None of the girls said anything, all of them regarding one another with the same conspiratorial expression.
“What?” I asked. “You guys all look like you’re plotting something.”
“Should we?” asked Katy.
“I think we should,” said Shania.
“Should what?” I asked.
“Here’s the thing,” said Sam. “Tonight’s not just about drinks out.”
I was confused. “Then what?” I asked. I narrowed my eyes. “Please tell me you’re not taking me to a speed dating thing or something like that. I don’t know if I could handle it.”
“Nope,” said Shania, all smiles. “Got something far less awkward planned.”
“Then what?” I asked.
"Two words,” said Katy. “Lover. Boys.”
“Huh?” I asked. “Like…the band?”
“Yep,” said Shania, a big grin on her face. “The band we were all obsessed with in high school, even before we all knew one another.”
“Obsessed” would be putting it lightly. Lover Boys were a throwbacky ’80s-style glam rock band that blew up the charts during the last year of high school, their hit song “Permission to Love” the freaking anthem of our lives for the last few months of senior year. And their lead singer, the one and only Noah Mack, had pretty much been solely responsible for my teenage sexual awakening. I couldn’t even count how many under-the-sheets, single-player fun sessions had starred him and his gorgeous face and impossibly sexy bod.
“What about them?” I asked. “They broke up a few years after we graduated. There a cover band playing tonight?”
“Nope,” said Sam. “It’s them, in the flesh—a secret show that I managed to use a little influencer clout to score some tickets to.”
“Are you freaking serious?” I asked. “They’re playing tonight?”
Thump-thump-thump. My heart began to race like the steady beat of a drum. And not one of those tiny snare drum types either—the big kind, like at the beginning of the 2001: A Space Odyssey theme. You know the ones.
“We wanted to surprise you,” said Shania. “Bring you there, get a few drinks in you, and then all of a sudden—bam! There they are, rocking your ass off.”
“But this works too,” said Katy. “What with you looking about ready to call it a night before the afternoon’s even started.”
My heart was already beating hard and fast. Just the idea of seeing my teenage crush in person, playing my favorite songs, was enough to make me feel light-headed. In spite of the humiliation I’d just put myself through, it sounded like just the thing to turn my spirits around.
“So,” asked Sam, a glimmer in her eye. “You in?”
I grinned.
“So in.”
3
NOAH
I was in the zone.
The defendant was in front of me, sweating bullets and right where I wanted him. Sure, I could’ve gone in for the kill right then and there, but that wasn’t my style. I was a sick puppy like that, and when I had someone in the hot seat, I wasn’t afraid to make them feel the heat.
The vibe in the courtroom was tense as hell, everyone there waiting for my next word. Call me a showboat, and I wouldn’t argue. I loved to be in the spotlight, loved to have all eyes on me. It was one of the reasons my transition from “rock star” to “lawyer” had been so smooth—the courtroom was just another stage, after all.
And on stage was where I thrived.
Finally, I decided that I’d put the screws to him enough. Holding back the small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, my hands clasped behind my back, I went into it.
“So let me get this straight,” I said. “Your story is that you were out of town the night of the murder, correct?”
Dramatically, I whipped around on my heels and faced the defendant. He was a nebbish little middle-aged guy with thinning hair and a cheap, ill-fitting suit. Not at all like the stud in the custom-made Tom Ford—that being me, of course—in front of him. If court cases were decided on who looked better, I’d have had his one wrapped up the moment I walked into the joint.
I could see the fear in his eyes as he leaned forward toward the microphone.
“Yes,” he said, his voice sounding weak and soft.
I glanced back to the people sitting in the audience rows, flicking my eyebrows up a bit as if to say “you believe this bullshit?” A spotted a few grins here and there, suggesting that they were on my side.
But it wasn’t them I had to convince—it was those lovely ladies and gentlemen in the jury. They watched me like hawks, and I was ready to give them a show.
“Interesting,” I said, my polished black dress shoes clicking softly on the floor. “Very interesting. And confirm one more time which city you were in when your ex-wife was so horribly killed, her life sickeningly and tragically cut short. It was Phoenix, correct?”
It was a little ad-libbed flourish, but I was happy with it. It’d been a while since I’d done a criminal case like this, but you could never be too theatrical—it’s called “laying on the sauce,” and I was an expert at it, if I do say so myself. And I do.
“Yes,” he said, sticking to the simple, one-word answers of the cross-examination.
“Is. That. Right?” I asked, putting my patented “umph” behind each word.
I had the little dork right where I wanted him. Part of me wanted to drag it all out like a house cat toying with a mouse. But better to finish him off clean and quick, I thought. I was putting on a show, after all.
Not to mention that I’d long gone off-script.
“In Phoenix,” I said. “Just happened to be in Phoenix the night your wife was killed. Just happened to be in Phoenix for no reason, not visiting relatives, not there for business. Hell, not even there for pleasure, as far as I can tell. Just happened to be in Phoenix coming up with the perfect alibi—”
“Your honor!” came the defense lawyer’s voice from the other side of the courtroom. “Objection!”
