by Lisa Gillis
A small crowd is approaching centered around a man who is clearly a celebrity of some sort. Several cell phones float in front of his face and although he keeps up a brisk pace and holds a smile, I recognize the frustration in his eyes. I’ve seen it in my parents’ eyes, plenty of times.
Randi, who I now have memory flashbacks of, heads off the crowd and links her arm with Dax.
Dax! I remember him. I last saw him in my Dad’s studio when June was a baby. Randi is speaking into his ear as they draw closer and he looks right at me, his face lighting up with a genuine smile. I understand when they continue on by without stopping to say hello, intent on getting the hell out.
Gripping my luggage, I drag it along, watching as the entourage disappears from sight.
I experience a moment of panic as a feeling more vivid than a memory resurfaces. A feeling of being trapped in the midst of a herd.
“Look around.” Emily clasps her hands.
Framed pictures, of actors and musicians, I’m assuming, cover every available space on the walls around us. I wonder if we’re supposed to be seeing someone particular. All I can see is Sash. Even when I’m not looking at her. She fills every sense.
When neither of us speaks, Emily goes on. “Remember this moment. It’s one of your last before you’re a face everyone recognizes.”
The scene with Dax at the airport unsettles me again, but I brush it off.
Sash puts on an excited face and confirms some of the details of the next day’s schedule on the set of Virtual Passe. I get to my feet and wander the room until we’re done.
When I comprehend I’m to share a ride with Sash to our hotel, I fib, saying I’m meeting someone for dinner.
“Fine. Just have the driver drop you where you want.” Emily shrugs, and then she seems to pick up on the friction buzzing between Sash and me. Her eyes narrow a bit as she scrutinizes us both.
Our relationship had been very obvious the last time we saw her. She’d questioned me about it. Actually, I suspected she’d used it to sign me when I was wavering. I remember the shrewd look in her eyes when she indicated there was no deal if we didn’t both sign on.
It crosses my mind that she might give us a warning to remain professional despite our personal feelings, but she says nothing. Pulling open the door to her office suite, she sees us out.
“I’ve got another ride.” I hold firmly to the fib once Sash and I are inside the elevator.
I’m staring at the numbered discs, remembering how happy we’d been the last time we were enclosed in this space.
“I thought we would talk.” Sash is clearly disappointed. She speaks low even though we’re alone.
I concentrate on not looking at her stunning reflection in the muted mirrored walls, or her in the flesh. I hold my breath as long as I can to fight the onslaught of raspberries.
“Did you get any of my messages?” She tries again.
The door glides open with a peal, and I politely gesture for her to exit when she doesn’t.
“You didn’t, did you?” She takes a couple of steps but turns back, slapping her palm on the wall to keep the doors from closing me in and her out.
A man shoulders around her and boards. When he hacks out an impatient cough, I follow Sash into the lobby.
“Who are you meeting?” She walks slightly ahead, enabling her to stare into my face, and lowers her voice so it won’t carry to the woman behind a sleek modern desk in the reception area. “Claire Cierra?”
My feet stop, pulling me up so short, I almost trip.
“I Googled you, Trey. And I get it. I do. I’m not judging you for lying about who you are.” As she speaks, the shorter layers of hair framing her face swing about, and her hand is flopping about inside her purse. “Maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to judge.”
She shoves something at me, and I look down to see my phone charger. My fingers close on it, and a shiver passes through me as her skin brushes mine in the exchange.
The plug and wiring seems heavy in my hand, and I shove it into the pocket of the hoodie I’m wearing. I watch the car drive off with Sash and use my cell to call myself another ride—a car service recommended by the flirty receptionist.
When my car pulls up, I give the driver one of the few L.A. addresses I know that isn’t the hotel we’re staying in. I’d already given my credit card over the phone, so I step out the moment the car stops in front of one of my cousin Braxton’s favorite hangouts.
I check my texts and find Brax is still twenty minutes away. The inside of the joint is dim and for now, it’s a welcome respite from the bright California sun. I ask for a table in the corner and shove my luggage out of the way, against the wall next to me. Brax likes this place because they accept his fake ID with no questions ever asked. My fake ID is tucked away in my billfold, but I didn’t come to drink. I’m here to escape Sash.
She seems intent on talking, and I can’t do it right now. I’m still too weak. I’m desperate to have her back, and desperate people clutch at straws.
She’s wrong about me being judgmental. It’s the opposite. I love her. I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. I’ll be a fool for her. I’m still hurt and angry. But there’s a huge hole in my world and filling it with the sunshiny gold of her voice and the raspberry of her presence is all I think about lately.
“Hey, man!” Brax punches my arm as he passes and takes a seat.
I realize I’ve been thinking of Sash for twenty straight minutes. It’s a surprise to see a soft drink and nachos on the table. I barely remember ordering. Much less the food arriving.
My cousin and I catch up. It fascinates him that I defied my parents about college and basically ran away. Other than a couple of incidents he dragged me into over the summers, I’ve been a boring geek. His words. I fill him in on the band and he thumps me again.
“You lucky son of a bitch. Just remember me. All I’m asking for is your leftover snatch.”
