“Adam!” A dark-haired, nerdy, cute guy wearing trendy glasses waves from the hallway.
Adam waves back then says to me, “I need to talk to him.”
“Go,” I say. “Do you know where I can find Jake?”
“He’s either in the family room or in his office.”
“And they are located where?”
“Family room’s down the hall. Office is in a bungalow behind the pool. He hides out there a lot lately.”
“Thanks.”
“Catch you later, Cookie. If you need anything mention my name.”
I wander into the family room. Melody, the jealous brunette with the too short skirt is with her Pussy Posse standing next to an old-fashioned juke box. They talk behind raised hands, barely covering checking me out. No doubt they’re judging my outfit. No doubt they’re finding something wrong with it. Slender pins of jealousy prick my skin and I imagine slipping on a Teflon coat. Undoubtedly, they’d judge that ‘last year’ as well.
Nikki’s playing pool with a few guys at the far end of the room. They’re all laughing. Her hair’s down, she’s unbuttoned the top buttons on her crisp white shirt and has ditched her shoes. She’s leaning over the pool table aiming at the eight ball, killing it with the guys who look like they’re in love with her.
I get a feeling Nikki doesn’t allow herself a lot of down time. I don’t want to interrupt her happiness. Don’t want to make her think she’s got to take care of any more business tonight. I keep edging through the crowd. Floor to ceiling French doors open to a wide backyard. I stare out at the twinkling Italian lights strung at intervals high above the lawn.
A nine-foot wrought iron fence surrounds the property, which abruptly drops off into a dark canyon. Tucked in a far corner is a pristine, rectangular cobalt blue pool with tea lights resting on saucers floating on the surface. The glow is magical against the blue of the pool and the black of the canyon. A bungalow sits at the edge of the property. Through the drawn shades there’s a soft glow from a lamp.
Stepping outside, the music’s softer, the night air carries a cool breeze scented with cedar logs and pine. Flames flicker in a fire pit to my left. A silver-haired man and a curvy woman sit close to it, nursing drinks and carrying on an animated discussion. I recognize the woman. She’s Jake’s publicist, Pinkie Stein. Streaks of her signature fuchsia and silver strands woven through her Champagne-colored, shoulder-length hair.
“You need to stop crowding him, Ray,” Pinkie says. “Stop hiring experts. Stop pushing people at him. He’ll figure it out.”
“This is the last one. Promise,” Ray says. “I let Adam talk me into it in a moment of weakness. ‘Everyone who’s anyone’s talking about this girl,’ he said. I researched and he was right.”
“Like who?” Pinkie asks.
“Dominic Butler from VMI Music was bleeding money. Busted his ass left, right, and center, and still couldn’t score a hit for two years. He didn’t know if he was picking the wrong songs, or over-producing or under-producing the tunes. He second guessed himself so much he started calling his fiancée by his girlfriend’s name and vice versa.”
“Yikes,” Pinky says. “Messy.”
“Yeah, that didn’t go over all that well. They both dumped him and kept the jewelry as well as the cars.”
“I remember when TMZ broke that one. Tell me more.”
“Dominic hired this girl, the one who’s coming here to help Jake. She moved in with him for a few weeks. Figured out his problem had nothing to do with music. That Dominic had lost his mojo back in high school when his parents split up. For some reason he felt responsible that he couldn’t make their marriage work. He sucked up all that energy and internalized it. He was doing the same thing in his business twenty-five years later. Repeating the pattern. Not realizing his past was running him.”
“This girl,” Pinkie says. “She broke him open, helped him have an epiphany?”
“Yes,” Ray says. “Once Dominic realized where it was coming from he moved on that knowledge. He stopped taking responsibility for what wasn’t his. Got his shit together, figured out his brand. He produced the right artists with the right songs. Did what he knew in his gut would work. Bam – it did. Bam – he won a handful of Grammys last year. Bam – he’s back on track and his bank account proves it.”
“What do we know about this woman you hired?”
