Life in High Def

by Kimberly Cooper Griffin

  Kimberly Cooper Griffin

  The characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialog in this novel are either the products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2016 by Kimberly Cooper Griffin

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission or additional detail, contact the author at the address below.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition 2016

  Edited by Jamie May

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill at EDHGraphics

  Author Photo by Bettinger Photography

  Night River Press

  Denver, CO 80209

  NightRiverPress.com

  Life in High Def

  ISBN-10:0-9972190-1-7

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9972190-1-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016902563

  Visit the author’s website at http://kimberlycoopergriffin.com to order additional copies.

  CONTENTS

  Not into What You’re Offering

  Rock Stars and Private Jets

  The Morning Show

  Hope Comes in Unlikely Packages

  Did We…?

  Business Brunch 1

  St. Bart’s

  Back to Reality

  So Much for the Detox

  Santa Monica Pier - Take 1

  I’m Not Your Mother

  Business Brunch 2

  The Academy’s Next Best Actress

  Santa Monica Pier - Take 2

  Keep on Breathing

  Not a Monster

  Can’t Do This Anymore

  Having a Tough Time

  The Verdict

  Sentencing

  Fish

  Warden Wants You

  Twist

  In Reilly’s House

  People Eat In Here

  Dodged a Bullet

  Different From the Others

  Fuck You, Warden

  Turtle Shell

  Think They Missed You?

  Business Brunch 3

  Hank’s Warehouse

  Lunch with the Boys

  Downward Dog

  She Could Hope

  She Does Location Work

  People Are Staring

  The Memories Are Still There

  Not a Date

  Lunch with Cray

  Wish Me Luck

  The Dinner Party

  Walk Me to the Door

  I Love This Time of Night

  This Marking You Have

  What a Small World

  That’s Tonight?

  At the Hotel Marmont

  It’s Not You, It’s Me

  It Was Survival

  Randy Candy’s Website Survey

  I Don’t Think You’re Going to Like It

  Growing Up Reilly

  The Morning Show Again

  Just Breakfast

  I Don’t Think They Meant to Record This

  Here on HardCandy

  New Year’s Eve

  Special On-Location Segment of The Morning Show

  Peace

  SYNOPSIS

  ACADEMY AWARD WINNING ACTRESS Reilly Ransome has a life that others can only dream about: fame that opens every door, more money than she can ever spend, and freedom to do what—and whom—she pleases. But something is missing, and the harder she seeks to find it, the more evident the absence becomes. She attempts to fill the gap with experiences that become more and more dangerous until one night, she wakes up to find that she has committed the unthinkable. Resolved to live the rest of her life doing penance for her mistake, Reilly withdraws from her whirlwind existence and finally finds what she’s been missing when she starts taking yoga from serene and beautiful Drew Tamrin. But finding something and accepting something are two different things, and it is only when Reilly can finally forgive herself that she is able to find her life’s meaning.

  DEDICATION

  To Summer, this and everything.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I owe the publication of this novel to my writing group; Beth Escott Newcomer, Carrie Repking, and Lake McCleary. I am humbled to have been accepted by you three talented and wildly creative women. You amaze me! Thank you for suffering through countless rewrites and for providing insight into my little story. I hear your voices every time I write.

  Thank you, Kit-Bacon Gressitt, for offering the writing class that got me started. I am grateful for your tireless passion for teaching, connecting, and inspiring writers. Some of my favorite memories are sitting in your living room among the eclectic relics of Dia de los Muertos, listening to diverse voices discussing story arcs and tone.

  Michelle Dunkley, thank you for being my beta reader. I held my breath to hear your thoughts. You helped me more than you probably know. And, yes, I’ve told all of my single friends about you!

  Jamie May, it amazes me how much better you make my writing!

  And finally, many thanks to Skeeter Buck, founder of Night River Press, for taking a chance on Life in High Def. May this be a successful start of our literary journey!

  Not into What You’re Offering

  IT WAS WEDNESDAY NIGHT, or—to be more accurate—the early hours of Thursday morning, and the frenetic energy thrumming through the invitation-only nightclub in West Hollywood was just starting to peak. It wasn’t unusual for the club to be open so late in the middle of the week. The clientele wasn’t the normal nine-to-five crowd. But even for an exclusive club that regularly hosted Hollywood’s top stars, the energy of the place was off the charts, with celebrities and their closest friends enjoying the nightlife and partying like there was no tomorrow. The Academy Award nominations had just been announced and the lucky few who’d made the coveted list were out to celebrate, while the rest of the industry was out to be seen. But even that wasn’t the main reason people were still reveling when most of California was deep asleep. The reigning queen of all party girls, Reilly Ransome was in the house. She’d just received her second Academy Award nomination. She was high on life. High on being the center of attention. High on cocaine.

  Four-inch heels and a black spaghetti-strapped clingy sheath dress over a well-toned body gave an illusion of height to Reilly’s five-foot nothing frame. Straightened long blonde hair fell over her face as she danced but she didn’t move it away. The deep thump of the techno-baseline vibrated through her and she let it own her body as she moved in time with the rest of the writhing mass on the packed dance floor. A cloud of expensive scents competed with the boozy sweat-smell of pheromones that amped up the intensity of the drug-fueled crowd. Her eyes were closed and her arms were raised. Behind the mask of her hair, nothing existed but the music and the motion.