I whipped around and glowered at the guy. It was hard to be too mad at him, though—he was leading-man material all the way, and the way he was rolling with my ad-libbing was pure professionalism. I loved the dude’s work—part of me wanted to break character and get his autograph. Sure, he was one of my best friends, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t pick up a little something to add to the memorabilia pile.
Maybe later.
“Sustained,” said the judge, a booming voiced character actor, one of those “oh, that guy” types that you’d recognize.
“Fine, fine,” I said, narrowing my eyes and turning my attention back to the defendant.
I decided to take it up a notch, really give the people something to snack on. Hell, maybe I was right in the middle of my third big break?
“You might as well spare us the bullshit,” I said. “Tell us the truth.”
I strode toward the defendant like a conquering hero, but he only looked around, totally confused.
“What?” he asked.
Whoops. Bad sign. But I decided to roll with it. Maybe they could find some gold in editing.
“There’s one man who can attest to your alibi,” I said. “And he oh-so-conveniently had a heart attack the day after you dragged your sorry ass back into town. But I can see your soul, Mr. Crawford. I can see you for the liar you are!”
I raised my voice, putting my lead-singer diaphragm to work.
Mr. Crawford, real name Lenny Silver, shot another glance over my shoulder at the men and women I was working so hard to ignore.
All I cared about at that moment was going in for the kill.
“Put your conscience to rest, Mr. Crawford,” I said, whipping my arm toward him and pointing accusingly. “Admit what you did! Admit that you killed your wife! Save your soul!”
I realized how over-the-top my words were right at the moment I’d said them. But man, they sure as hell sounded good coming out of my mouth.
If I did say so myself.
I sto
od still, my finger still pointed toward him like a blade. But Mr. Crawford didn’t react with the fear and panic I was hoping. Nope. Instead, he simply glanced over my shoulder.
“Uh, Amy?” he asked, his voice switching into a casual, conversational tone. “You want me to roll with this?”
An exasperated sigh cut through the courtroom.
“No,” spoke a woman’s voice from behind me. “No, I don’t. Cut, cut!”
I turned around on my heels to see the entire film crew staring at me like I was a mental patient. Right smack-dab in the middle of them was Amy Martin, the director of this little project.
“Seriously?” she asked, her arms crossed over her chest.
“What?” I asked. “Too much?”
“All right, everyone,” she said. “Take five. Actually, you know what? Take twenty. A soft twenty. Got a few things to go over with our prosecutor. Want to talk about his…interpretation.”
The crew broke up, the extras in the audience chatting among themselves. Amy strode toward me, and Will Gilles, the defense attorney, not to mention the star of the film, not to mention one of my best friends, hopped over the table in front of him and joined her.
Amy was short, but she had a bearing about her that intimidated even a six-feet-and-some-change guy like myself. Hell, I’d be lying if I said she didn’t scare me, just a little. And the all-business look on her face made it clear she wasn’t in a mood to screw around.
“What the hell was that?” she asked.
“Oh, that?” I asked, flashing one of my oh-so-charming smiles. “Why, you liked it?”
Amy’s face stayed stone-still, clearly somehow immune to my charms.
She stared at me hard for a few long seconds, giving me flashbacks to my elementary school teachers giving me death stares after the four millionth time I’d class-clowned them just a little bit closer to a total conniption fit.
“Ouch,” I said. “Tough crowd.”
Truth be told, I was a little surprised by the reaction. I wanted to bring some extra sauce, and in my (not-so-)humble opinion, the sauce had been brought. The scene had been downright slathered in sauce, actually.
Will stared at me too, his look a little less dagger-filled and more one of confusion, as if he was trying to figure out if I had some kind of death wish.
Once Amy had made her point, she produced a script from behind her back, one that read the name of the movie, “Murder in June,” on the cover in big, bold letters. She cleared her throat and read.
“And you were in Phoenix the night of the murder, correct?” she asked, flicking her eyes up at me when she was done. “Recognize that?”
“I do,” I said. “Those were my lines.”
“That was your line,” she said, placing special emphasis on the final word in the sentence. “Your one, single line.”
“I know, I know,” I said. “But I thought I’d spice it up a little, you know? After all, that’s why you hired me for the part, right? To bring a little, ah…what was that word? The fancy one that started with a v?”
“Verisimilitude,” said Will.
I snapped my fingers and pointed in his direction. “There it is,” I said. “That word.”
Amy nodded slowly.
“That’s right,” she said. “Because you’re a lawyer, and because you have some experience being on stage.”
“See?” I asked. “Because of what I bring to the—”
“And not for your improv skills,” she said. “Or lack thereof.”
“Ouch,” I said. “Give it to me straight, why don’t you? I just thought the lines were a little…lacking, you know? In need of a little more spice.”
“Listen,” she said. “I know you’re used to being the center of attention. But I didn’t bring you on to make this place hammier than a Christmas dinner.”
“Hammier than a Christmas dinner!” I said with a big smile. “That’s a good one!”
