Star Crossed: A Hollywood Romance

by Reiss, CD

  “No!” I said. “Not really.” I took a deep breath. “Maybe.”

  “If you stay at Tom’s place until Carlos meets you, I will be as silent as the grave.”

  My first reaction was to thank him, but I bit it back.

  “We have a date,” he said before I could think of something to say. “I’ll see you then.”

  He hung up. I stuck the phone between my leg and the seat.

  “These suck,” Tom said.

  “They’re worthless.” I snapped the laptop shut and started the car. “Am I driving you to your car, or did my nurse mother demand you be in arm’s reach?”

  “I am to be physically present at all times. Can you tell me what happened? Because I didn’t think you saw those guys anymore.”

  I pulled out. “I didn’t see them. They saw me in the LA Post. Who even knew they could read.”

  “Ah, and what did he want?”

  “Money. What else?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Do you remember the pictures? Those fucking pictures?” I slammed the heel of my hand on the steering wheel. He reddened, and I turned onto the 110. “Well, they have them.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I put up my hand. “No! Don’t even. Those pictures saved my life.” I counted events on my fingers. “You leaving your camera at my house, Jake and them taking pictures of what was happening, you developing them and shoving them in my face… that… Saved. My. Life. But me leaving them there when I split? That was stupid. Damn stupid.” I banged my hand on the wheel again.

  I pulled off in Pasadena. Tom lived in a nondescript apartment building off Lake, and I knew the way by heart.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  I’d spent little time asking myself that because I already knew the answer. “Pay them.”

  “You? You never give in to shit like this. You don’t care what anyone thinks, and you don’t get bullied. What happened to you?”

  I guessed there was a reason I kept Tom around. He didn’t let me get away with anything, and he didn’t soft-pedal it. I’d done plenty wrong in my life, and though I rarely wanted to hear about it when I did it, Tom let me know every time.

  This time, however, I didn’t want to defend myself.

  “Leave me alone.” I pulled up in front of his building.

  “No, I’m not going to leave you—”

  I slammed the car into park. “Leave. Me. Alone.”

  “Do you even know how much they want?”

  “I don’t care.” I gathered my things. Laptop. Camera. Bag.

  “But you’re just going to pay it?”

  “Yes.” I got out of the car and thumped the door closed. I walked up to the curb and toward the front doors of his building as if I wanted to be there. As if I was storming the gate to a golden city when in fact I was just changing the subject with my feet.

  “Laine, come on, man.” He jangled his keys. “What is this?”

  “Would you want those pictures out? Two guys on me in crystal-clear black and white? Mascara all over my face. Socks on. Naked bodies everywhere. Do you remember them?”

  “I’m not going to forget them,” he said softly. “I don’t want people looking at you, but I can’t believe you’re just caving because you’re afraid of what Michael Greydon will think of you. I mean, that’s the reason, isn’t it?”

  “I’m ashamed of everything about this. But he doubled down today. On television. What am I supposed to do? Let the world know he’s with a whore?”

  “You’re not—”

  “What’s it matter what you think of me? If everyone thinks I’m a biker’s fuckdoll, I am. And his career depends on what people think of him.”

  He jangled his keys and found the one he needed. He wanted to say something, I could see it, but he was holding back.

  “It’s not like it’s serious,” I said. “I mean, we’re doomed from the start. But for as long as it lasts, it’s mine. And I don’t want Jake the Pillow Snake killing it. Let it die of natural causes.”

  “Are you going to see him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  I glared at him. He’d been pushed around constantly by Jake and his buddies, but Tom was brave, the poor sad sack. Brave and stupid.

  “Miss Cartwright?” A six-foot-four solid wall of man in a navy suit approached from a black Chevy SUV that was as big as a bus.

  “You must be Carlos,” I said, glad to be rescued from telling Tom he couldn’t go with me.

  We shook hands.

  “I’m here to watch you,” he said, “not to get in your way. If you tell me where you are at all times, I won’t have to.”

  He said it so cleanly and professionally, it didn’t ruffle any of my feathers. That was a talent.

  “You coming in?” Tom asked, opening the door.

  Carlos held open the door. “That’s what I was hired to do.” He smiled, big and wide. He could have been an actor himself. Of course, Hollywood couldn’t tolerate even the slightly unattractive.

  I realized I would have a hard time taking care of my business with Jake whether Tom interfered or not.

  Deep breath. I could figure it out. I had to.

  * * *

  I didn’t know when I became so dedicated to making Michael and me happen, or at least, not sabotaging the thing entirely. Probably when he fell asleep on me and the world outside stopped mattering. Or when he took me to his secret place. Or maybe when he tried so hard to protect me that I felt the need to step in and protect him.

  Carlos was a pretty unobtrusive shadow, sitting outside Tom’s apartment as I inspected every picture of Randee and her band. We broke down his retouch technique to the last pixel. Only when the woman herself showed up did I leave, and in the darkness, with the bus of a car behind me, I wondered what I was doing with my night, and I missed Michael.