  She was a good dancer, and she knew it. The producer of the movie that she had just finished shooting had paid a shitload of money to make her that good. And she had quite literally worked her ass off to get there. Weeks of eight and twelve-hour dance training sessions and a relentless workout schedule had preceded the shoot and it showed. Reilly didn’t know how to do anything halfway. She put the same focus and dedication into what her mother insisted on referring to as “that fluff dance movie” as she had put into the role that had garnered her first Academy Award. The dance movie had been a diversion for her between “serious” films, but now, in no small part due to Reilly’s intense work ethic, even it was being talked about as next summer’s blo
ckbuster. It seemed she could do no wrong. Her life was racing forward at breakneck speed, and the adrenaline rush that came with it was coursing through her body as she moved to the music.

  She was alone on the dance floor, surrounded for the most part by strangers and acquaintances that would refer to her as a “dear friend” in the morning. Her co-star in the movie, Cray Layton, had come to the party with her. The media and her studio promoted him as her current boyfriend, and to help support that image, he had stayed by her side for much of the night. However, in the booze-drenched haze of early morning, he was tucked in at the end of the bar dry-humping a muscle-bound guy that Reilly recognized from somewhere—an extra, a bodyguard? It didn’t matter. She couldn’t care less.

  A beautiful woman moved in behind her and wrapped her arms around Reilly, grinding her pelvis into Reilly’s ass. Reilly leaned back, pulling the arms closer, so that the roving hands cupped her breasts. The woman kissed the side of Reilly’s neck and Reilly shivered. Her nipples hardened under the silk fabric of her top and the woman responded by rolling the hardened flesh between her fingers and sucking on Reilly’s neck. Without a word, Reilly turned around and walked off the dance floor, pulling the woman by their intertwined fingers.

  They pushed through the crowd and Reilly switched places with her companion so that the taller blonde could fend off the groupies and overzealous hangers-on. They made their way to the bathrooms. There was a line down the long dark hall, but they walked past and went in. No one seemed to mind, and even if they did, neither woman cared. Reilly was Hollywood royalty. The blonde steered them into the mirrored sitting room just inside the door. Two plush couches took up the center of the room and Reilly fell into the woman’s lap, straddling her. Her short black dress rode up and the blonde smoothed it down for her, just enough to keep the important parts covered. A long gilt mirror took up one entire wall, and Reilly watched their reflection over the blonde’s shoulder. She squinted. She wasn’t sure if it was the drugs or the booze, but the woman looking back in the reflection was unfamiliar.

  “Fuck, Rye. I get so turned on watching you dance now,” said the blonde, breaking Reilly’s gaze with her own reflection. And through the fog of energy and drugs, Reilly felt hands on her ass, while she ground into the woman’s lap. “Those dance lessons have unleashed a part of you that… god…”

  Reilly moaned into a long kiss and decided that they needed to go home. Now.

  “Let’s get out of here, Syl.” Reilly pulled away, tracing a path with her finger where her lips had just been. The room spun and she couldn’t keep track of anything around them, but she was intent on the talented mouth before her, enjoying the low thrum that imagining it on her body caused in her belly. The music from the other room added to the throb thundering deep inside.

  “Not yet, lover. I have to pee. And I want to finish off the blow first.” Reilly’s girlfriend of three years shot her a seductive smile as she shook out her long blond hair and slid out from under her. Reilly settled onto the crushed velvet couch and returned the teasing smile. She wondered how Sylvie could be so steady on her feet when she felt so out of control.

  “We can do that at home, baby. Come on,” Reilly heard the hollow plea in her voice as Sylvie backed away. The request was just for show. She didn’t have to beg. And, if she were honest, she was too stoned to fuck. Though she wouldn’t mind being a pillow princess if Sylvie wanted to fuck her.

  “I really, really have to pee. I’ll be right back, lover,” said Sylvie as she disappeared around the corner toward the bathroom stalls.

  Reilly ignored the other women who moved around her. Some of them watched her curiously, but none approached her. The people who had been invited to the party were all either in the industry, bored with it, or too worried about image to act like they cared. As far as Reilly went, she was used to being watched, and too high to care. She kicked out of her heels and tucked her legs up under her. From near her waist, she took a credit card-sized pocket mirror from the fashionable tiny club bag that she had strapped across her chest. In a smooth motion born of practice, she slid it open with one hand, while she used the other to uncap her lipstick. She checked her mascara and noted the eyes that peered back were bright, but bloodshot. All the partying didn’t help. Red eyes aside, she knew that she was still a beautiful woman. She applied the lipstick and wiped a non-existent spot under her eye before she snapped the compact shut.

  The sounds and scents of the small bathroom started to annoy her and she heard Sylvie’s voice from inside, near the sinks. She slipped back into her shoes and got up to see who Sylvie was talking to. She was ready to leave. Her first few steps reminded her that she wasn’t very sober.