“Astronomically priced call girl,” Ray says. “An operation out of Chicago. For all I know it’s mob related. Wouldn’t that make for great fucking tabloid headlines. ‘JAKE KELLER CONSORTING WITH MOB PROSTITUTE!”
My heart twists in my chest at the same time my stomach nosedives and my self-respect splatters in bloody bits across the pavement.
“Ma Maison?” Pinkie asks.
“How did you know?”
“I’m in PR. Ma Maison has a few girls who specialize in tough cases. These women are rumored to be excellent at what they do. The rest are average. Did you get one of the good ones?”
“What do you mean?”
I’m not sure if I’m one of “the good ones,” average ones, or bad ones because I’m feeling dirty. Shamed. I turn and head to the bungalow. The light shines through the thick fabric, glowing around the edges. I take a deep breath, take a moment to center, ground, and pray.
Dear God.
I made it here safe and sound, thank You. Thought I’d get you up to speed. It seems that Jake has a fair number of people around him with their own agendas. Help me to remember that I’ve only got one: Crack Jake Keller open. Track down what hurt him. Expose that lie. I’m here to help him heal. Get the poison out. I appreciate any help, God. Any guidance you can throw my way. And this I ask for in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
I cross myself then spot a glimpse of Jake through a gap between the blind and the window frame. He shuts down his computer and grabs keys from the desktop. Do I knock? Do I not knock? Do I just hover here indecisively like some creepy stalker?
Wait. Hold up. What am I doing? I am totally spying on this guy. I’m invading his personal space. Sure, I didn’t stride in unannounced and rifle through his underwear drawer, but I’m still being an asshole. Ugh, this is not who I am.
I step away from the bungalow, and make my way back toward the pool. I wasn’t hired to be a peeping Tom. I certainly don’t like it when folks invade my privacy.
Jake strides out of the bungalow. and makes his way toward the house. He doesn’t see me.
“Jake!” I call.
He doesn’t turn. I don’t think he heard me over the noise of the party. I start to follow him when someone squeezes my arm. I know before I even turn around that the person who has me in his firm grasp has a smooth, large, cool palm and a steel grip. He means business. “Evelyn?”
I swivel and look up into cold eyes. The eyes of a shark. Eyes that only want one thing.
“Yes?”
“Ray Stark.”
“I know.”
“Is peeking into windows going to help you peer inside Jake Keller’s soul?”
“I don’t know… No… Let go of me.” I shake free from his grasp, but probably only because he allows me to.
“Glad you’re here. We need to discuss your strategy,” he says, his breath growing rapid, his nostrils flaring. “There’s a lot riding on this.”
“Right. I hear you. But now’s not the time for strategizing.”
I hustle away from him because Jake’s already disappearing from my sight, stepping back inside the house.
“Evelyn!” Ray calls after me but I don’t even break stride.
By the time I set foot in the kitchen a sweat’s broken out on my forehead. Adam’s still schmoozing with the guy with glasses. “Where’s Jake?” I ask.
He points to the laundry room. I edge as fast as I can through the crowd that’s thinning out. I trip over one of the baskets filled with clothes, and catch myself on the washing machine. An engine revs. I throw open the garage door. Jake, on his motorcycle, is ru
mbling out onto the street. I call after him again, but he’s already peeling off. He disappears around a curve in the road.
So much for strategy.
So much for healing.
I turn and head back to my room.
I turn on the TV, check messages, and an hour later I’m so tired my eyes are swimming. I scrub off my makeup, pull on my jammies, and open the window.
A soft breeze wafts in, carrying hints of lavender and rose petals. It’s nothing like the muggy summer Chicago air around my condo that smells like garbage spiked with urine. Outside a vine of white roses trails up to my window. I collapse back onto the queen-sized feather top bed, and snuggle under the light down comforter.
A low but persistent knock-knock-knock on my door startles me awake. The clock on the side table reads a little after 2 a.m. It’s probably Adam Mr. No Boundaries wanting to spend the night again. “Go away,” I say. “We’ll talk later.”
