Life in High Def

by Kimberly Cooper Griffin

  Reilly stood her ground and Drew took her breath away. There was no one in the room except them, as far as Reilly was concerned.

  “I can take you home,” said Reilly, surprising herself when she lifted her hand to stroke Drew’s face. Reilly smiled to see Drew’s eyes grow dark at her touch. Even in four-inch heels, Reilly was a few inches shorter. She leaned up and brushed a kiss over the corner of Drew’s mouth, lingering for a second to take in the unexpected smell of cinnamon. “It would be fun. I promise,” she said against the warm skin.

  Drew shut her eyes and Reilly watched a flush edge up from Drew’s scoop-necked shirt. Drew’s eyes slowly opened again and focused on Reilly’s mouth. Reilly knew that she had her.

  “Hey, are you in line?” The voice came from behind Reilly, breaking the spell. The sounds of the room around them fell back into her awareness.

  “Sounds tempting, but I’m not into what you’re offering,” said Drew, staring into Reilly’s eyes. The dark smolder was gone, but the gaze was far from cold. Reilly had never seen eyes like that before. She wanted the opportunity to study them.

  “We have something that might help you out with that,” said Sylvie, from behind Drew. Reilly cringed at Sylvie’s suggestion. She guessed that Drew wasn’t into the drugs that Sylvie offered, either.

  “Yeah. I’m even less tempted by that,” said Drew, confirming Reilly’s suspicion. Drew’s eyes remained locked on Reilly’s. “Thanks anyway.”

  With visible effort, Drew broke eye contact and pushed past Reilly to leave the bathroom. Reilly felt a wave of electricity shoot through her at every point their bodies made contact. She shut her eyes and breathed in the faint scent of Drew’s cologne—hints of vanilla and sage—and the unexpected cinnamon. Her lips still tingled from the brief kiss.

  Sylvie leaned against Reilly, her focus on Drew’s retreating form. “That’s a shame. She was fucking hot.” Sylvie’s disappointment didn’t last for long. She turned to Reilly and held out her hand. “That just leaves more for us. Give me the stuff.”

  Wordlessly, Reilly gave Sylvie her purse, and then trailed after her, her thoughts still haunted by Drew’s gorgeous eyes.

  They made their way back to the couches, where they sat, and Sylvie took a small vial from the bag. Reilly’s mouth watered at the sight, but she had other things on her mind.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Sylvie regarded Reilly with a question in her eyes.

  “I can’t promise there will be any left when you get back,” Sylvie called after her.

  Without responding, Reilly waded into the press of bodies outside of the bathroom and her skin vibrated with the sensual throb of the music. She surveyed the hall as she pushed through the milling crowd and tried to follow Drew. She spotted her halfway to the exit and rushed to catch up. She ignored the hands and faces that tried to block her progress and kept her eyes on the back of Drew’s head. Drew’s hair hung in a brilliant curtain of ebony down her back. The colors of the pulsing house lights reflected in its sheen. Reilly itched to run her fingers through its lengths.

  “Drew! Wait!” called Reilly, just as Drew pushed through a door that opened into an alley. There was no bouncer guarding the exit-only door so late into the evening. The door thudded shut and a crash of quiet and dank night air encased them. A couple making out against the opposite wall glanced at them before they went back to their own pursuits. Laughter rose and fell as a group of people passed the mouth of the alley, several feet away.

  Drew stopped and turned. Reilly saw surprise on her face.

  “I’m sorry about that. You’re beautiful, but we shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have—been like that,” she stammered.

  Reilly felt stupid and all out of words. She didn’t know why she had chased a stranger through a crowded club and out into the dark ally. She never chased after women. She didn’t have to. But she needed to undo what had happened in the bathroom.

  Drew tilted her head, a hint of amusement framing her mouth. Reilly stared at the full lips, which lifted into a smile.

  “Is that why you followed me? To tell me that?” asked Drew.

  God, she was so serene, thought Reilly. All traces of intoxication she had felt with Sylvie in the bathroom were gone. In its place, a deep, hypnotic pull held her. Energy pulsed off of everyone else in Hollywood—good or bad—it was always there. She constantly felt it. Pressing at her, inundating her. But she felt something else with this woman. It pulled at her, raising the hair on her arms with the electric intensity of it, but it didn’t invade her. She didn’t know if it aroused or comforted her.