  “I don’t remember seeing you here before. My name’s Sylvie.”

  Sylvie’s voice was low and seductive.

  Reilly rounded the corner and leaned against it to steady herself just in time to see Sylvie push a strand of long black hair behind a woman’s ear. Sylvie and one of the most beautiful women Reilly had ever seen stood in front of the sinks. The woman faced the mirrors, and Sylvie faced the woman. An attendant stood at a demure distance. Women lined the wall behind Reilly waiting for a free stall. A toilet flushed and the line inched forward. Reilly was aware of the curious eyes on her, but she tuned it all out. The woman with Sylvie drew all of her attention.

  Reilly stared at the woman’s reflection in the mirror. The woman’s presence filled the room. Filled Reilly. The sensation was so intense it felt like a touch, and Reilly realized she was in the thrall of instant attraction. Interesting. The woman hadn’t even spoken. She stood there, serene and confident. Her flowing black pants and sleeveless black blouse provided an air of simple sophistication, but Reilly sensed a complexity simmering inside the woman that she wanted to uncover.

  So she watched. The woman didn’t respond to Sylvie as she finished washing her hands. She accepted a towel from the attendant and patted them dry before she turned to face Sylvie. An amused expression played across her face. The woman sized Sylvie up, and Reilly crossed her arms over her chest as she observed, intrigued. She could tell that the woman thought that Sylvie was attractive, but she remained reserved. Sylvie had found a challenge with this one.

  Almost everyone—man or woman—found Reilly’s girlfriend attractive. An entertainment lawyer, Sylvie was a classic beauty. She had the face of a model and the body of a centerfold. She was smart and poised, and had a confidence that made people notice her when she entered a room. When Sylvie focused her charms on someone, they didn’t have a chance. It was what had brought Reilly and Sylvie together, and if Reilly really thought about it, it was part of what kept them together. Both of them had plenty of other opportunities, but Reilly never worried about Sylvie’s wandering eye. She knew that Sylvie was hers without a doubt, even when her flirting became more than that. Even when women came home with them. She wouldn’t do it if Reilly asked her not to. But Reilly didn’t mind. In fact, she found it exciting, even though her participation—by choice—was usually limited to watching. And that’s what she was doing now. All that activity in one bed wasn’t her thing. There were too many hands, too many mouths. She couldn’t focus.

  “I’d love to dance with you,” said Sylvie, running her palm up the woman’s bare arm. A flutter rose through Reilly when Sylvie’s fingers inched under the edge of the opening at the shoulder of the woman’s sleeveless blouse and pinched the edge of the fabric. Then Sylvie ran her hand up and down the opening, coming within a hair of brushing the backs of her fingers over the woman’s breast. Reilly imagined it was her fingers absorbing the warmth of the woman’s skin.

  The woman shrugged Sylvie’s hand away and laughed. Then she stepped back and gave the towel back to the waiting attendant, along with a tip. The velvet sound of the woman’s thank you sent an unexpected ripple down the center of Reilly’s back.

  The woman dismissed Sylvie with her stance as she faced the mirror again.

  “Sorry. It’s late. Maybe next
time… Sylvia?” said the woman, applying lip balm that she had pulled from the pocket of her pants. Sylvie’s answering posture suggested that she wasn’t about to give up this chase.

  Reilly wasn’t let down.

  “Close enough. You can call me anything you want when I have my fingers inside of you,” said Sylvie, taking a step closer to the woman.

  A tall redhead at one of the other sinks laughed at Sylvie’s crass remark. Reilly wanted to cringe, but she just lifted her eyebrows when Sylvie glanced at her and winked. Then she watched as Sylvie moved closer, pressing her belly against the woman’s hip, resting her hand on the woman’s backside. The woman lifted her sculpted eyebrows when Sylvie took the lip balm and applied some to her own lips. Sylvie’s eyes never left the woman, as she pursed her lips, and took the cap, replaced it on the tube, and offered it back.

  The woman’s eyes regarded the tube in Sylvie’s hand and then swept up to Sylvie’s mouth, which lifted in a smile that indicated that Sylvie was certain that she was going to get what she wanted.

  “Keep it. I think your girlfriend is waiting for you,” the woman said. Reilly was surprised. Her position as voyeur had made her feel invisible, and she had thought that Sylvie had snared her prey.

  Reilly had to give it to Sylvie—her smile never faltered.

  “She is, and she likes to play, too.”

  “Is that so?” The woman turned to leave.

  Reilly stood between the woman and the door. She had to remember to breathe when the woman’s silver-gray eyes zeroed in on her. Aside from being the most amazing eyes that Reilly had ever seen, there was a smoldering intensity in the woman’s gaze that made the room and all of the other people in it disappear. Reilly’s heart pounded.

  Between Reilly’s position and the line of women waiting for an open stall, there wasn’t much room to pass without squeezing through. The woman stood, waiting for Reilly to step aside.

  “What’s your name?” asked Reilly, without moving.

  “Drew.”

  “I’m Reilly.”

  “I know who you are.”