by Reiss, CD
I waited for an answer. Anything. A change in position or a word on any subject. The weather. Sports. Something. But all he did was breathe.
I smiled so wide, tears fell into my mouth. He was sleeping. How hard had Foo hit him? Hard enough for a concussion? God, that asshole. I was going to give him a piece of my mind. He’d always called me stupid, and maybe that had been some little sheet-curling game he played, but it didn’t turn me on. Being called a dumb whore because some big biker thought it was funny? Well, no. It wasn’t funny, and it wasn’t true, and when I was face to face with that moron, I would punch his face right back.
Michael’s phone rang. I stretched to see it, but I couldn’t move without disturbing him. I reached but couldn’t get to it. He didn’t move, just a breathing weight on one side. I could have slipped out from under him, even if I didn’t want to get the phone. I could have gotten up and walked around, made coffee, done stuff until he woke. But I didn’t want to get up. He’d fallen asleep with me, and I didn’t want to insult the intimacy or the trust he’d put in me. I’d wanted to have sex with plenty of men, but Michael’s breath on my neck, his foot tucked between the cushions of my couch, his arm draped over my stomach were more intimate than any sexual act. He’d laid himself bare before me, trusting me in the vulnerability of sleep.
I might have drifted off as the sun touched the horizon, or time might have gone faster than it should have, but when his phone rang again, he took a long, deep gasp and woke.
“I couldn’t reach it,” I said, my voice sharp and unwelcome, like a shrieking alarm ending an hour of sweet soft breaths.
“It’s all right.” He reached over me and looked at the phone. “Goddamnit.”
I scooted up to a sitting position when he stood. He swayed, squeezed his eyes shut, and put the phone away, still ringing.
“I’m sorry. I was supposed to do a thing, and I almost slept through it.” He jammed his feet in his shoes.
I got his jacket and helped him into it. “You look like you’re still half asleep.”
“I think I am.” He kissed me once on each cheek then on the lips.
He tried to pull back, but I yanked him onto me. I might never see him again. He could easily walk out and decide I was too much trouble. He’d be crazy not to think that.
“I need you to wait here for an hour,” he said into my cheek. “It won’t take me longer than that to get you a bodyguard.”
“Fine. One hour.”
He put his hand on my cheek and slid it to the back of my neck, drawing me close. “Thank you.”
“Your pleasure.”
“Go out with me. Have a date. Tuesday night.”
A date. So simple. Exactly what people did when they liked each other.
“Dinner?” I said. “In public? With a guy who’s going to have at least one black eye?”
“A movie. Let me show you a little of my world.”
“No.”
He kissed me, and I fell into his urgency and his warmth, smelling dried blood. I didn’t want to believe he could ever care about me. He was a dead end at full speed with broken brakes. He was a labyrinth with no exit, only starvation and the hope that there was a center.
But he was also sweet as spring, an explosion of poppies in Death Valley after a winter of rain. He was lightning before a rainstorm, drowning a dark road in white light for a split second before night soaked the way.
I pushed him away. “The clock’s ticking, Greydon.”
“I’ll pick you up Tuesday.”
“I said no.”
He backed up toward the door. “Don’t go anywhere. I’m sending a guy named Carlos. He runs fast, so give it your best shot.”
“Get out. You bother me.”
I closed the door behind him then ran to the window. I could see the exit of the Whole Foods parking lot in the stripe between two buildings. When I saw his little green Aston Martin drive away, I swallowed the worry I was holding in the back of my throat.
I paced the hard floor twice, roiled to the core by his absence, his presence, his possibilities, and his ability to hurt me. I snapped up the blue camera bag and dumped the contents onto the coffee table. I could get the thing set up in minutes. I called Tom while I unwrapped the boxes. There was no way I was waiting an hour for some guy named Carlos to show up.
24
michael
“Oh my god,” Harvey said as I sat in the makeup chair. “What happened to your face?”
“Ran into a fist. You like it?”
“Oh, honey, you’re falling apart like my nephew’s Legos. First, you’re late, and now? What am I supposed to do with this?”
“You got eleven minutes to figure it out.”
He leaned back on the counter and put his fingers to his chin, stroking his goatee. He looked at me as if I were a crossword puzzle he couldn’t solve. I worked with him whenever I was in Los Angeles, and today, for the Jack Rambling show, my face should have been a piece of cake.
“Don’t hide it,” I said. “Let’s have some fun.”
I winked at him with my good eye, and he winked back.
Mentally, I was working on a joke that started with “You should see the other guy,” but Ken called as Harvey was working around the bruise. I rejected the call. I’d already gotten an earful from Gene for being late. He’d done everything he could to put something on my schedule during the weeks we weren’t shooting, and his ladles of guilt over my lateness and lack of emotional investment were beginning to wear on me.
Once Ken found out about Mister Foo KILL RIDE, he’d probably call me an unmanageable risk and drop me. My face throbbed. My brain hurt. I remembered the shocking blow to my face and the lightning bolts creeping in on my vision as if it were happening over and over.