  “Yes. No. Yes,” stammered Reilly. She couldn’t think. “I don’t know what to say, really. Just sorry, I guess.”

  Drew studied her. Reilly wanted to kiss her again. Her lips warmed at the thought.

  “All right,” said Drew with that smile. “Thanks, I guess. My friends are waiting at the car. Good night.”

  And then she was gone. The door to the club opened as a small group of people drained into the alley, and Reilly walked back into a darkness and sound that felt solid as the heavy door slammed shut behind her. The static buzz of the night infused her once again. She wasn’t sure that she liked it, but she was used to it, and the throbbing lights of the techno beat erased the rest of the night.

  Rock Stars and Private Jets

  REILLY LAUGHED AS SHE STUMBLED up the stairs to the private Bombardier Challenger 601 aircraft that was waiting on the tarmac at LAX. The step lights were illuminated, but it was still hard to see her footing. In the last moments before dawn, the thick velvet darkness seemed to mute all light, but her graceless ascent was more about the countless glasses of champagne and lines of cocaine that she had consumed than about the darkness of the path. Paired with the four-inch heels she wore, hers was not a state for optimal stairway navigation. The rangy man in leather pants and black tee shirt on the stairway ahead of her looked back and laughed before he reached down and helped her navigate the rest of the way up the stairs.

  Reilly accepted the help and giggled as she swatted away the other hand that helped her from below—the one that provided balance by cupping her ass. Sylvie just laughed and swatted right back. Everyone was in a good mood and ready to keep the party going.

  “Thanks for saving my life, Brady… I mean Bobby? Brandon?” she said, squinting as she tried to remember his name. She watched his face to see if one of her guesses came close. His eyes weren’t even on hers, though. They were locked on Sylvie’s wandering hands, and even in her inebriation, Reilly fought to keep from rolling her eyes at the display of typical lecherous male attitude. Sylvie played into it, though, by pressing her breasts against Reilly’s back as she mounted the top step behind them.

  “The name’s Brando, Rhonda… I mean, Regina? Rhianna?” teased the lead singer of The Deceased, one of the hottest bands in the world—at least for that week.

  “Well, Brando, I’ll put in a good word for you on the soundtrack of my next movie,” she said. She laughed as he took off his small black hat, part of his signature rock-and-roll style, and bowed as they passed. His greasy hair flopped down and covered his face, and from over his bowed head, she could see half of his scrawny bare ass, pale and conspicuous against the black leather pants and black tee shirt he wore. She sneaked a glance at Sylvie who pretended to lick her lips, and she wondered why women across the globe swooned for him. He reminded her of the immature boys who had gone to her private high school, although most of them had probably bathed more often—not to mention grown up in the years since graduation. But, he was fun to hang out with, based on what she’d experienced in the few hours since they’d first met at the after-hours club somewhere on Sunset. Not wanting the fun to stop, she and Sylvie had accepted his spontaneous invitation to fly across the Atlantic to attend the opening concert of the band’s European tour.

  Reilly had done many things in her twenty-three years of life, but taking off to Europe on a whim, with a band that she had just met
, was not yet one of them. It was still enough to make her feel a little star-struck at her own lifestyle, to be honest, which now literally consisted of rock stars and private jets. She hoped that the constant barrage of new situations she found herself in, thanks to her position at the top of the A-List, would never mute the rush she felt in her blood tonight.

  They entered the cabin and moved toward the center, where two luxurious leather seats faced another set across a dark, wood-topped table. A plush couch sat along one side of the cabin. The inside of the plane was almost as opulent as the trailers Reilly used on set. On a nearby counter, crystal champagne flutes were nestled in rows of satin-lined indentions in wood boxes lying open next to a silver wine bucket filled with ice. A flight attendant smiled at them as she proficiently popped the cork on a bottle of Dom Perignon and then quickly sopped up the minimal frothing with the linen napkin wrapped around it.

