The copy read: “Dayne Matthews, perennial playboy, spends a night with hotshot actress Kelly Parker. Sources say things are steamy between the two, but Matthews denies reports of a patchup.”
“Don’t you people ever let up?” he whispered. What if Katy Hart saw the article? She’d lose all respect for him. It might even influence her decision. He thought about that. Probably not. She wasn’t the type to read the gossip rags. He tapped his fingers on the edge of the table. What about Kelly? She’d already had enough of the paparazzi. If she had feelings for him—and he thought she still might—this would be salt in her wounded heart, for sure.
He tossed the magazine onto the table and focused on his dinner. This was supposed to be an easy night, dinner and the privacy of his own home. Instead he was frustrated and tense, warned about a wacko in a yellow Honda and facing the reality of the pictures in the magazine.
If they’d caught him at any other time the pictures wouldn’t matter—shots of him coming and going to Starbucks, spreads of him walking on the beach or leaving the studio. But early morning pictures of him leaving Kelly Parker’s house? His blood boiled from the insanity of it.
Strange, really. But all he could think about were his parents. His parents dead these past eighteen years. They’d been so supportive of his interest in drama, so sure he could use his talents for the Lord.
Dayne managed a soft, sarcastic laugh.
The idea never even crossed his mind. The Lord had gotten enough of the important pieces of his life—his parents’ time, their attention, and finally their lives. The last thing Dayne had ever considered was giving his acting talent to the Lord.
Still, the idea of his parents seeing photographs of him caught in the act of casual sex was something that grated on him. He took four quick bites of the stir-fry. Never mind his parents. Everything grated on him tonight, ever since the phone call from the sergeant. He stared at his plate. The vegetables were limp and the chicken was cold. Even his dinner wasn’t working out.
He pushed his plate back and stared out the window. The fog was thicker now, settling in around the edges of his patio.
Once—not long after he visited Bloomington, Indiana—he had gone to a cupping expert, and a spiritualist in the next room had given him a free session on visualization, ways to clear his mind and find inner peace. The cupping was different. For hundreds of dollars a session, he would lie facedown on a table, and the therapist would push a heated drinking glass against his back, creating a vacuum. The harder she pushed, the more muscle tissue would be sucked into the hollow space.
It was supposed to cleanse his system, something like that.
But the part that stayed with him was what the spiritualist had said. “If you’re looking for inner peace, you need to find something holistic and centered. Something like Kabbalah.”
Kabbalah had come up a few times.
Some of his friends in the industry were pretty taken by the idea. An older actress once explained that Kabbalah was better than Christianity because it allowed you to become your own god, to find a center in your being where spirituality and goodness could thrive, separate from the guilt and legalism normally associated with religion.
Sounded good.
At least it would if it weren’t for his upbringing. Twelve years in a Christian boarding school for missionary kids had left him with the inability to think of religion separate from Jesus Christ. Right or wrong. Still, maybe there was something to this Kabbalah. If he could get over the guilt. Maybe the spiritualist was right, that finding his center, knowing his own nature better, would give him peace.
Especially on days like this.
He pushed away from the table and cleared his plate. Visualization would take too much time. He rinsed the dishes, dried his hands, and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Nothing. No call from her. Come on, Katy. Let me know what you’re going to do.
For a few seconds he stared at the phone, willing it to ring. Then an idea came to him. Maybe he could find the peace he needed by watching her TV movie, the pilot she’d starred in a few years ago. That would do it. He’d never finished it, and something about her—watching her, studying her—filled him with a sense that all was right with the world.
If he were a praying man, he’d be begging God for her to decide yes about the film. But prayer wouldn’t change the mind of a woman two thousand miles away. Only she could do that. In the meantime, he could watch her movie.
He turned off the country music, found the video, and set it up in the family room. He wanted the view to the outside, even with the fog. Sitting in his theater room alone was no way to spend a Friday night. Not with some fanatic lurking outside. He clicked the remote, and his gas fireplace sprang to life. That was the nice thing about summers on Malibu Beach: the evenings were still cool enough for a fire.