Yet all I could think about was how much I wanted to take Laine to bed. Feel her twisted under me, hear her cry out for me. I wanted to share sweat and skin, to blend a scent of our own making. And the big guy with the tattooed knuckles? He’d been with her at some point. I could tell from the way she reacted that it hadn’t been love or anything like that, but it had been physical, and she was scared. Much had become clear, and for whatever it was worth, I wanted to kill him.
Focus, Mike.
Harvey stepped back to check his work. The phone vibrated. I wanted to throw it out the window, because ten things were happening at once.
A kid came in with a clipboard and walkie-talkie. “Mister Greydon! You’re on in—” He stopped dead when he saw my face.
I smiled. “You should see the other guy.”
25
laine
I had a rock in my shoe.
It had lodged between the soft flesh of the outside of my right foot and the leather of my brown stiletto as I ran down Wilshire Boulevard.
Still, I ran like a purse snatcher. Like the old days, when I didn’t really know what was at the end of the run, when tips weren’t guarantees and the phone never rang.
My bag cut across my right breast and banged against my lower back. I held a spanking-new four-pound camera aloft in my right hand, and my hair clips were doing nothing to hold my hair anymore but were bouncing against my scalp, hanging on for dear life.
I cut a corner into an alley. Voices around some corner, indistinguishable over the sound of my panting. Flashing lights that could have been my body giving out or cameras. A few days off, and I was lazy and out of shape.
The back of Kate Martello’s was around the next corner. There wasn’t a movie star on the planet who used the front entrance of anything and not a paparazzo worth his salt who couldn’t find a back door. I slid on a pile of scree to get around the next corner, avoiding a twisted ankle by some miracle of grace and luck, and slammed full body into a shouting dog pack of photographers.
Wall-to-wall sweat, canvas jackets, lumpy bags, unshaven faces, car breath, and testosterone. My feet were on fire, and that rock in my shoe was getting shoved up someone’s ass if I didn’t get a shot I could sell. I squirm
ed to the front, giving as many elbows as I got. I knew those guys, and they’d step on me if I didn’t step on them first.
The situation behind Kate Martello’s was particularly bad. It was in the old part of Beverly Hills. The alley was narrow, and the only space in the front of the ropes for the paparazzi was a wedge between two black SUVs. It was a tight fit, but I was skinny. I elbowed my way forward.
“Is that the lens you’re using?” Tom asked, not even looking at me as I crouched and stepped in front of him. He was taller and had no problem putting his camera above me.
“It’s the one I got.”
The lens that Michael had replaced was long, and I’d been in such a hurry to get out of that apartment I hadn’t doubled down with something wider. I’d just grabbed a flash to fight the night and run.
“Fuck,” I grumbled. “I need a wide angle.” I twisted my body and reached into Tom’s bag.
“Yeah, you do,” he said, his eyes on the restaurant. He shifted so I could rummage around his bag. Flash. Battery pack. Long lens. Pepper spray.
“Don’t you have an eight?” I asked.
“It’s on my camera. My five six is in the car.” He glanced at me. “Sorry.”
“Who’s in there?” I rooted around his bag. He wouldn’t lie to me, but he could be mistaken, or maybe a jury-rig would come to me if I touched enough equipment.
“Brad. Jayce. Some girl. How the hell have you been?”
How was I supposed to answer that? How had I been?
Happy. That was how I’d been, but I’d die before saying that out loud.
“Fine,” I said. “What about you?”
“Great. I want to show you the stuff I’ve been getting.”
I let the flap of his bag drop. “Sure, I’d love to see it.”
He beamed then snapped back to business. I guessed that was what he thought I wanted. “Can you see inside with that thing?”
Two paps whose names I knew I knew but couldn’t recall pushed into me. Life sucked in the dog pack, but damn, it was never boring.
I put the camera to my face and looked through the diners for Brad and his crowd. It’d be nice to know whether they were paying the check or still working on salad, but it was hard to see past the darkness, and my thick lens didn’t help. There was a huge TV in there, and all I had to do was find it on the lens, to orient myself, and…
I was hit right in the frame with Michael in crystal clear HD, smile as bright as the strip on a Saturday night and eye as black as the sky behind it.
What’s the use of being with a paparazza if you can’t get a black eye for her?
The closed captioning, streaking black bands with white type across the top of the screen, went only seconds behind the movement of his lips.
So, this is very interesting, tell me, is she standing outside the rear entrance? because we might want to stay away from her.
Oh, you will, Jack. Because I have one other eye, and she’s mine, you understand?
I do, I do! I guess the other guy looks pretty beat up then?
He does. And let me know if you find him. About six three. Two-twenty. His knuckles are in pretty bad shape.
(laughter)
okay, let’s talk about Bullets Over Sunset. You’re on hiatus because—
I put the camera down.
What the hell was that? Was he talking about me without talking about me? None of the paps seemed moved one way or the other, but they knew about the other night on the rooftop. I imagined they could smell the cinnamon of his skin on me, then I became convinced it was the truth.
