by Antony John
37
I TELL THE TAXI DRIVER TO pull over a block from Beverly Gardens Park. The green Mazda continues a short distance, and stops. My stalker is probably calling Brian right now, letting him know that I just visited Maggie. I can’t even warn her.
I hide behind the canopy of a cypress. Fifty yards away a sign spells Beverly Hills in golden letters. There’s a hum from the traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard across the park.
In the glow from the streetlamp I see the guy emerge: jeans and black hoodie, curly hair sticking out beneath a baseball cap. He heads in my direction, eyes flitting from left to right as though he’s the one being pursued.
Someone’s running along the gravel path in the middle of the park. I don’t want to take my eyes off my pursuer, but the rapid footsteps are growing louder. Too late, it occurs to me that they might be Gant’s footsteps.
My brother slows up as he approaches the sign. His hood is down, face visible because he wants me to see him.
What if my pursuer recognizes Gant? He’ll report back to Brian and Ryder that my brother is still around. Without the element of surprise, there’s no way Gant will be able to break into the office.
Thankfully the guy is focused on tracking me. He’s closing in too.
Gant comes to a complete stop and the park falls silent. That’s what finally gets the guy’s attention. He turns slowly to check out the figure by the Beverly Hills sign. Pulls out his phone and touches the screen, illuminating his face. Gant, the most innocent of several innocent victims, turns toward the light, unaware that he’s looking directly into the eyes of our enemy.
Instinct takes over. The guy doesn’t see me coming, doesn’t even hear me until I’m a yard away. As he turns I throw myself at him, feel the crack of bone against bone, and the wind driven from his lungs as he crashes to the ground. His phone clatters away.
He sweeps his arms across the ground, grasping for his phone. I keep him pinned down, though, and he can’t reach it. He grunts with each shallow breath.
“I’m done, you hear me?” I growl. “I’m done.”
He continues to slap at the ground, fingers inches from his phone. “No, you ain’t. Not until he says so.”
“You can tell Brian to go to hell!”
“Who’s Brian? I ain’t heard of no Brian.”
“Then who are you talking about?”
When he doesn’t answer, I wrench his arm. “Kris,” he cries.
My chest tightens. “Kris and I are working together.”
“Uh-uh. You working for Kris, but he ain’t working for you. Don’t trust you. Not since you got in with Sabrina.”
“He told you to follow me?”
“No, man. Told me to follow her. But she’s in rehab now, so I’m on to you instead.” He hisses through closed teeth. “And you ain’t behaving like you’re innocent.”
He makes a sharp movement, but I jam my knee into the base of his spine. His cry carries across the park.
“How did you text me? Kris didn’t even know my number.”
“Sure he did. That producer guy gave him all your numbers, soon as they started talking.”
“So, what—you were trying to scare me?”
“No man. I was trying to wake you up. Kris said you’re like a racing dog with blinders on—soon as you spot a rabbit, you don’t got room for nothing else. Think about it: You arrive, and things start getting weird. Sabrina sees you yesterday, and now she’s on the front page. If you ain’t the problem, you sure as hell know who is.”
A couple is heading toward us, drawn by his cry and our shadowy outlines. Two women. One pulls a cell phone from her pocket.
I’ve got more questions, but I’m not sticking around for the cops to arrive. My guess is that this guy won’t either. So I push off him and sprint for the shadows. Rejoin the gravel path beyond the sign. Keep running in the direction Gant must have gone.
Several yards ahead of me, Gant slides out from behind a tree. “What going on?” he whispers furiously.
“Forget about it. That guy won’t bother us anymore.”
“Yeah, but Brian and Ryder might.” Gant taps his pants pocket lightly to remind me about the cell phone. “Don’t worry. It’s wrapped up real tight. But we’d better get moving.”
We walk briskly along the path together. I retrieve Maggie’s key from my pocket and hand it to him. “The alarm code is two-zero-zero-one,” I say, voice low.