  I should have been out chasing something, someone, making myself available for an opportunity to make money. I didn’t want to cross him or his friends again, and the phone wasn’t ringing no matter how hard I stared at it. I could call Kill Photo, but why take two steps back if I didn’t have to?

  Could I continue to work with Michael, for however long it lasted? And if I wasn’t a paparazza, what was I? Who was I?

  I opened the silverware drawer, and I stared at me in poorly fixed black and white, scratching for a cigarette, pain everywhere down below. How hard had it been for Tom to develop this carefully enough to do an exposure test? And the rest of the pictures, where that shirt was pulled up and the sheet wasn’t covering what was between my spread legs, how hard had those been to work on? How hard would they be for Michael to see? Would he ever look at me again?

  I knew Jake’s number. I just had to call him and ask him how much for the pictures. It didn’t have to be more than that.

  I sat on the edge of my bed and dialed four digits before another call came in. It was Michael.

  “Hi,” I said, relieved to put off Jake for the moment.

  “Hey, I hear Carlos got there?”

  “Am I supposed to feed him or something?” I lay back on the bed, suddenly relaxed, as if I had permission to not worry about anything.

  “His partner will come relieve him. You’re not supposed to even know he’s there.”

  “Okay.”

  “About before?”

  “You being a jerk?” I creased the sheets in my fingers, making a sharp edge of the fold. I caressed it against my knuckles

  “That.”

  “You get a do-over.”

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  I could almost feel his breath on my ear.

  “You’re not working?” he asked.

  “No, you?”

  “I’m at a thing. A boring thing.”

  “It’s quiet,” I said.

  “That’s how boring it is.”

  “You should come here.”

  “Ah, Laine, what I’d do…”

  �
�What would you do?” It must have been the touch of the sheets and the dim light that made me ask. Or maybe it was the silence on his end.

  “Kiss you, of course. But everywhere. Every inch of skin. I want to taste it.”

  “Oh.” I had nothing more articulate. He’d never said anything like that to me, and the pleasant shock went right between my legs. “Michael…”

  “Laine, the next time I see you… I’m taking you. I mean it. And then that’s it. You’re mine. I’m not kidding.”

  Voices came through the phone. Background noise, as if they’d entered the room.

  “Tell me you heard me,” he said.

  “I heard you.”

  “What did I say?”

  “You want me.”

  “What else?”

  “God, I’m so turned on I can barely think.”

  “Good. I have to go. Let Carlos stay close. See you tomorrow night.”

  The line went dead, but I felt like an electrified fence. I was supposed to call Jake. Wasn’t that what I had been doing? But I couldn’t. Not while I could feel my underpants rubbing against me. The last person I should talk to in that state was Jake.

  I stuck my hand in my panties. I was soaked from only a few words. Everything was wrong. Everything stood between Michael and me, but my body wanted an uninterrupted night with him. More than wanted it. My reaction was a response to need.

  I closed my eyes and imagined him above me, groaning my name, unaware of anything around him but my body. I imagined him breathing in harsh gasps as he came, and my fingers moved enough for me to come with him, even though he wasn’t there.

  My hand cupped my ache as it built again. I wasn’t making another call, and I wasn’t accepting one. I fell asleep basking in the warm promise of him.

  26

  laine

  I knew Michael was taking me to a movie, and that meant jeans and nice shoes, a short leather jacket, and hair thrown up in a nest. Not a big deal. But a short phone conversation with Phoebe shook me from my fog of stupidity.

  “Big Girls premieres Tuesday,” she said. “It’s huge.”

  I sat on my balcony overlooking the newly gentrified street and threw back my head. I knew that. Nothing premiered in that town without my knowing, and somehow, I’d let that star-studded bit of Oscar bait drop from my radar.

  “He would have told me,” I said, bending at the waist until I was in crash position.

  “Unless he thought you already knew. I mean, with him starring in it and all.”

  “This is going to be very public, Phoebe.”

  “What are you wearing?” she asked.

  “They’ll all be there.”

  “Laine?”

  “This is it. It’s all over.”

  “Laine?”

  “I’m not going,” I said.

  “I have a few hours before I leave for Vegas. Meet me at Grandview.”

  When I saw Phoebe fingering a lacy thing in the dress department, I knew something was wrong. She was too sharp a woman, too crystal clear and energetic for that faraway dreamy look.

  “Phoebe?”

  “Would you show me this one?” The height of the rack prevented her from getting the dress off herself, and she’d probably shooed away three salesgirls already.

  I pulled the cream, floor-length lace dress off the rack, and she stared not at it but through it.

  “What?” I said.

  “It’s nice.”

  “Not my style.”

  “I have to get a wedding dress,” she said.

  “You’re not getting off-the-rack at Grandview. Sorry.” I clicked the hanger back in place.

  “Laine,” she said, as if what was coming was hard, as if it had been eating at her. “We need to talk.”

  I sat on a leather chair next to the rack. “Okay?”

  “You can’t be in the bridal party.”

  “Why not?” She’d picked me as the maid of honor because she didn’t have any sisters. We’d talked about dresses and responsibilities. I mean, maybe a demotion for whatever reason, but to be cut out completely? “What did I do?”