  “I can’t wait to get you into the bathroom at thirty-five thousand feet so we can re-enact your initiation into the Mile High Club, baby,” purred Sylvie into Reilly’s ear as they accepted their glasses of sparkling beverage and fell into the leather chairs. Reilly’s sex clenched at the suggestion, and she was glad that Sylvie, in an uncharacteristic show of discretion, had said it quietly enough that she wasn’t overheard. She pulled Sylvie to her, kissed her on the neck, and was rewarded with a small moan.

  It may have been a night of firsts for her, but joining the Mile High Club was not one of them. She and Sylvie had christened a flight to Hawaii earlier in the year, but her first induction into the prestigious club had been on a flight to Vancouver when she was seventeen years old with a pretty businesswoman. Sylvie was under the impression that she had been the one to initiate her though, and Reilly had never tried to correct her.

  Brando and another member of the band dropped into the chairs that faced theirs, tossed back the contents of the glasses they held, and motioned for refills from one of the attentive flight crew that hovered near them in the rear of the cabin. Reilly pulled away from Sylvie and fiddled with her seatbelt when she saw Brando elbow his band mate and nod toward her and Sylvie with a grin. She knew that look. It was the look of an entitled male who thought he was going to be invited to partake in some sexy time with her and Sylvie. Boy, was he sorely mistaken. Aside from his unfortunate gender, the greasy hair made her want to gag.

  She got downright pissed, though, when she saw Brando grab the flight attendant’s ass. Reilly was a little too drunk and high to understand why, but her pulse thundered when she watched him yank the woman into his lap and plant a sloppy kiss on her mouth. The attendant, in an impressive show of professionalism and restraint, tried to mask her displeasure, but Reilly, a master herself, could spot the performance a mile away. She saw a shadow of revulsion flutter across the attendant’s face even as she laughed, albeit closed mouthed, and smacked him across his chest, before she pushed herself back up to her feet and went on with her preflight routine. Reilly mentally retracted the soundtrack offer.

  “Line it up, Chris. We should all be flying high before the plane even leaves the ground,” crowed Brando. He smacked his leg as he watched the other musician retrieve a baggie of white powder from the guitar case that his buddy was strapping into the couch across from him. The guitar got more respect than the flight attendant.

  “More champagne, sir?” asked another flight attendant. She topped off each flute and offered them each a linen napkin and a piece of fruit, while she ignored the drugs spread out on the table before them.

  “To rock and roll!” said Brando lifting his glass and grabbing the flight attendant’s ass as he took a long drink.

  “To rock and roll,” repeated Sylvie and Chris, while Reilly just held her glass. She was beginning to regret agreeing to the trip.

  “That stewardess is going to get a big tip after this flight,” said Brando, watching the attendant walk away with the empty bottle.

  “Right on, man. A big old tip,” smiled Chris, glassy-eyed, as he dumped a generous pile of fine white powder onto the surface of the table in front of him.

  Reilly felt the familiar tingle in her gums at the sight of the drug, and her thoughts were redirected from the unwanted leers and gropes as Brando held out a glass tube to her and she leaned over. A minute later, the feel of Sylvie’s hand inching up under her skirt as she inhaled her second line of cocaine was the only thing on her mind. It made her forget that she didn’t much like Brando, who was watching with a crooked grin on his face, while his fingers traced the length of a pronounced bulge in his leather pants.

  The Morning Show

  REILLY CLENCHED HER JAW AS the interview rolled on. She should have known where he had been headed as soon as the shellac-coifed host of The Morning Show, Tristan Powers, complimented her on how sexy and feminine she appeared.

  “You must admit. It’s surprising, all things considered,” he said, leaning forward to rest his chin on the fist he propped up on the arm of his upholstered chair.

  His liquid brown eyes gazed at her across the ubiquitous talk show coffee table between them. His hair was distracting; too perfect, too blond, swept across his brow, just avoiding a too-youthful adolescent appearance. It bobbed en masse as he nodded at his own words. She had to admit, he knew how to dance on the edge of lechery without actually going there, lest he come off as one of the playboys he liked to interview so much. It wouldn’t play well with his target demographic.