I didn’t have another second to feel shame about Michael and his busted eye. Brad Sinclair and his crew exited the back of the restaurant, and the pack broke. They didn’t hustle or rush. Brad put his arm around a pretty blonde’s shoulders and turned to Jayce with a comment that made his friend laugh.
I did what I was supposed to do.
I bolted ahead of everyone and leapt over the hood of a car to get in front of them. Clickclickclick.
Head to toe. Heels to hairpins. I had it. If I could separate Brad and Jayce into two separate frames, I could sell it twice.
“Hey,” Brad called. “Shuttergirl!” He pointed at his eye. “That was you, wasn’t it?”
I put down the camera. “Give me something to shoot, and I’ll tell you.”
He held out both middle fingers, smiling and looking over those stupid sunglasses. Everyone else had him from the side, but he posed for me. I shot it. You bet I did. Boots to bonnet.
“Well?” he said as his car pulled up.
I lowered the camera. “I’m left-handed. I woulda busted the other eye.”
He pointed at me with a fake gun shot. I laughed. I forgot to be jaded and knowing. I forgot how it would look for me to have a friendly relationship with Brad Sinclair. I just felt unburdened and available for a stupid joke from someone I’d casually labeled a douchebag.
When Brad and his friends got into his car, I felt the car door slamming as if it were the closing off a portal to another world. I was in an alley with my peers in their smelly T-shirts and matte black cameras. I had always been an outsider, being a woman, but after being friendly with Brad Sinclair, I was worse than an outsider. I was a pariah. I saw it in their looks and their turned backs.
The shots I’d gotten of Brad should have gotten me high fives. Instead, I looked as if I had a leg up, and nobody liked that. Especially not the ragtag team of starkillers I hung out with.
“Laine!” Tom came jogging up behind me, having missed everything. “What did you get?”
“Good stuff.”
I felt dead inside. I got no joy from it. Not from the accolades I’d get for doing my job, nor from the money or heated negotiation. I walked out of the alley, and Tom followed.
“Hey,” I said, slipping out my phone, “can I see what you’ve been shooting?”
“Yeah.”
I texted Michael.
—I’m worth getting a
black eye for?—
“You seem surprised,” I said to Tom.
—Definitely. I’d give my
other eye in your defense—
“You never want to see what I’m doing outside the celebrity shit,” Tom said.
“I don’t know. You seem excited about it.”
“I’m doing retouching I’ve never done before. I can’t wait for you to see it.” He practically skipped out to the street.
“Let me upload these, and we can go to Pasadena.”
My phone rang. It was Michael.
“Hey, I—”
He cut me off. “I just got a call from Brad.”
I heard people around him talking in serious voices, and through that, he was pissed. “Okay?”
“I asked you not to leave the house,” he said.
“I’m sorry? Are you serious?”
“This guy knows where you live and how to get to you. Do you want me to take a picture of my fucking face so you believe it?”
“Your face? Your precious face?” I wanted to list for him what of mine Foo and Jake had bruised, but that would make him crazy.
“Laine, it’s night, it’s dark—”
“Tom is here. He’ll protect me. He knows them.”
“Put him on the phone.” He was demanding and borderline discourteous. Who was he? This wasn’t the funny, sweet guy I’d kissed hours ago. “Laine…”
“What is with you?”
“May I please speak with your brother?”
I handed Tom the phone with a sour face and got into my car, cursing.
“Yeah, I know him,” Tom said from outside.
I plugged in my wifi and fired up the laptop, seething from the inside out.
“I know, I know, dude, I know…” Tom said as I ground my teeth.
I pulled up the pictures of Brad, half tilted, middle fingers up, and a big smile under his sunglasses. Not a pap shot. Not a bowed head or sense of discomfort that even the best of them got. No, he was a guy in
his own element, and behind him was Renaldo with a sour puss, cradling his camera in his forearm.
“Believe me—” Tom said before I snapped the phone from him.
“You told Brad,” I said.
“About what? You? Of course I told him, he’s my friend.”
“Now he knows me.” I flipped through the pictures. It was amazing how they didn’t work without the touch of shame and vulnerability. Even though Brad’s comfort and smile were genuine, the pictures looked staged and phony. “How am I supposed to do my job if this is common knowledge?”
Tom got in and shut the passenger side door.
“You can’t do your job and be with me. That’s common sense.”
“That’s not going to work,” I whispered, because the implications were painful.
Tom leaned over to look at my pictures then scrolled through, brow knotted.
“It is going to work, and you’re going to stay by Tom until I can get Carlos there to watch you.”
I wanted to tell him I had a camera full of head-to-toes of Brad Sinclair and I couldn’t sell one of them, thank you very much. But why would he care? He’d made his position clear.
“Can you not tell anyone else right now? Can you not make implications on talk shows? Can you respect my privacy? And do not even start to pick that apart because you will be as sorry as I am right now.”
“Are you apologizing for being a pap?”