The movie needed to be rewound, but after a few minutes it was ready to play. He took the most comfortable chair in the room and clicked the remote. The moment the credits and music started, he felt himself unwind again. Katy might not call, but he could still spend an evening with her.
He was fifteen minutes into the movie, right in the middle of a scene that featured Katy, when the doorbell rang. For the flickering of an instant Dayne hesitated. Was it the psycho fan? He thought about grabbing his pepper spray, but then he stopped himself.
She wouldn’t walk up to the front door and ring the bell. Not if she’d been stalking him all this time.
He paused the movie and walked to the front door. He opened it, and there was Kelly Parker, a shy smile playing on the corners of her lips. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Dayne tried to hide his frustration. He didn’t want to hang out with Kelly. Not tonight and not alone in his house. He leaned against the door. “What’s up?”
“I was lonely. I thought I might find you here.” She gave a delicate shrug of her shoulders. “Aren’t you going to let me in?”
“Oh.” He forced a chuckle and opened the door wider. “Sorry.”
She stepped in and closed it behind her. Before he had time to say another word, she wove her hands around his waist, leaned up, and kissed him, a kiss that told him why she’d come. He returned the kiss, but he felt nothing stir within him. It was the way he sometimes felt when he did an on-screen kiss. Like a professional, good at what he was doing, but not even the least bit personally involved.
“Dayne?” She drew back, breathless, and searched his eyes. “You don’t want to kiss me?”
He hooked his thumbs through her belt loops. “Of course I do.” He hated lying, but what else could he say? He had a feeling honesty wouldn’t go over real well right now. “But, hey, what’s this all about?”
She lifted her chin, confident even in light of her doubts. Her voice held a smoldering desire. “I can’t stop thinking about you, Dayne. How it was the other night.”
“Oh yeah?” He let his eyes wander down the length of her. She was a knockout, no question. So what was his problem? How come he kept comparing her to—
“Anyway, I wanna know if I got the part.” She pulled him close again, keeping her head tilted back far enough to see his response. “It’s mine, right?”
Dayne laughed. “You amaze me, Kelly Parker. Just when I’m most worried about you, here you are. More cocky and sure of yourself than ever.”
“So . . . did I get it?” She giggled and kissed him again. But something in her eyes wasn’t quite right. Her pupils maybe, just a little too dilated. Her words were fast and sticky, like she needed a glass of water. “Tell me, Dayne, tell me. I’m dying to know.”
What was wrong with her? He resisted the urge to push her away. Instead he ran his tongue over his lower lip and studied her expression. “We’re not sure yet. You did a great job, Kelly. We’re just waiting to see what happens.”
“Waiting?” Kelly frowned. “I’m in this business, remember, Dayne? What you mean is you offered it to the newcomer, right? Is that it?”
Dayne took a step back and
leaned against the entryway wall. “Okay, yes. We offered it to her. Mitch loved her.” He tossed up his hands. “We have no idea if she’ll take it or not. If she doesn’t, you’re next in line.”
Disappointment filled in the gentle curves of her cheeks and lips. She seemed calmer now, more herself. “Mitch loved her . . . or you did?”
“Come on, Kelly. Don’t take it personally. You know the routine in this business. When it comes your way, take it. When it doesn’t, don’t take it seriously. The part fit her.”
She grinned at him. “You’re teasing me, right, Dayne? Is that it? Telling me this just to make it more exciting when I get the part, right?”
“If I said yes, I’d be lying.” He winced. “Sorry, Kelly. It was nothing you did.”
Her smile faded. “Well, that’s lousy. What about my audition? What about—?”
He held his finger to her lips. There it was again, the wild roller coaster of emotions. She hadn’t stayed one way more than a minute since she arrived. “Shhhh.” This time he leaned in and kissed her, more to change the subject than anything else. When he drew back he grinned at her, willing her to relax. “The new girl might turn us down.”
