Lead Me Back

by Reiss, CD

  My lawyer’s name was Shawna Jackson. She had sable skin and amber eyes that could simultaneously transmit rage at a situation and compassion for those suffering through it.

  I pulled up in front of Evelyn’s house in Highland Park. She shared a four-bedroom house with seven other film industry people.

  “Are you going to say anything?”

  “Lawyer says I shouldn’t yet.” I put the van into park and reached into the back for my stuff.

  “She’s probably right,” Brenda said. “You can just ignore him.”

  “He’s been let off the hook too long.”

  “He has.”

  “And so have I.”

  “Kayla,” Brenda said sternly. “We talked about this.”

  “I know.”

  “Try to have a good time.”

  “It’s going to be the time of my life.”

  We took a cab to the ball, draping the back seat with a few yards of fabric and lace.

  Subcultures I didn’t know about always hid in the corners of New York City. Los Angeles wasn’t any different. On that particular day in July, a crowd of ladies in parasols and bonnets stood on Orange Drive, off Hollywood Boulevard, with gentlemen wearing tailcoats and breeches. The line meandered around a brass side door to the hotel. Tourists and natives in jeans and sneakers stopped to gawk as the guests slowly filed up the marble steps.

  “Kayla,” Evelyn said when we were stopped at the light right before the hotel.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you nervous?”

  I hadn’t mentioned Signorile again or told her about my new lawyer because I wanted her to have a good time. But she was right. I was sweating, and my mind had gone blank. I had too much riding on this. Not just vengeance or exoneration. I’d resigned myself to living without either of those. But I wasn’t resigned to living without Justin. All I could think about was how close I was to calling him and telling him I couldn’t be accused of being a liar anymore.

  “You’re nervous too.” I squeezed her hand.

  “A little.”

  “Eddie likes you.”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “He does. You’ll see.”

  “I can get a glass of Madeira in me before he arrives.”

  “You don’t need it. When you’re in costume, you have the confidence of a supermodel.”

  “I don’t feel different.”

  “Maybe, but something happens. You’ll be fine.”

  The cab stopped, and we got out to face the men we loved and hated.

  CHAPTER 22

  JUSTIN

  I need to unload some stuff.

  When I went to dinner with Louise, I still had no idea what Kayla was talking about. Stuff? What the hell was stuff?

  “You sure you made the reservation for the roof?” I asked Louise after Carter joined us in the elevator. “Because Vic told me they don’t take roof reservations.”

  “When your dead husband supplied all the furniture for the guest rooms, and your grandson is a household name, you get a reservation anywhere you want.”

  And if it all goes well, then Ken’s going to love me.

  This part worried me to fucking distraction.

  “Fine,” I mumbled. I didn’t even hear what she’d said over the questions in my head.

  I need to unload some stuff.

  “I don’t know why you have to look so grumpy,” Louise said, hugging her bag and looking at the lights flip from floor to floor.

  “I’m not grumpy.” I was worse than grumpy. I was exhausted from trying to ignore the week that had passed without Kayla. I’d spent my nights not sleeping and my days not being all the way awake.

  “Birthdays aren’t for sour faces,” Louise chimed.

  “This face? This is a sour face? This face is my birthday face, and it’s sweet as cake with sprinkles, okay?”

  She scoffed. “Who broke your heart, I don’t know.”

  She said it as if she knew damn well.

  The elevator dinged on the top floor. Carter would get out first, make sure I was clear of both Beckettes and real dangers, then escort us through. But when the doors started to open, he shifted to the side with his hands folded in front of him and a suppressed grin.

  “Cart—?”

  “Surprise!”

  Someone put a beer in my hand, and I used the other to shake hands, hug, and backslap.

  Thirty people were on the roof, and I loved all of them as much as I hated surprise parties.

  But not Kayla.

  My brother and his wife and kids.

  Everyone else you care about is here.

  My aunts and uncles from everywhere.

  Why do you feel entitled to her?

