by Alex Hayes
After dining on fresh leftovers—if there is such a thing—I shower and change into black cargo pants and a warm jacket. I may live in California, but the winter damp can chill.
I grab a coffee from Sacred Grounds and head for the evening’s stakeout. If I’m lucky, I’ll spot my mystery girl. And if I do?
Guess I’m going to have to stride up to her and do some talking.
Idris Williams arrives at Ron Bradley’s brown and gray, two-story contemporary at twenty to ten. The place has been hopping for over an hour, while vehicles overflow from the three-car-wide driveway and out into the road.
Williams pulls his Beemer up under a streetlight, a hundred yards or so down the manicured street edged with ice plants and citrus trees.
I feel that gentle resonance in my chest again and squint at the windshield, hoping he has company.
Nah, no one there but him. Which makes me wonder why my crystal continues to pick something up. Some residual imprint on him from the girl, maybe.
The sensation I’m feeling can’t be a warning like I first thought. My mystery girl was terrified. Although, the scorch marks on my apartment door and the red-hot doorknob are a testament to the harm she could have done me if she hadn’t been freaking out.
Williams strides up the sidewalk. He’s a good-looking guy, even by Hollywood standards. Biracial. Medium build. Solid features and a decent physique. His face is relaxed, and his well-coordinated moves denote confidence rather than ego.
I snap a few pictures from my hangout under a couple of palm trees by a white van with a deejay spin logo.
He slows as he draws closer and his head turns my way. I pull behind the van. A quick peek shows him shaking his head and walking on.
The volume of music and laughter rise as light from the front door welcomes him inside. A blonde appears and lets out an excited squeal. She probably has a few cocktails in her already. She envelops Williams in a hug, then grabs his arm and draws him into the crowd.
“Hey, dude. What’s going down?”
I suck in a breath and swing in the direction of that voice. A frown squeezes between my eyes at the unwelcome sight of Bill Danvers, wearing sunglasses.
At night?
Danvers is an okay photog on Ryker’s payroll who’d be a lot better if he dropped fifty pounds and learned to hustle. A successful paparazzo needs to be able to keep up with his target and stay ahead of the swarm.
Not that I condone harassment or any kind of serious pursuit. We may be on the lowest rung of the photo industry status ladder, but that doesn’t mean we have to be assholes.
Except to each other.
“What do you want, Danvers?”
He’s a red-faced guy. High blood pressure, though I’d have to touch him to confirm that, and I’ve no desire to do so.
He shrugs. “Just cruising around and noticed you staked out. Anyone interesting?”
Does he seriously think I’d tell him if there were?
“A chick I was thinking about dating. Figured I’d stalk her for a while before I ask her out.” There’s possibly more truth to that lie than I’m willing to admit. Even to myself. Except, my girl doesn’t seem to be here.
“Uh-huh,” Danvers responds, turning his attention to his phone.
Can he even read it through those stupid glasses?
Jaw clenching, I move to the rear corner of the disc jockey van. The spot provides me a clear view of the wide front windows of Ron Bradley’s house. Heads shift around. I recognize Williams’ crop of top curls. The blonde joins him, fresh cocktail in hand.
By 11:30, I’m leaning against the deejay vehicle, eyes ready to roll into the back of my head.
Couples have come and gone. I’ve taken a few shots, but there’s no one worth wasting more than a few megabytes of SD storage.
The front door opens. The blonde who greeted Idris Williams totters unsteadily down the front steps.
Williams follows, closing the door behind him, then hurries to catch up to her as she staggers. “Hey, Nicole. You didn’t drive here, did you?” He grabs her elbow.
She giggles. I don’t need to know her to know what she is. My guess is she’s got him right where she wants him by making him feel responsible for her well-being.
She stumbles and Williams grabs her arm. Once contact is made, she lurches into him.
Yeah, seen that maneuver before. High heels make a great excuse.
“Guess I shouldn’t have worn these shoes tonight,” she says, right on cue.
“Careful, now.” He hooks an arm around her shoulders, guiding her. “Maybe you should wait here while I get my car.”
He makes a move to prop her against the back of a black Lexus, but she shakes her head. “I’ll come with you.” She stumbles forward.
Williams manages to catch her before she face-plants onto the pavement.
She lets out a squeal and rocks into him, swinging her arms around his neck.
Uh-huh. Another play.
I snap a series of action shots more out of habit than interest. The celebrity rags love images like these if one or both parties is in a relationship with someone else. Preferably a celebrity someone else.
Hopefully, Williams is onto this Nicole, if not into her.
As they walk away, I chimp through the pics. One shows his palm pressed into her chest. Ouch. It’s such a classic image, I can’t help but chuckle.
I wonder if the record producer she promised Williams ever showed up. Somehow, I doubt it.
As he helps the girl into his car, his chin lifts and he glances my way.
No transformation necessary. I’ve got to be invisible in the dark, but I freeze, nonetheless. I wait until his Beemer has driven well beyond sight, then head for my car.
“Get the shot you were after?” Still wearing those damn glasses, Danvers appears from the shadow of a fence half swallowed by a trumpet vine.