“Okay,” a guy says, but it’s not Adam Bachman. It’s Jake Keller and my heart practically leaps out of my chest. I vault out of the bed, open the door and peer out. Jake is stumbling down the hallway, his arms out-stretched, ping-ponging between opposite walls in an attempt to steady himself. He’s treading that thin line between medium drunk and super drunk. “Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”
“Nothing. It’s too late,” he says and waves one hand dismissively. “Or maybe too early. Shouldn’t have knocked. Sorry.”
I glance down at my PJs. I didn’t plan on sharing my “I love Queen’s Falafels” T-shirt with short shorts in public. I hustle down the hallway, just in time to see Jake lean against a wall and slide down it. “It’s not too late,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“Thought we could talk. Probably not the smartest, the best, I mean, not a good idea.”
“We can talk,” I say.
“Easy for you to say. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a little drunk.”
“Get out,” I say and grin.
He grins back. A sloppy smile but sweet nonetheless. “I knew from the second I saw you that nothing would get past you.”
I hold out a hand to him. “Lots of things get past me.”
He takes my hand. “I have a problem, Evie.”
“What’s the problem?” I hoist him up.
He sways and points in one direction, then the other. “Your room’s that way. Mine’s the other.”
“Got it.” I place a steadying hand on his arm. “So, what’s the actual problem?”
“I’m lost.” He looks up at me with those eyes. Those eyes that could talk a girl into doing just about anything.
“You want me to help you find your room? I don’t know where it is but I bet I can figure that out.”
“Not the room I’m worried about. Don’t care ’bout the damn room,” he says. “It’s everything else. Everything else is just too much and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve tried.”
He’s melting down. But drunken meltdowns usually don’t reveal all that much. They’re just messy. “What have you tried?” I ask.
“Booze. Therapy. Working too hard. Sleeping pills. Fucking the wrong girls. Gardening. Exercise. Weed. Therapy. Oh, and potato chips.”
“I see. Is there anything you haven’t tried?”
“Yes,” he says. “You. Can I sleep with you tonight?”
7
A Thousand Tears
A THOUSAND TEARS
Back in my room I try not to watch as Jake unzips his jeans, yanks them off and tosses them. God help me I see that perfect ass up close and personal. As much as I try to avert my eyes, I’d lay money there’s not a butt implant to be found in this room.
He collapses, half naked, on my bed with a thunk, and rips off his T-shirt, arms flailing. And now all the goods are on display. And yes, they are magnificent. His body is every bit as tight and taught and ripped as every girl, guy, and grandmother might imagine.
“Evie,” he says. “Don’t take this the wrong way. I overdid it.”
“Everyone’s been there.”
“I don’t feel so good. I think I’m just going to hit the sack tonight.”
“That works for me.”
He reaches for the comforter but he’s managed to tangle it around his ankles. “Help, please.”
I wrangle the covers over him, trying not to stare at his sculpted chest that’s distracted me in movies, TV, and on magazine stands. Trying not to stare at everything else male and magnificent on display.
‘Focus, Evie,’ Hope says.
‘You try and focus, bitch,’ Queasy snaps.
I try to find anything else in the room that looks interesting. Aha. The plump loveseat in the alcove next to the window looks super comfy. Now that Jake’s in my bed I can sleep on that.
“Evie.” Jake pats the bed. “Sit with me.”
I do.
“I’m not really a drinker,” he says. “Just had a bad night.”
“I can tell.” Dear God, this man is handsome.
“Nikki said you were really nice. Adam said you’ll figure out what’s wrong with me.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I’d be grateful. Have you ever felt lost? Turned around?”
“Yes.” He has no idea how many times.
“Did you ever figure it out?” He looks at me with those eyes.
“I’m working on that.” I soothe a wayward lock of hair off his forehead.
“Sleep with me, Evie.” He pats the pillow next to him. “Only sleep. Nothing else. Promise.”
I lie down facing him when I’m struck by how surreal this moment is. I’m a girl from Chicago with a crazy Mom and a sister with a bad boyfriend picker. I’m an escort –assumed to be a prostitute. Holy shit on a shingle, how many people would kill to be in my position?