  “Nothing. You’re my best friend. Ever since you tripped over me running after Rabine Johnansen. You know why? Because you laughed and helped me up. You’ve never treated me like a handicapped person, but you’ve never ignored it either. So this is the thing. The happiest day of my life is in six months, and I want something else. I want it to be different.”

  I had the feeling from her run up that she wasn’t cutting me out of the bridal party as much as she was letting me into something else. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Wedding pictures are forever, and I don’t want them to be ugly. If it’s just the usual thing, me and Rob under a trellis, I’m going to hate them. All I’ll have of this day for the rest of my life will be the pictures, and I don’t want them to look like an excuse, or half done, or fall short of the norm. Everything about it has to be different. Can you do that for me? Can you… I don’t want a photographer. Can you not be the photographer? Can you be the documenter? I’ll pay you anything.”

  “You want me to photograph your wedding?”

  “Yes. And I need that one hundred percent. So you’d be off the bridesmaid list.”

  What was I supposed to say? “No, Phoebe, I think wedding photographers are failures.” Or, “Sorry, that doesn’t fit in with my vision of myself”? Besides the fact that would be rude and break her heart, besides the fact that our friendship might not recover from such a rejection, I had to be honest with myself.

  The idea was kind of exciting.

  “I need complete creative freedom,” I said. “You go all bossy lawyer on me, and I’m just going to drink and dance all night.”

  She slapped her hands over her mouth. “You’ll do it?” she said from behind her fingers.

  “I need full access to every step of this, so get Rob and your brothers on board. They can’t get on my case to make it boring and normal.”

  “Yes. Anything.”

  “I can’t guarantee you’ll look like a model.”

  “No, no, the point is that it’s real. And beautiful but—”

  “Beautiful because it’s real. I know. I get it.”

  “I’m so happy, I can’t… this is better than… god. You have a date with Michael Greydon! What am I doing?” She wheeled her chair back. “All the stars wear boring black. You need a color.”

  27

  laine

  I own Hollywood. I own the dark corners and littered curbs. The shattered bottles, the half-full fast food containers, the broken toilets and ripped mattresses at the curb for months, they’re as much a part of me as the spotlights crisscrossing the sky, the cobblestones of Rodeo, the Bentleys, and the private parties. Nothing shocks or scares me. I have never been star struck. Never at a loss for words. Never intimidated by the rich, the powerful, the glamorous any more than the destitute, the filthy, or the criminal.

  How can you fear what you own?

  How can you be intimidated by what’s inside yourself? By a city that nursed you to adulthood?

  How?

  * * *

  Looking out the window, I watched a limo pull into a loading zone on the nose of four thirty. A driver got out and let Michael out of the back. Carlos met him at the car and walked him to the front door.

  I felt as if I were going to the prom. Not that I knew what that was like. I’d skipped that whole stage of life in favor of hanging out with drug-dealing dirtbags.

  For Phoebe, it had come down to pink or yellow, and I’d thrown my hands up and gone with a pink dress. If I was going to be pretty and feminine, I was going all the way. Tight skirt, with lace overlay, that fell just above the knee. Sleeveless bodice with a scooped neck that was still modest and a shawl in a slightly deeper shade. Then shoes, and new stockings, and a matching hairpin, all of which had almost landed Phoebe late for a meeting with the SVP of Overland Studio.

  “You look terrible,” I said when Michael reach
ed my door, because he looked perfect in a dark suit and tie. His black eye was still uncovered by a stitch of makeup, as if he was as proud of the wound as he would have been if he’d won the fight.

  “Turn around,” he said, looking at my body as if I wore nothing but the shawl and a smile. “Let me see this rag you bought.”

  “I knew you hated pink.” I turned for him until I could only feel his eyes on me, rather than see them. “That’s why I got it.”

  He put his hand on my waist and his lips on the back of my neck. “I can’t even see the dress. Just the woman in it.”

  “Michael, I…” I drifted into a groan when he moved his hand from my waist to my breast, the edge of his thumb finding where I was most sensitive. I was about to tell him how long it had been since I’d been with a man and unzip exactly as much baggage as I needed to, but I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember what I had been trying to say.

  “We have to go.” He stepped back, and I turned around.

  “I lied before.”

  “You thought I liked pink?”

  “I know you like pink,” I said. “But you don’t look terrible. You are obscenely handsome. It’s not fair to all the other men in the world.”

  He drew his finger across my collarbone. “Lock the door behind you.”

  I did. Carlos waited by the elevator and stood silently by us as we put our backs to the elevator car wall, holding hands. Michael drew his thumb along the side of my hand, and I shuddered. Even that simple touch was electric.

  “You were on Jack Rambling’s show,” I said.

  “How did I look?”

  “Like you were blasting a secret all over town without telling me first.”

  “It was a spur of the moment thing. I’m not usually impulsive. I had a simple joke set up, and then, I don’t know.”

  I turned to look at him. He watched me, and I knew he was being honest. I couldn’t be angry, even though I should have been about both Brad and the show.

  When the elevator doors opened, I realized why I couldn’t be angry.