“Two Thousand and One: A Space Odyssey. Way to ruin the movie for me.” He grunts. “You sure we can trust her?”
I picture Maggie holding her baby, the look in her eyes as she reminded me of my promise. “Yeah.”
The lights of the Beverly Hills business district cut through the trees, beckoning us back to the madness. We keep a quick pace—important to give Brian a moving target—but I’m cold in the aftermath of the fight.
“What’s your plan?” I ask.
“I’m going to wait till after ten. No way anyone’s going to leave a New Year’s Eve party that close to midnight. Once I’m inside the office, I’ll do whatever I have to do.” He pulls a black hat from a carrier bag. “It’s a designer label,” he says. “Got to look my best when I’m breaking in.”
He wants me to smile, but I’m too worried for that. “Here,” I say, pulling bills from my wallet. “Get something to eat. I’d tell you to save some for a taxi, but you probably don’t want to take a taxi from the scene of a burglary.”
“Probably not.”
“Listen. Please take—”
“Care. Yeah, I know.” He stuffs his free hand in his pocket. “If there’s a car parked there, I bail. If anything feels weird, I bail. If a butterfly flaps its wings in China, I bail.”
“I’m serious, Gant.”
He takes out my phone and hands it to me. It’s wrapped in a dozen napkins, and feels a lot heavier than it actually is. “I know you are,” he whispers. “And I’d still prefer to break into an empty office building than deal with whatever they’ve got in store for you tonight.”
38
I PUT ON A WHITE SHIRT and blue blazer. The clothes aren’t mine, but neither is this life. Seth Crane wears jeans and acts in plays, and maybe it’s not the most extravagant lifestyle, but at least it’s real. It’s also a whole lot better than whatever Annaleigh is trying to escape.
I meet her in the lobby. She’s sitting bolt upright in a cream-colored armchair, hands resting on her knees, looking pensive. As she sees me, her expression brightens, the kind of spontaneous reaction that can’t be feigned.
She slides off the chair and approaches me. She’s wearing a light blue dress that accents her eyes, and high heels that make her legs seem endless. Dramatic black mascara is softened by a hint of blush on her cheekbones. I pull her toward me. Her dress is soft beneath my fingers.
We leave hand in hand. Hotel employees hold photographers back as we climb into a limo. A large tinted panel separates us from the driver to give the illusion of maximum privacy, but I’m not fooled. There’ll be a camera here too.
As we pull away from the curb, Annaleigh leans her head against my shoulder. Her hand drifts across my blazer and up to my face. She wants me to kiss her again, and I want to kiss her too, but not here. Not like this.
She settles for holding my hand. “I’ve made a decision,” she says. “I’m not going to let my parents mess this up for us.”
She looks so serious, like she honestly believes she can control this situation. Is this how I appeared to Kris when he accused me of being naive?
“They can still take you away,” I reply.
“Uh-uh. I called Mom. Told her, if she breaks us up, Dad won’t get a penny from me.”
Annaleigh leans back in the seat, wallowing in the beauty of her logic. Only, her parents are going to get their hands on that money no matter what. More, probably.
It’s heart
breaking to see her smile and know that the one I return is a lie. Our movie is about to wrap. We are, it turns out, real-life star-crossed lovers, staring at the final curtain when we should be celebrating our moment of triumph.
The party is in Hollywood, in a place that resembles a European castle. Even the manicured vines suffocating the white walls look painted on. It’s Jane Austen meets Disney, a building disguised as a movie set.
The limo door is still closed when the camera flashes start. Not just a few either, but a blinding assault. Evidently America has seen the photo of us and realized that we had sex. It makes our story even more irresistible.
Annaleigh squeezes my knee. “I’m ready to show America the most handsome boy in Hollywood. And you should know better than to keep your date waiting.”
We press through the gaggle of photographers and into the building. A server meets us at the door and hands us drinks—some fruity punch that makes me feel like I’m twelve. I gulp it down and hand the empty glass back to her.