“Evie.” Jake traces a finger across my face, down my neck and out of nowhere my breath grows raspy, my throat thickens, and I can’t breathe. The sadness of a thousand tears fills my throat, threatening to tear me to pieces.
“Ray said this is costing us a fortune. He says you’d better be worth it,” Jake says. “But, you know, Ray can be a giant dick.”
I am the casket at the bottom of a freshly dug grave suffocating in dirty truths that must be revealed or they will bury me. Panic, shock, anger and fear hijack my breath, smothering me with despair. Jake’s despair. It blisters from my throat, oozing shame. Its roots twist through my chest, snake into my heart, and then disappear deep inside me. I know that this despair is an empathic reaction. And yet it breaks my heart that it belongs to Jake.
‘Breathe, Evie,’ Queasy says.
‘Breathe,’ Hope says.
If I can ride this out, if I can hold onto his pain, maybe I can figure out where it came from. Maybe I can figure out what or who hurt him. Determine the words that Jake needs to say. The words that will set him free.
He kisses me softly then presses a finger to my lower lip. “I’m sorry about tonight, Evie. Sorry for interrupting you so late. Sorry for… thanks for letting me stay.” He closes his eyes and within seconds he’s asleep.
I stare at the ceiling counting my inhales and exhales as the minutes tick by. My breath is raspy and desperate, like an old man on a ventilator clinging to the last bits of life. But I know now where the poison exists in Jake’s body. It’s in his throat. It’s in his chest. And I know that I can find it again and figure out whatever it is that’s shutting him down. And then I can help him heal.
Maybe I’m the girl who’s wearing something basic.
Maybe I’m the girl who is shamed for being an escort.
And maybe I’ll be the girl who saves the fucking day.
The following morning the sun’s shining through the windows. I am alone in the bed. Jake is gone. Sleep has this way of re-setting the machine. Jake was drunk last night, drowning in booze and sadness. If he was dating Ruby I’d tell her to be careful. But he’s not dating my sister, nor is he dating me. He’s my client. I’m a professional, and this is a jo
b, pure and simple.
I shower, get dressed, and grab my phone. Messages ping through, the last from Dylan McAlister. High stakes poker player. Former church baby. Along with his brother, one of the heirs to the throne of the Lighthouse Cathedral empire. My part-time boyfriend, the man I fell in love with almost two years ago, and the guy who keeps threatening to put a ring on my finger but doesn’t, hasn’t – whatever – because according to him the timing isn’t right.
I had a gig in Mexico about six months ago and scheduled a long layover when I flew through Dallas so I could spend some time with Dylan’s mom. I love Rosemary McAlister. She’s a feisty, sixty-something, take-no-bullshit woman who’s been battling breast cancer for a few years. She met me at a bar close to the airport where we sat next to each other in a little booth and talked for a couple of hours.
“Dylan’s starting to piss me off,” Rosemary said. “Maybe I shouldn’t say anything, but I consider myself somewhat entitled. I’m the only mother he’ll ever have.”
“Truth,” I said. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s been over a year since you two met. I was hoping he’d have slipped a sizable, pretty ring on your finger by now.”
“Dylan does things his way,” I said. “There’s no forcing him to do anything he’s not ready to do.”
“He’s taking his good, old sweet time,” she said. “He always gives me a cashmere sweater for Christmas, a fruit basket, and gift certificates. Do you think I can exchange those for you as my new daughter-in-law?”
“Ha!”
“Are you going to put the fear of God into him or do you want me to?”
“You,” I said, and tried to cover a smile. But Rosemary McAlister wasn’t the kind of person you could easily hide smiles or anything else from, which is why it threw me when she grabbed my hand and squeezed it.
“Promise me one thing, Evie,” she said.
“Anything.”
“Don’t wait for Dylan. If someone else comes along who loves you as fiercely but is willing to commit I want you to go for it.”
MOVIE STAR Page 5