“Thanks.” She rolled her eyes, but the hurt from earlier was gone. “Keep me posted, okay?”
“Okay.”
She moved past him, set her purse on a shelf near the entryway, and headed into his family room. Dayne followed her. For a moment she stared at the image frozen on the screen—a close-up of Katy still on pause from a few minutes earlier. Kelly’s eyebrows came together in a puzzled look. “Who’s the girl?”
Dayne moved between Kelly and the television screen. “Katy . . . Katy Hart.” He grabbed the remote and turned off the set. “She’s the newcomer.” He pointed to the TV. “That was a pilot she filmed a few years ago, something that didn’t pan out.”
“So why’d you turn it off?” She flopped down on the sofa and patted the spot beside her. “Sit down and let’s watch it.”
Dayne wanted to tell her no, that the night was going to be just him and Katy, and so maybe she should just leave. But Kelly was his friend, so instead he dropped to the spot next to her and aimed the remote at the television. After pressing a couple of buttons, the film was back on again. “There, you happy?”
“Depends on how good she is.” Kelly crossed her arms and smiled at him. Then she focused on the screen.
They watched the movie in silence. With Katy in living color before him, Dayne forgot he had someone sitting next to him. What was it about the Bloomington kids theater director that was so appealing, so fresh? He studied her, and he began to imagine. How new and wonderful it would be to make a film with her. She would be different from the Hollywood girls he knew, the ones who would agree to coffee and wind up in your bed a few hours later.
Katy was one of the real people. Maybe that was it.
He was still thinking about her, still mesmerized by her actions, her voice, her emotions on-screen, when beside him Kelly turned off the television.
“Hey . . .” He took the remote from her. “What’s that all about?”
“Dayne Matthews, I can’t believe you.” She didn’t look angry but rather amazed. As if something she couldn’t quite understand had just occurred to her. Her mouth hung open for a few beats. “You’re in love with her!”
“What?” Dayne slid to the far end of the sofa, putting distance between them. He angled himself so he was facing her. “What’re you talking about?”
She pointed to the television. “That . . . that whatever her name is. Katy something.” She laughed, but it sounded more like shock than humor. “I was watching you during the last scene, and I’d know that look in your eyes anywhere.” She stood and looked down at him. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
“Kelly, that’s ridiculous.” Dayne rose and stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets. “I don’t even know her.” He nodded toward the screen. “I was watching that more for research than anything else.”
“Fine.” She walked past him through the dining room and into the kitchen. “I won’t stay, Dayne. I get the feeling you don’t want me here.”
He followed slowly behind her, and while she poured herself a glass of water, he wondered again if she was on something—cocaine maybe or some mood-altering drug. He steadied himself, digging deep for the patience he didn’t feel. “I thought we were friends, Kelly. Wasn’t that what we decided? Things wouldn’t work between us, right? That was you, wasn’t it?”
She whirled around. “That wasn’t how things were the other night at my house.” Her voice was low, but it was filled with hurt. She spread her fingers on her chest. “I felt something, Dayne. Didn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Yes.” He went to her, took the glass of water from her, set it on the counter, and caught her hand. “It means I care a lot about you, Kelly.” He released her fingers. “I can’t offer more than that.”
Her shoulders eased a little, and she pulled him close, slipping her arms around him in a hug that was different from the first one. “I’m sorry.” She peeked up at him. “I probably sound like a raving maniac.”
He stroked her back. This was better, the Kelly Parker he knew and cared for—not the one demanding something he couldn’t give. She couldn’t be on drugs. Kelly wouldn’t stoop that low, not even in her worst hour.
“Hey . . .” He remembered the call from the police. “Speaking of raving maniacs . . .” His voice was low and calm. He didn’t want the news to scare her. “Remember the yellow Honda Civic and the lady with the knife?”
Kelly shuddered and leaned back enough to make eye contact with him. “Of course.”