  A bouquet of flowers from my parents, who were somewhere between Indonesia and Papua New Guinea.

  I need to unload some stuff.

  The party was small, so it was manageable, but the intimacy didn’t make it easier. I watched myself have a good time and thought, You really got this acting thing down.

  “What are you wearing?” I asked Eddie, tipping my beer bottle at a jacket straight outta the movie we had just finished.

  “Long story. Happy birthday.”

  I slapped his back when we hugged, and as we separated, Louise came between us, facing Eddie.

  “I’m Louise. Justin’s grandmother.”

  “Ah. Thank you for inviting me.”

  “I’m your biggest fan. I mean you must hear that all the time.”

  “Not really.”

  “Can we do a selfie?”

  “Of course.”

  Louise shoved her phone into my chest, and I took about ten pictures of them.

  “Thank you!” She kissed his cheek. “You’re staying for the cake, right? It’s from Jacquard Jacques.”

  “I—”

  “Strawberries. I mean the thing is just covered in strawberries.”

  “I’d love to,” Eddie said. “But I have something else.”

  “What?”

  “Weeze,” I said. “Come on.”

  Eddie waved away my warning.

  “There’s a dance . . . more a costume ball. I promised someone I’d go.”

  “Oh, are you taking a lady?”

  “Weeze!”

  Eddie was a little too happy with my grandmother’s attention. She had a way of making people think rude comments were cute questions.

  “Two, actually.” He looked up at me. “Ev and Kayla.”

  When he said her name, I went cold. Not because there was anything wrong with her going to a ball or whatever, but because I was making a real effort to not think about her, and he’d just shaken a can of soda and popped it open. Fizzy emotions got everywhere. The party got really far away, and all I could think about was how much I needed to make sure she knew how much I wanted her.

  “Oh,” Louise gasped and put her hands over her mouth, then shot me a glance.

  “What?” I sounded angry, but I was just surprised and busy trying to stuff the thought of her back in the box.

  “Oh, Justin,” she said, putting her hand on my arm. “I boo-booed.”

  Eddie laughed, but Louise looked panicked.

  “What?”

  “Well. So. You’ve had a face on from here to Jerusalem, and my intuition told me it was because of that girl. The one with your phone number? Who brought me the roses?”

  “Kayla?”

  “And so, I wanted her to come, but I couldn’t just ask her so . . .” She glanced at Eddie, then back to me. “Well, all these people had the old number, so when I told them to RSVP I just said to call you and your assistant would pick up.”

  “And so . . . they all called her?”

  “Well . . . yes.”

  “Aw, Weeze, what the . . . ?” I threw my hands up.

  “I said they had to tell a nice story about you to prove . . . oh, I don’t even know now. But the idea was I wanted to give her the chance to come. Because after hearing all the nice things your family
had to say about you . . . what woman in her right mind wouldn’t come?”

  I had no words. None. One, Kayla hated being my damned secretary. Two, she still hadn’t come to the party. I wasn’t sure if I blamed her or not.

  No, I couldn’t blame her. I didn’t know what stuff she was up to, but she’d been clear.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Louise said. “For interfering.”

  “I love you, Grandma, but damn. Goddamn.”

  Eddie cleared his throat. At first I thought he was trying to be polite by reminding us that he was there.

  “If you wanted to come where she is, to the ball,” he said, “I could take you.”

  I wanted to go so bad, and I wanted to prove I could leave her alone even more.

  “Thanks, but nah,” I said.

  “No,” Louise said. “You have to go.”

  My grandmother was the last person I wanted to explain this to, since I could barely explain it to myself.

  “Yeah.” I shrugged. “But the cake.”

  Trying to make it look like a casual decision backfired.

  “To hell with the cake!” she said. “I can take a picture. You go. Come back by ten.”

  I’d never make it back by ten, and I was about to say that when Louise jumped back in. “Everyone from far away’s going to be here tomorrow. I’ll have a thing at my house, so you can catch up all you want.”

