just the bloggers. There’s at least one gossip rag that worked really fast and printed the same nonsense.” Loud honking made Grace jerk the phone away from her ear. Cautiously, she moved it back. “Where are you?”

  “On my way to Glendale,” Lauren said.

  That could mean only one thing. “You want to talk Jill into telling the press the truth.”

  “Yes. It’s the only way out of this mess. By now, not telling them is hurting both of your careers much more than revealing the truth ever could.”

  Grace blew out a breath. “I think you’re right. Drive carefully.”

  “I will. Please be careful too. Don’t leave the house if you don’t have to,” Lauren said. “I bet the paparazzi are somewhere out there, just waiting to jump on you.”

  “I’ll try to stay in,” Grace said. Not much else she could say or do, so she ended the call.

  “Telling the press the truth?” her mother repeated, sounding alarmed. “What truth is that?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” Grace said.

  Her mother’s lipstick-red mouth formed a startled O. “But…but you always told me everything.”

  “And I would, Mom, but this isn’t my truth to tell. Have some patience, okay? I promise you’ll find out soon.” Grace wanted to crawl back into bed and pull the covers up over her head, shutting out her mother, the media jackals, and the entire world, but she knew she couldn’t. With her mother’s disapproving gaze following her, she headed to the bathroom to get ready for whatever this day would have in store for her.