  “You’re so beautiful, Reilly. The epitome of feminine. The perfect mix of today’s California surfer girl and Sandra Dee,” said Tristan. “You have to know about the rumors. It’s just so confusing.”

  Donning an air of deliberate bewilderment, he sat back, wove his fingers together over his crossed knees, and lifted his shoulders, waiting for her to respond. He should talk about looking feminine, thought Reilly, taking in his pouty red lips, expressive eyes and perfect unlined brow. Even by industry standards, he wore too much makeup.

  She could feel one of her eyelids starting to twitch in annoyance, and she regretted the line of coke that she had done right before going on. But she had needed it to clear the cobwebs. It was barely dawn in New York, making it the middle of the night in Los Angeles where her bed was, and she wasn’t used to getting up before noon regardless of where she was. Not between movies, anyhow. Besides, she had stayed up far too late the night before partying it up in the Big Apple. She had been less than coherent as the sun nudged its way above the Atlantic and her wakeup call had pulled her from a catatonic sleep. The little bump of coke she had taken to clear the fog amplified her reactions, and she felt her blood pressure soar at the line of questions that she was getting from the merkin-helmeted morning host.

  She smiled and pushed a strand of hair from her forehead.

  “Come on Tristan! Doesn’t your wife get upset when you flirt like this with your guests?” she teased, shooting a glance at Melinda Powers, who sat in a matching chair next to her husband and co-host. Reilly hoped her good-natured hint would change the path of the interview.

  Tristan laughed.

  “Oh, Melinda agrees,” he said answering for his wife, and favoring the former Miss America with an adoring gaze. He placed a hand on her knee, and sugar dripped from his voice. His teeth gleamed too white against his glossed lips. “We were talking about it just the other day, weren’t we, Mel?”

  Melinda just chuckled and nodded her spun-gold head—the same color and texture as her co-host’s—as she beamed back at him. They stared just a beat too long into each other’s eyes, and Reilly heard the collective sigh of five million feminine viewers, clenching their hands to their chests in heartfelt gushiness. She almost threw up into her own mouth.

  Reilly wondered how they could stand each other. Their show of adoration was a contrived façade, she was sure. The confusing thing was that they acted no different when the cameras weren’t on them. When the producer had brought her by their dressing room when she arrived on set before the show, she had heard them talki
ng to each other as she neared their open door. Her blood sugar had spiked just hearing the saccharine banter. Maybe it was real. Who was she to judge? It didn’t matter. It made her nauseous.

  At the same time, Reilly knew that Melinda knew exactly what team Reilly batted for. When Melinda wasn’t with her husband, she was a different woman. She was smart and engaging. She was funny and had something to say.

  Reilly discovered the real Melinda Powers when she sat next to her at a celebrity fundraiser for breast cancer research a few months earlier. As they had waited for the tardy keynote speaker to arrive, they had sat shoulder-to-shoulder at the head table in the fancy ballroom, and Melinda had pointed out each woman in the room and asked Reilly which ones she was attracted to. Reilly had had just enough mimosas to go along with the little game, and she hadn’t thought of it since. Until that moment.

  Reilly blamed her mother for the media’s fascination with her sexuality. Her mother/manager forbade Reilly from confirming or denying it “on the record,” and insisted that Reilly accompany her male co-stars to most events, even while the paparazzi snapped pictures of her dancing the night away with her girlfriend. It was an elaborate ruse to keep the public guessing. If it were up to Reilly, she’d be one hundred percent out of the closet. It was who she was. Who she had always known she was. But, Reilly’s mother knew a promotional angle when she saw one, and she played the game in a very deliberate way to draw and attract the widest swath of audience.

  Autopilot on, Reilly bantered with her hosts and held her sighs of pent up resentment inside.

  It wasn’t like the world would ever know the real her, anyway. Even if she were the straight, girl-next-door box office cutie everyone wanted her to be. The world saw her the way they wanted to see her, and her mother tugged her puppet strings. It was the way it was, and it worked. Still, it pissed Reilly off. Especially when she had to act the coquette with a plastic tool like Tristan Powers. She hated that the game dictated that she laugh at his ridiculous, and often hurtful, jokes alongside his Harvard-educated wife, who dumbed herself down just for ratings on national television.