I meant it, but her expression stayed stony. Will continued to give me a look like he was in the presence of a soon-to-be-dead man, his jaw nearly on the floor.
“And the writer of this script?” she asked, holding the script aloft, the papers spreading out like an accordion. “He’s won two Oscars for his writing. How many Oscars have you won?”
“Um, none,” I said. “But I did win a Nickelodeon Kid’s Choice Award—a very underrated accolade, if you ask me.”
Another glare, this one like she was trying to take me apart limb from limb, supernatural-style. She opened her mouth to say something but appeared to think better of it, instead turning to Will.
“Get this clown sorted out,” she said. “I’ve got some serious, serious thinking to do.”
A hard glance in my direction made it quite clear what the subject of the thinking was going to be. With that, she turned and left, melting back into the crowds of crew as they zipped from here to there on set.
“You looking to get a script shoved up that ass of yours?” asked Will once we were alone. “Because that’s how you get a script shoved up your ass.”
“From her?” I asked. “Nah, me and Amy are tight. She’s all seriousness in front of the crew, but I bet you anything deep down she’s more than a little amused by my antics. Not to mention impressed by my acting.”
“Uhh,” said Will, letting the word drag out and out, giving me the impression he was wondering if his friend of over ten years had finally severed the already skinny tether on reality.
I gave him a swat on the arm and a nod toward the craft services table.
“Let’s talk and eat,” I said. “After all, what’s the point of being a famous actor if you’re not taking advantage of all of the perks?”
“Think you’ve got a little ways to go before you can add ‘famous actor’ to your list of accomplishments,” said Will.
He flashed me a grin, that smile full of pearly white, perfect teeth I’d seen on more movie posters than I could count over the last ten or so years. Hey, it was a pretty damn good smile, one almost good enough to make me wonder if the lady tree had been the wrong one to bark up.
Kidding, kidding.
The man was good-looking—what could I say? He was tall, blond, with ice-blue eyes and pale skin—total Viking-warrior type, which was the reason he and Chris Hemsworth had found themselves in competition for the same role more than once.
“You joking?” I asked, flashing him a grin of my own. “I’m making Brando look like dinner theater in Idaho up there.”
“Tell me again, bud,” said Will. “What was your day job again?”
“Why, the best damn lawyer in the greater Los Angeles area, of course.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” he said with another smirk.
“Ouch,” I said, clutching my chest dramatically. “That…hurt...like in a heart-attack kind of way.”
I dropped to my knees, closing my eyes and raising a fist into the air.
“Betrayed…betrayed by my own best friend,” I said, giving it a liberal helping of some of my own special killer acting sauce. “Never did I think I’d go out like this, never did I think it’d be…you!”
I pointed an accusing finger at Will, cracking open one of my eyes just enough to see that I’d managed to attract a small gathering of crew who were almost certainly enraptured by my chops.
“All right, Daniel Day Lewis,” he said.
“But you know what they say,” I said, letting my head sink. “You always hurt the ones you love.”
And with that, I let out a death rattle and dropped into a heap onto the floor. Once down, I cracked my eyes again, expecting some impressed faces, at the least.
What I got, on the other hand, were a few shrugs, followed by the crew going back to work.
“Damn,” I said, sitting up. “Maybe I really shouldn't quit my day job.”
Will chuckled before extending me his hand. I took it, and he pulled me to my feet.
“Speaking of jobs,” he said. “You looking forward to doing something you’
re actually good at tonight?”
“Huh?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”
“Are you serious?” asked Will. “The secret reunion show? You know, the one we’ve been practicing for this last month? Don’t tell me you forgot.”
I stopped in my tracks, totally blindsided.
“Let me guess,” said Will. “You forgot.”
“The show,” I said, feeling dumb as hell. “We’re, uh, really doing that, huh?” I stood still, processing what he’d just said.
“Oh no,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts—again.”
I was. Part of me wanted to call the club and tell them it was off, that I’d made a huge mistake in dragging Lover Boys out from the grave where they’d been peacefully put to rest a decade ago.
“I don’t know,” I said. “A reunion?”
“No way,” said Will as we approached the craft services table. “No way am I canceling this at the last minute.”
“Just…tell me why I agreed to this again?” I asked. “Not like any of us need the money.”
“True,” he said. “But it’s not money for us, remember? It’s all going to charity.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “That’s how you got me doing this thing to begin with.”
“Come on,” said Will. “Don’t tell me your altruistic streak is the only reason you agreed to get the band back together.”
“Nope,” I said. “Just that—just for the kids.”
Another Will Gilles smirk flew in my direction as he put together a croissant-and-turkey sandwich on his plate.
“Sure,” he said.
“I’m serious,” I said right back, suddenly more interested in the conversation than the food. “Don’t know what you’re implying.”
“Come on,” said Will. “You’re telling me that you’re not even a little excited about getting up on stage, rocking out the hits, making everyone go crazy like we used to?”
“Nah,” I said. “Lover Boys was fun as hell, don’t get me wrong. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that you have to know when to let things go. You know?”
Dream Lover Page 3