Annaleigh follows my lead. Even forces out a belch. “Strong stuff,” she says.
“It should be. Made from one hundred percent concentrate.”
“What it is to be rich and famous.”
We move from the lobby to the main hall, where a live DJ provides thumping music. Lights rotate above us, bright and disorientating. Nearby couples, talking loudly, are having fun. Several of the teens seem familiar from the party at Machinus, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence. Maybe they’ve been paid to be here, extras in a drama more convoluted than they can possibly imagine.
As Annaleigh pulls me in for a kiss, a flash goes off just in front of us.
“Can you do that again?” asks the photographer, a woman with spiked blond hair. “I was late on the shot.”
Annaleigh frowns. “Uh, no, thank you.”
The woman stops us as we turn away. “I’m Kira,” she says. “From the magazine. We’re running that feature about your relationship—life imitating art. I’m shadowing you, remember?”
Annaleigh grips my hand tighter, an anxious expression darkening her face. I rub my thumb across the back of her hand to soothe her. I have no idea if Kira works for a magazine and if there’s a feature. Doesn’t matter. Chances are, this is just the beginning of the evening’s surprises, and Brian and Ryder need to see that we’re playing along.
Kira raises the camera again, but Annaleigh covers her eyes. Kira gives her a moment to reconsider this move, and leans closer so that the couples eavesdropping only a few yards away won’t hear. “I’m sorry you didn’t know I’ll be with you tonight, but I will be photographing you, and I will be talking to you, and I do expect you to answer my questions.”
“No comment,” replies Annaleigh.
Kira bristles, but recovers her poise with a deep breath. “Seems like you’re buying into your own hype already. Think you own Hollywood.” She runs her tongue across bright white teeth. “Make no mistake, though—tonight, I own you.”
Kira raises the camera and snaps a dozen photos in rapid succession. She works smoothly and efficiently, which makes me think she’s a real photographer. But her words remind me of Brian. If she’s here to babysit us and keep us in line, where the hell are Brian and Ryder?
“You look tense, Seth,” Kira remarks. She pulls out a tiny recording device. “It must be hard to comprehend everything that’s happened to you. From community theater to a motion picture. Rags to riches.”
It’s an invitation to open up, but she’s not getting that from me. She can have all the photos she wants, but she can’t make me talk.
Annaleigh pulls me onto the dance floor and wraps her arms around me. I can’t focus, though. My eyes dart around, searching for movie cameras. They must be here somewhere, forever focused on us, capturing every second.
“Hey.” Annaleigh cups my chin. “I’m sick of being watched all the time. If that’s the way it is, so be it. But I’m going to be me tonight. And I want you to be you.” She moves so that we’re cheek to cheek. Her breath is warm against my ear, voice just the slightest bit husky. “I like being with you, Seth, and I don’t care who knows it.”
We kiss. I run my hand over the bare skin of her neck and rest my thumb against her cheek. When I close my eyes, the camera flash pulses through my eyelids. I don’t want to think of these photos, or the movie cameras filming in secret somewhere. I just want to enjoy the feeling of being with her, and kissing her, because I’m so afraid it can’t last.
Finally, we ease apart. Annaleigh smiles sheepishly. “I think Kira got her money’s worth.”
“I’m kind of hoping the camera wasn’t working. It’d be nice to do another take.”
“Party’s over at one, right? Less than four hours to go.”
“Works for me.” I feel myself reddening. “By the way, you might want to fix your lip gloss. I think I kind of messed it up.”
“Five minutes with you and I’m a hot mess.” She taps me on the nose with her finger. “I’ll be right back.”
She takes off for the women’s restroom. Kira follows her, snapping photos the whole way. I make my way toward the nearest server. A few steps later, someone grabs my shoulder.
“Seth!” booms Brian. His hand is like an anchor. “Come and have a chat.”