I grin because that’s just how Brax is. But a few minutes later when Sash’s name leaves his shit-talking lips, I stiffen, prepared to return one of those punches he dishes out—but not in a playful way.
“Sash. Even her name is hot.”
“You still with Hilary or Heather—what was her name?” I force a subject change.
“No. Didn’t work out. Hey, give me the four eleven on Claire Cierra.”
Hearing the name for the second time today brings a scowl to my face. “What’re you talking about?”
“Saw your prom pictures. Now that girl is smokin’”
Logically I know my mom likely texted my aunt Meg my prom pictures and Brax could have seen them. But since Sash had mentioned Claire’s name in one breath and Google in the next, I have a feeling they’re there—splashed all over the internet. I wouldn’t know if I wasn’t tagged, because I haven’t stalked myself in forever. But now I’m curious to see what Sash’s first impression of Tristan Loren was.
While Brax orders another beer and flirts with our waitress, I swipe my name into my phone browser. Among the most recent search results are images of Claire and me. Pictures taken from within the after-prom hotel suite.
Another search result catches my eye. It seems I now have my own Wikipedia entry.
Tristan Loren is the only son of Jackal’s Jack Loren Storm and groupie turned wife Marissa Duplei.
Obviously, Mom hasn’t seen this yet. Picturing her in a full-blown rage, and that little byline wording changed in one day—magically in the Loren way—makes me want to smile.
I’m no longer amused when I continue to read and find I’m romantically linked to Claire. I suddenly want to get my hands on the Loren magic wand.
I’ve lived this crap off and on for my entire life. Am I ready to make it my life? What makes me think I can handle life in the public eye when my dad couldn’t?
Chapter 55
Whys and Hows
“Why are we even talking about this?” Marissa balled her hands into fists as she yelled, and Jack knew it was
an action to keep from throwing something at him. “Why haven’t you just done it already?”
“You know I want nothing more than to sic a rabid pack of lawyers on her and that label.” He kept to his side of their bedroom. Mariss had never hit him since that night in the strip club so long ago, but the fury on her face at times like this made him wary. “Mariss, J.J. doesn’t know he was singled out because of who he is.”
“I don’t care! He can deal with it. The woman is evil and I don’t trust her!”
“Our lawyers have been all over that contract. It’s actually a decent deal. I don’t trust her either. So, I’ve got my own little contract with her now. To keep her legit. She signed it because she knows it would be bad publicity if we drag the label she reps down with a lawsuit for something like this.”
He explained everything, hoping to put her mind at ease. That the legal jargon about a stage name wouldn’t hold up in court if they pushed the fact that J.J. hadn’t used his legal name to sign. He also sought to convince her that bringing a case using the signature of a wrong name would likely damage J.J.’s future credibility in the entertainment industry.
“Mariss, the reason J.J. ran off was to do something on his own merit. And damned if that evil bitch hasn’t screwed that up by signing him because of who he is.” Sometimes when his pulse began to pound in anger, he panicked; although he’d been reassured his heart was strong again. “I don’t want him to take the hit of finding out this was everything he didn’t want. Not now. I know he’ll probably figure it out at some point—remember her. But I hope by then he’s confident in his success.”
“How did she find him? When we couldn’t?” She sank to the bed and fell back in a resigned pose.
“She wasn’t looking. He fell right into her lap.” This part irritated the hell out of him to think about. Especially when he remembered the YouTube videos, in which he was looking at J.J. himself and didn’t know it. “As I understand it, a member of one of the bands on the label recognized him with Splynter at a show… mentioned it to her.”
“Who?”
“Wesley Tricks.”
Jack had enough sources in all regions of the music world to ask a few questions and find a lot of answers when he wanted. As it turned out, Reed’s current band’s manager was beer buddies with one of the execs in the label Emma worked for.
“Trixie Too.” Mariss didn’t pose it as a question. She let the band name roll off her tongue with disgust. I hate that guy.”
Jack wanted to growl, thinking of the guy, now when he was reminded why Mariss hated him. They’d mingled at the same function a few years back. Within the first five minutes of talking to Mariss, Tricks had brought up her short, lingerie modeling career and gone on to say he was sure she was still hot enough to model after having a baby. The baby at the time being June.
He shook the past away when she directed the conversation back the present. Their son.
“I understand you not wanting to bust up his bubble. But what happens later if he finds out? Won’t he feel like we betrayed him?”
“That’s a chance I’m willing to take. I’m tired of seeing him beat down. First over Gabbi. Now over this other girl. He needs this. Needs to live this confidence boost.”
“I know.” She blew out her breath and it seemed to make her deflate before his eyes. “So this Sash is married for sure? The background check was right?”
“James had the marriage certificate faxed. And then he corresponded with someone at the county level to make sure no separation or divorce was hung up in the system.”
Her eyes reddened, and he moved around the bed to sit down, pulling her down with him. “I wonder what happened. How it happened between them?”
“He’s not talking about it yet, Mariss.” He played in the tips of her hair as he recollected a couple of nights ago in the studio when he’d tried to get J.J. to get things off his chest. “But he’s getting through it.”