I’d forgotten he was around. “Figured I’d move on to bigger and better things.” I slide into my car and start the engine, then throw the guy a plastic smile as I pull away.
I don’t drive fast. I figure the loser will trail me. And he does. The jerk. And so is Ryker for sending him to spy on me. I cruise the streets, stop for gas and orange juice. Finally, he gets the hint I’m done for the day and drives off.
Once home, I head for my room, passing Azera’s closed door, which means she’s sleeping. She has a gig early in the morning.
I drop in front of my computer and download the day’s images. Nothing time sensitive, so I drop those worthy of interest into a shared folder for Azera to inspect and send out as she sees fit.
By now, I’m more than ready to hit the hay.
As I drift off to sleep, the scent of flowers fills my head, bringing a face to mind. The girl who lay in my bed three nights ago. The girl whose phone rests on my bedside table. The girl who knows Idris Williams.
“Connell! Wake up!”
I’m shaken rudely awake. “Huh? What?” I squint into the light, partially blocked by Azera.
“Were you having a bad dream?”
I scrub a palm across my eyes. “I don’t remember. Why?”
She stands. “You were shouting like you were in trouble or freaked out.”
“What did I say?” I mutter, still sleep-muddled.
Her brow pinches up. “Ray. You kept repeating it.”
“Weird.” I drop my head back into the pillow. “Did I wake you?”
“No, I was up already. It’s just after five.” Her frown deepens. “Seemed like you were having an intense nightmare.”
“Don’t remember anything.”
Azera shrugs. “Well, I’m leaving in a few. What’ve you got going today?”
I drop an arm across my face to shut out the light from the open doorway. More sleep is next on my agenda. “You’ll have to check the schedule.”
My desk chair creaks.
“Hmm…” she murmurs. “Who’s Idris Williams?” She must’ve spotted an article I found on the g
uy. The chair creaks again as she swivels in my direction.
“A guy whose name appeared on that girl’s phone. I thought if I could track him down, I could return it.” Not that I did, even though I found the guy, because I’d rather return the device to its owner personally.
“You think it’s worth the effort? She’s probably replaced it by now.”
I yawn. “It’s new, so I figure it’s worth the effort to her.”
“Most beautiful girl you’d ever seen, huh? Why does returning her phone sound like an excuse?”
I don’t answer.
“Ten o’clock.”
I frown. “What?”
“Your first gig for today.”
“Oh, right.”
She leans back, making the chair whine. “Do you think this Idris Williams guy is going to be someone, someday?”
I hadn’t put any thought into that question, but the guy does have a certain presence and quality about him. “If he has genuine talent, maybe. He’s a recording artist. That’s all I know.” So far.
Azera types for a few seconds. “Then maybe you should listen to some of his tunes.” She clicks the mouse and music starts playing.
“See you later, Crow Boy.”
“Later,” I call after her, then shift my attention to the music.
There’s something about the guy’s voice, an intensity that’s captivating.
14
Rowan
“Ah, shit! You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I pause outside the open door into Idris’s workroom. He’s on the phone, staring at something on his laptop.
He groans. “It wasn’t like that, Mom. She’s just a friend.”
Uh-oh.
The burner phone I bought after losing mine vibrates in my hand.
A text from Cadi. Idris made the front page of the National Enquirer.
I type back, Seriously? and head to the kitchen where I last saw Idris’s tablet.
Oh, dear. This is bad. A picture of Idris with his hand located on Nicole’s chest and her arms looped around his neck.
I wander back into the hall, and catch Idris explaining, “She tripped and I caught her.”
Is there something I should know? Cadi texts back.
She tripped. He saved her. I’m getting this secondhand, I add. He’s talking to his mom.
“Oh, man, if Cadi sees this she’ll flip,” Idris continues.
I purse my lips. Too late, chump.
He sure is nervous, Cadi messages.
He’s anticipating your reaction. I wonder, briefly, if I should be leaking this information to her. But if Idris is telling the truth, what harm can there be?
I’ll bet he is, she responds. But what about bad publicity? His Facebook page says he’s in a committed relationship.
Someone once said there’s no such thing as bad publicity, I type.
Except when you’re his fiancée. Did you read the headline?
I turn to the tablet just as Idris’s voice rises to a fever pitch. “I need to talk to her right now. I’ll call you back, Mom.”
He’s about to call you, I message.
But before he can, his phone rings.
Idris sighs. “Hey, Max, how are… Yeah, I saw it… No, I wasn’t fondling her. She tripped and I caught her… I don’t even remember touching her there… She’d had a few too many, so I offered her a ride home… Of course I didn’t have any intentions.”
I type, Hold tight. Max just called. I’m sure Idris’ll call you the second he’s free.
He’s pretty upset. I’m tempted to give him a hard time, but…
Don’t go too easy on him, I text back. I knew that girl couldn’t be trusted the second I saw her.
Okay, I’ll let him grovel first, she replies, following up with a winking smiley face.
The guy who took that picture should have his ass kicked, I type. The paparazzi are everywhere. They’re stalkers. I’m glad I’m not famous.
Guess I’m glad I’m not there, Cadi replies. Being pregnant is stressful enough.