“Well—” he pursed his lips—“the police called today. This stalker person who’s been sending them crazy letters about me—remember I told you?”
“Yes.” Her eyes were wider now, her lips parted.
“The police think she drives a yellow Honda Civic.”
“Wonderful.” She lifted her hands above her head and let them fall. Then she snatched her glass and dumped the water into the sink. “Where’s your wine?”
He took the cup from her again and set it back down. “Look, Kelly, no wine. I’m turning in early tonight. I just wanted to tell you about the Honda lady. You know, so if you see that car again you can call 911.”
For a few seconds she stood silent, shocked. Fear and anger taking turns with her expression. Then she spotted something, and he followed her gaze. The magazines on the dining room table. “I thought you said it was better not to read them.” She passed him, walked to the table, and picked up the first one.
“I said you were better not to read them.” He came up behind her and tried to take the magazine from her.
But she jerked it out of reach. “It’s okay, Dayne. I can handle it.” At that same instant she saw the photo of the two of them on the cover. “Great.” She flipped the magazine open to the section where their photographs took up the two-page spread.
She muttered something under her breath and then turned to another story a few pages away. This one referred to the six worst-smelling people in Hollywood. She was number five. “What?” She made a sound that was more like a cry than a laugh. “‘Kelly Parker’s penchant for Italian foods gets the best of her in this poll. Our advice: Lay off the garlic!’”
Dayne wasn’t sure if she was going to drop to the floor in a heap or explode in rage. Then, with a burst of emotion, she ripped the page from the magazine. She tore the page apart the way he’d torn apart the magazine at Ruby’s that day, only Kelly cried as she did it.
“Kelly, c’mere.” He held his hands out to her. “I told you not to read that garbage. None of it’s true.”
“It’s not true, is it? We’re not getting back together!” In a frantic whir of motion she crumpled the pieces of paper into a ball. “Because you . . . don’t . . . want me.” She wiped at her tears, then stormed back to the kitchen and stuffed the paper in the trash beneath his sink.
<
br /> As she turned around to face him, her eyes filled with desperation. “I hate this, Dayne.” Her arms were shaking, but the anger left her. She crossed her arms and stared at the floor. “I hate everything.”
“Kelly, you can’t think like that. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“Forget it.” She pulled her keys from her pocket and headed toward him. “The magazine thinks we’re an item; isn’t that a joke?” She choked on a sarcastic laugh, one that was part sob. Then she walked past him. “If they only knew.”
Before she left she turned to face him once more. “I’m losing a starring role to a nobody, the guy I want doesn’t want me, the public knows my private life, and if that’s not enough, they think I smell like garlic. I haven’t eaten Italian food in years. Too many carbs.” She twisted her expression and lifted one hand in the air. “Go figure.” She forced a smile. “But at least the fans are entertained. Especially the crazy one in the yellow Honda.” She bit her lip. “Excuse me—” her voice fell to a whisper—“if I can’t believe everything’s going to be okay.”
She marched back through the family room and grabbed her purse near the front door. But as she turned the handle, her purse slipped and fell on the floor, spilling an assortment of business cards and pens and coins and something else. Something that made sense of every strange thing Kelly Parker had said and done all evening.
A bottle of unmarked pills.
The Tom Sawyer cast was working on the schoolroom scene, and Katy could feel things slowly coming together. The point of this part of the play was to show Tom’s increasing interest in Becky and the fact that Tom’s gang was not made up of stellar students.
They were attempting to do the scene with props—even though they wouldn’t have all props in place until the week before opening night, when they would move into the Bloomington theater. But props were needed for this one. It included an apple and Tom’s rowdy friends tossing it across the aisle to one another every time the teacher turned around.
In the midst of the chaos, Tom was supposed to slip from his side of the classroom and zip over to the other side to sit by Becky. Tim Reed knew his lines, and Sarah Jo had come into her own, showing the same striking ability to get in character that Katy had seen at the callback audition.
Fame Page 25