  She pushed me by the shoulders so hard it was borderline assault.

  “Weeze, really?”

  “Just go,” she demanded. “I put a ton of work into this girl already, so don’t you suddenly get manners and ruin it.”

  I glanced around. Aunt Wanda was showing my cousin Ron a picture on her phone. Uncle Charlie was looking over at us from the buffet, where he was talking to Irma, an old family friend from the neighborhood.

  I could go. I really could. Seeing Kayla meant I could apologize for Louise’s RSVP strategy and maybe put a lid on the boiling pot of anxiety.

  “Get out,” Louise said. “I mean it.”

  My phone buzzed. I looked at it for no other reason than to distract from this garbage situation. It was a text from Shane.

  —We found Chad—

  Holy shit. I didn’t forget Kayla, but she became my second-most-urgent problem.

  “Hold on,” I said so I could text.

  —Where? And who’s we?—

  —We’re downstairs. On Ardmore.

  Gordon and me—

  “I’ll be right back,” I said. Louise kissed my cheek, thinking I’d agreed to go, and Eddie gave her a hug before following me to the elevator.

  “I have to stop home anyway,” Eddie said. “I have something that might fit.”

  “I’m just going down for a minute.”

  “Your call.”

  Shane’s 1967 Mustang was parked in the red. I walked with my head down, hoping no one recognized me. He cranked down the window when I got there.

  Next to him, Gordon looked like a guy who hadn’t had a decent meal in a week.

  “Where is he?” I asked, leaning in.

  “A facility in Pomona,” Shane said. “We’re heading out there.”

  “I’m coming.”

  “No.” Gordon spoke without looking at me.

  “He doesn’t want to see you,” Shane added. “He found out about Slashdot and Ken.”

  “What about Slashdot and Ken?”

  They looked at me as if I’d forgotten the lyrics to “Get the Girl” in Yankee Stadium.

  “You didn’t know?” Shane said. “About his two-year noncompete? The bonus if they could release your solo without a Sunset Boys album release?”

  I bent lower, leaning my forehead on my arm. I could hear people shouting and talking in the background of my own thoughts, which shouted, Of course, of course, you dumb asshole.

  “You guys,” I said, eyes on the pavement. “I’m sorry I flipped out on you, Shane. I never shoulda hit you, but I didn’t do any of the other shit you’re blaming me for, and you know it.”

  “We know.” Gordon’s voice cut through the street noise. I picked my head off my arm to see Gordon looking at me. A flash went off.

  “You know?”

  “This asshole . . .” He jerked his thumb at Shane. “He told me what you said about that night and, you know . . . I had to kind of entertain the notion that you didn’t sleep with Heidi, and once I got out of my own way, that made the most sense. So . . . I guess I’m the one with the sorries.”

  His words freed me from a prison I didn’t even realize I was in. I felt like a man given a new lease on life. I took him by both sides of his face and kissed him, and the night was lit with flashes and shouts.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Get off me,” he replied with a half smile.

  “Dude,” Shane said. “How are we going to get out of here?”

  Looking up, I saw how hemmed in we were. Paparazzi with big lenses. Fans with phones. Dozens of people crowded around the car, trying to get our attention. Carter was holding them back while cops cleared the way for traffic, but the mob was growing. Getting back upstairs would be a pain in the ass. I could do it, but now that I was out of the party, the way to Kayla seemed like a bright line. The police let Eddie’s Lexus crawl through the crowd, and that was it. I made my decision.

  “Call me when you’re there,” I said and leaped over the Mustang’s hood, ass sliding on the warm steel as flashes popped and my name filled the night. I landed on the other side and knocked on Eddie’s window. He popped the lock, and I got in.

  “Nice crowd,” he said as I waved to a girl in her teens.

  “Yeah. So, I can come to this thing with you?”

  “You bet.”

  “Where is it?”

  “The Roosevelt Hotel.”

  “Well, shit.”