“Yeah. But he has to be around her now. He’s tied to her with that damn record contract.”
“It’s gonna be fine, Mariss. He comes from good stock. I happen to know his mother has been through some tough shit and is stronger for it. And his dad, well his father loved a woman for the longest… and in the end, things worked out…”
Chapter 56
Keyless Entries
Arrivals
Gate 27 Dallas, TX
“Trey Duplei.” I use the name legitimately for the first time ever. The right paperwork had made it a stage name. The man at the hotel front desk turns away and begins tapping into a computer.
From now on, when associated with Splynter, I am Trey Duplei. I wonder if there will come a time when I won’t be using the name to check in. If it will become so well known, that like Jack Storm and Beau Jax, I’m reserved into hotels under a different assumed name than the assumed name.
“Do you have the key app on your phone?”
“The what?” I’d eventually drunk a couple of beers with Brax, and I wonder if I’ve suddenly become a lightweight. I don’t understand what I’m hearing.
“We don’t use key cards on that floor anymore.” He passes an index type card over the counter with what appears to be step-by-step illustrated instructions. “It takes less than two minutes and you’re set for the rest of your stay, and every time in the future when you visit, you won’t even have to stop here to check in.”
I’m slightly annoyed, but curious. I download the app as instructed and look to see that my Bluetooth is on. I turn down help with my luggage and make my way to the room. The latch turns and the door swings in without a keycard. A little distrusting of this new technology, I roll my suitcase in and turn back. I step into the hallway, letting the door fall shut and menu through my phone to turn the Bluetooth off.
I test the door and find it locked. Swiping the setting back on, I reach out and easily open the door. Still not entirely convinced this is safe, I move to the door across the hall. Gently, in case the experiment fails and the door actually opens, I push on the latch. It remains secure. Feeling better about this keyless crap, I pivot back to my own door and jump when the door I’ve just tried clicks open.
Prepared to do some explaining to an angry guest, I paste a smile on my face and swing back.
Sash curves a smile and lifts a brow as she leans against her door. “Looking for me?”
“Damn, Sash. You scared me. This keyless thing. I was just making sure…” I trail off because it’s physically painful to talk to her as if we’re friends.
“Yeah. Sladen, Mark, and I did the same thing.”
At the mention of Mark, I feel my brows come together. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Really?” She pushes off the door and advances into the hall. “Look. I don’t know if you STILL haven’t listened to my messages or if you have and you’re a dick. Either way, I’m giving you tonight. And that’s it, Trey. If you’re not knocking on my door by breakfast tomorrow, then fuck off. Out of my life for good!” She’s backing up the entire time she’s yelling, and the door slams, punctuating her ultimatum.
“I’d listen to the messages, man.”
My head whips around at Mark’s voice. He’s coming down the hall, and he makes a graceful exit—keylessly—into a room a couple of doors down.
My stomach churns as I enter my room again. I know the queasy feeling is because I’ve made a horrible mistake in shutting her out. I’ve hurt me. I’ve hurt her. I’ve put us through four weeks of hell because I ignored a voicemail plea to please let her explain.
She’s the married one. I’m not sure how it’s all on me now. But instinctively I know it is.
Kneeling, I rip the zipper open and feel around until I find the phone. Although I haven’t been able to make myself see what secrets it held, I couldn’t leave it behind either. I dig the charger Sash gave me from my hoodie pocket, fit it into the phone, and plug it into an outlet.
I walk to the window and stare at the dark skyline while it powers u
p.
At last, I turn to stare at the blinking device. Reaching to the bed, I grab my current phone instead. Tucking it into my pocket, I exit the room and go directly across the hall.
Sash answers my knock almost immediately and her gaze skims my face.
I rove my gaze over her features, trying to read her as well, and the seconds tick by in this standoff until I speak. “I don’t want to see this in some text or hear it in a voicemail. I want to hear it straight from you.”
She steps back, silently inviting me in and then begins to clean up the remains of what looks like pizza. I wait until she stills her nervous energy.
“I tried to tell you once before, you know. About his VISA.”
“What does marrying him have to do with his VISA?”
“Everything! He’s a great student. He was in the middle of his third semester, and they were going to make him go back! It wasn’t right. And I just wanted to help make it right.”
Her eyes are tearing up as she watches me, imploring me to understand. But I’m more confused now than I ever was. She sniffles a couple of times as she waits and then brings her hand up to dab at her nose.
“He’s a good guy. I know you haven’t seen his best, but he is. And he’s had a hard life. His country’s not easy.”
An inkling of understanding dawns, clearing the blot of misunderstanding from my mind. “What VISA are you talking about? Fuck! When you told me that before, I thought you meant you loaned him money.”
She shakes her head ever so slightly in confusion.
“I thought you were talking VISA as in a credit card!” I brace my hands on a chair in front of me as I consider this development. “You married him so he could stay in the country?”
Her chin moves in a nod, and she disappears in the bathroom area long enough to come out with a long strip of toilet tissue. “I know it’s wrong to fake a marriage. But it seemed wronger, what was happening to him.” She wipes at her nose and tosses the tissue into the wastebasket.