He leads me toward a booth in the far corner. It’s not hard to guess why he chose this table to spy on us.
“Sorry we’re late,” says Tracie. “We didn’t want to steal your spotlight.”
“This is your night,” agrees Brian. “Just you and Annaleigh. The gossip sites say she’s really into you.”
My hands are fists under the table. “You shouldn’t have put out that photo of us.”
“And you should remember how many more we have lined up. And how much footage we have of you and Annaleigh from last night. You want Ryder to edit this stuff tastefully, right?”
“You’re a pervert.”
“Uh-uh. I hardly looked at any of it. It’s the people who buy the magazines that are messed up.” Brian takes a sip of his drink. “Come on, you know the drill: No market, no sale. We’re all victims of capitalism, really.”
“Sure we are.”
I try to stand, but he digs his fingers into my quad. Pain flares across my leg. “I don’t trust you, Seth.”
“I wonder why.”
“You’re not going to say something stupid in front of Annaleigh, are you? Try to bring us all down? ’Cause I’ve got to tell you, she looks radiant tonight. You ought to enjoy her while you can.”
My phone starts vibrating. Not a surprise under usual circumstances, but this is different. Annaleigh is here at the party, and so are Brian and Ryder and Tracie. The only other people who might call me are Kris or Gant. Either way, it’ll spell trouble.
I slide the phone from my pocket and glance at the screen. I’ve already prepared a nonchalant expression so they won’t know anything’s up. But I can’t keep up the illusion.
It’s Sabrina.
39
“WHO’S CALLING YOU, SETH?” TRACIE ASKS.
“Annaleigh,” I answer quickly.
“Why would Annaleigh call you from the restroom?”
I slide out of the booth. “So she can speak to me without Kira and the whole world hearing.”
Tracie returns an icy smile. “That’s ironic. ’Cause some of the world will definitely be listening to this call later tonight.”
I walk to the bar, but don’t take the call until I’m sure I’m not being followed. Even then, I glance back to check that Brian and company aren’t eavesdropping on another device. They’re not, but Tracie isn’t kidding when she says they’ll be listening to every word later on. I have to keep this brief.
“Are you okay, Sabrina?”
“Did you tell anyone?” she asks.
There isn’t time to pretend I don’t un
derstand. “No. I swear I didn’t.”
She sighs. “I believe you. Kris was on the news earlier. Says I can finally get help now. I think he’s the one who did this.”
“Why, though?”
“Gen must’ve told him everything.”
“Gen? What are you talking about?”
“I need to see you.” Her voice is so small that I can hardly hear her. “I left the center.”
“What?” The room seems to shift around me—too much noise and activity. “Why?”
“It was claustrophobic. I need space.”
Brian and the others are still seated at the booth, but their eyes are fixed on me. Sabrina’s confiding in me again, and yet again, Brian’s going to discover everything she says.
“Hang up,” I say. “This phone’s flaking out. I’ll call you right back from a different one.”
There are dozens of people milling about. Like well-behaved extras on a movie set, they don’t interact with me, but they can’t resist stealing glances. I move out of Brian’s line of sight, and catch the eye of a young woman.
“My cell phone just died,” I tell her, “and I’ve got to make a call.”
“Okay.” She hands hers over without hesitation. It’s pretty beaten up.
“This is your phone, right?”
She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
Sabrina’s number is still branded in my memory. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. I make the call and she answers immediately.
“How did you get out of the center?” I ask.
“It’s not a prison.”
“They let you go?”
A hesitation. “I climbed a wall at the back.” Her voice cracks. “I don’t know what to do.”
So much for Kris hoping she’d get help. “Where are you?”
For a few seconds, I only hear her ragged breaths. Then: “Intersection of Laurel Canyon and Hollywood Boulevard.”
She’s at least a twenty minutes’ drive away. My mind races through different scenarios, but there’s only one that makes sense. “You’ve got to go back.”