  CHAPTER 23

  KAYLA

  The ballroom was art deco, making it an anachronism by a hundred years, but it was still gorgeous. Evelyn and I sipped our drinks and admired the costumes. Evelyn accepted a dance, and I memorized how she moved in case I decided to take to the floor.

  The Madeira went right to my head.

  “Hey,” I asked a waiter as I put my empty glass on his tray. “Where are the bathrooms?”

  “There’s one right there, but if you go up to the mezzanine, they’re less crowded.”

  I thanked him and found the stairway up. The bathrooms were indeed less crowded, and I was done in no time.

  As I was about to push through the door to the stairs, I noticed a small crowd in costume near the elevators and heard a voice that was burned into my mind.

  “Do you have your dance card?” Josef Signorile asked an older woman who stood near him.

  “Monsieur!” she said, handing it over. “I’d be honored.” She was Vanda Winthorpe, the lead editor of British Elle.

  As he signed for his dance, I held my breath. They were all masked, but I knew them. Winthorpe’s husband stood next to her, joking with the creative director of Jeremy St. James and the six-foot model Thomasina Wente.

  So. Now was as good a time as any.

  I let the stairway door go, flicked open my fan to cover the bottom half of my face, and—with my chin high and my shoulders back—joined the crowd to wait for the elevator.

  The blue eyes under Signorile’s mask landed on me as he handed Vanda Winthorpe’s card back. His white cravat had a red pin in the center, and the collar of his cream waistcoat was at attention. His dark-brown hair was carefully brushed over the ribbon of his mask.

  The elevator opened and people filed in.

  He nodded to me with a little bow. “Madame.”

  I nodded back and knew I wasn’t going to do it. I was going to go back downstairs, have another glass of Madeira, and dance.

  “Room for one more,” someone said.

  “Please,” he said, indicating that I should take the space. I could have. I should have. But the other elevator dinged, and that seemed like an opport
unity to breathe through my panic.

  “I’ll take this one,” I said from behind the fan.

  “I’ll accompany you,” he said, as if he were a gentleman protector, not a predator.

  The crowded elevator door slid shut before I could insist he stay with his friends.

  “Your shawl is lovely,” he said. He wasn’t leering. He wasn’t gross or creepy. If a girl didn’t know any better, she’d think he was just a nice guy.

  “Thank you.” The doors of the second elevator opened. It was empty.

  Signorile let me in first. Naturally. He pushed the button for the ballroom and the doors closed. We were alone. Our reflections in the polished brass stood shoulder to shoulder. The flesh between my legs wanted to crawl up into my body.

  One floor. I could make it one floor without ripping his face off.

  “Do I know you?” he asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, then you’ll join us downstairs for a drink while we figure it out.”

  Yeah. Patience was looking less and less virtuous.

  “You’re so kind,” I said, fan fluttering. “But you misunderstand.”

  “How so?”

  I snapped the fan down so he could see my chin and lips—the ones he’d covered with his hand months ago. In the reflection, Signorile went into profile as he turned. I couldn’t look back or I’d either panic, cry, or kill him. I kept my gaze on the numbers.

  “You’re Kayla Montgomery,” he said, pushing his mask up. “The liar.”

  Casually, as if choosing another floor, I pressed the red emergency button. The alarm went off, and I turned my back to the panel to block it and to face him.

  “That’s me. I lied when I let you railroad me. I lied when I ran away.” I flipped the fan closed, the tucked end against my palm, then shoved up my mask. “I lied to myself, but that’s over. I can still feel your hands on me. I still hear you chuckling in my ear while I cried, you sadistic fuck. What you did . . . what you do to any woman who threatens you? That’s over. I’m standing between you and any other woman you want to attack. I will never, ever stay silent again.”

  He smiled as if he found the whole thing amusing.

  “You have no proof, my dear.” He didn’t look scared. Not one bit. I doubted myself for a moment, then remembered how he’d put his hand over my mouth. How it had smelled of the soap in the office bathroom, and how I couldn’t bear the smell of eucalyptus afterward.