“Yeah, I understand,” Idris says across the hall. “It was totally an accident… She seemed too drunk to be putting it on, but… No, I wasn’t. Never touch the stuff. It makes me ill… Yeah, okay. Low profile for a few days. Got it.”
He sounds exhausted and it’s barely eight a.m.
Idris drops onto the other end of the couch an hour later and slumps forward, hands in prayer position between his knees.
I pull in my legs to give him space and adjust my aching side, which I must admit, is feeling better. “How’re things?”
“I didn’t think they could get much worse.” He drops his face into his palms. “And then they did.”
“What’s happened?” I slip the iPad into its case and set it aside.
“Max got a call from the movie company. They’re considering another artist to sing my song.”
“Does their decision have anything to do with that photograph?”
Idris sighs. “Max said no, but who knows. He told me they want a bigger name. But if I don’t sing, our subliminal message to the other Livran kids won’t happen.”
“Can’t you put the message into one of your other songs?”
“Yeah, but I’m a newbie, still building my fan base. The studio already has a massive list, millions of people who will hear this song.”
“Okay, so maybe it’ll take longer—”
“What if we don’t have longer?” He shakes his head. “Mr. Scrim spent a lot of time keeping those kids—you and Cadi included—out of trouble. Without him around who knows what they’re dealing with. Not to mention that crystal detector we found on the Evatenon who attacked us at the Jacobsens’.” Idris’s face tightens. “With a device like that, the Evatenon only need to get within a few miles to find one of us.”
I give his knee a quick squeeze. “Today sucks, which means tomorrow can only get better. No one can perform that song as well as you. Maybe all you need is an opportunity to convince the movie executives of that. And by tomorrow, your photo with Nicole will be yesterday’s news.”
His hands tighten into fists. “Wish I could blame her for that stupid picture, but it wasn’t her fault.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you sure about that?”
“What d’you mean?”
“Are you sure Nicole didn’t deliberately trip, hoping the press would take that picture and figure something was going on between you?”
He looks flabbergasted. “She knows I’m engaged.”
“Well, then she must’ve forgotten because she’s been paying you an awful lot of attention.”
His wide eyes almost make me laugh. “The day we met, I told Nicole all about Cadi.” He shakes his head, denial crisscrossing his features. “Nicole’s a nice girl. She wouldn’t do anything manipulative like that.”
Clearly, Idris doesn’t see Nicole the way I do. Maybe the negative press isn’t such a bad thing if it gets him to watch his step.
“Max said I should avoid the party scene till this headline blows over, but Malcolm invited me to an opening at the Performing Arts Center tonight. A charity event should be safe, don’t you think? You wanna go?”
I smile. If it means keeping you out of trouble… “Of course I will.”
15
Connell
Like the giant bird I am, I perch in a leafless ginkgo biloba tree outside the Performing Arts Center, obscuring my camera behind a cluster of branches. I’m pushing the limits of acceptable practice, and Azera would pluck my tail feathers if she knew.
But technically, I’m below the tree line and not in an impossible location for a paparazzo to climb.
My lookout is above the heads of the other paparazzi, and with my longest lens, the faces of arriving celebrities are sharp, thanks to the bright lights around the entrance. Just a matter of keeping the camera steady, which is easier said than done with my clawed fingers.
The Performing Arts Center could be a modern art sculpture. Brushed stainle
ss steel reaches for the clouds, making the place look like something between a ship and the inside of a mechanical clock.
I capture a few clean shots, then sense a hard tug. The same full-on yank I felt when I ran into mystery girl. I feel surprise, too. A feeling that doesn’t seem entirely my own.
My breath catches. She’s here. Somewhere in that crowd of celebrities decked in their black silk, starched cotton and sparkling taffeta.
I zero in on her like my brain is hardwired to locate only her. Dark auburn hair falls to her waist in long curls and glows in the light spilling out of the theater doors.
The crowd thins, giving me an open view. The edge of a flared forest-green dress peeks from beneath a fitted coat, and her black heels slant more toward sensible than ridiculous. She’s tall for a girl, which explains why I took her for a guy. With her heels, she’s as tall as Idris Williams, who stands beside her.
I hope he isn’t cheating on her with that Nicole girl.
No, I take that back. I hope he isn’t dating this auburn-haired beauty. Period. In fact, cheating on her might be a good thing. It would justify my convincing her to leave the guy.
Leave him? Leave him for what? Me?
I blink behind my camera. Why does my mind leap a thousand miles ahead of anything logical when it comes to this girl?
Zooming my camera in, I memorize her features and the sexy copper lipstick that matches her hair, perfectly. Then I press the shutter release, again and again, snapping candid shots of her like she’s Charlize Theron, or better yet, Audrey Hepburn.
Her chin lifts and her face swings my way. I capture a perfect shot, straight on. Her eyes are pointed right at me, like she’s staring straight into my camera lens.
Wait. She is staring into my lens.
I pull back amongst the branches, which don’t offer me any more cover. Her eyes have me pinned.
Williams touches her arm, says something.
Her gaze holds mine a second longer, then she looks away and responds.
