Hollywood Secrets

by Gemma Halliday

  “Fernando asked that I take this one. As a personal favor.”

  She frowned, biting the corner of her lip. “Okay. I guess,” she said. Then handed me a tub of gooey stuff that smelled like more lavender.

  “She’s all yours,” she said, walking out.

  I looked down at the prone actress laying perfectly still on the table. I wondered if she was asleep or just going into a zen like state in anticipation of the wax to come.

  I looked down at the tub in my hands. I stirred it with the wooden stick. Not to get into TMI territory, but I’ve never been a huge fan of waxing. Mostly because I’m not a huge fan of pain. Just once I’d been suckered into it. I’d been up late, watching infomercials, and some Australian woman came on touting a no-pain waxing kit. I’d ordered one (Hey, they were not sold in stores and they threw in a second kit absolutely free!), and as soon as it arrived in the mail (just four to six weeks later), I’d smothered my legs in the patented wax formula, then applied the reusable organic cotton strips and let ‘er rip.

  I howled louder than my neighbors cat in heat. No pain my ass! My legs had been covered in red stripes for a week. I’d been a strictly Nair gal since then.

  “I have to be on set in an hour,” the woman beneath the sheet said, jarring me from my painful memory. “So, not to rush you, but…” she said, trailing off.”

  “Right. Sure.”

  I looked down at the items the white coated woman had set out on the side table. A pile of little white cotton strips and a bottle of essential oils. Okay, sure. Easy. What was there to it but wax on, wax off, right?

  I stirred the lavender scented wax again as I lifted the sheet to reveal my starlet au natural.

  I scooped a bit of the wax with my wooden stick, then slapped it on her inner thigh.

  “So,” I said, smoothing out the warm glob. “You are awesome on Lady Justice.”

  “Thanks,” she said, eyes still closed behind her relaxation pillow. “It’s a great show to work on. The writers are awesome.”

  “Yeah. I can tell.” I laid a white cotton strip down on the wax glob. I gritted my teeth and pulled.

  “Ouch! Oh mama, that hurts!”

  I winced. “Sorry.” Though I noticed fine hairs on the strip I’d pulled away. Okay, so far so good.

  I laid down another glob of wax next to the bare spot, moving inward.

  “I guess you must meet a lot of interesting people on the show?”

  “Sure,” she agreed. “A lot of porn stars come guest for us. Though, I wish they didn’t show quite so much skin. Makes it hard for people to take me seriously as an actress- holy mother of God!”

  Dana jumped on the table as I ripped another strip off.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled again, watching her skin redden. On the up side, it was smooth as a baby’s butt.

  “That’s okay,” Dana gritted through her teeth. “No pain, no bikini, right?’

  “Right.” I laid down another glob just that much farther inward.

  “So, speaking of interesting people… did Chester Barker work on your show?”

  “Barker?”

  “Yeah. The producer?”

  “Oh, right. The dead guy.” She paused a moment. “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “Oh, no reason. I just wondered if you knew him. Or had ever visited his house,” I said, watching her expression closely. (Well, as closely as I could with half her face obscured under lavender scented bliss.)

  She shrugged under the sheet. “I think I might have met him once at a party or something. But, no, I’ve never seen his house.” She paused. “Why do you want to know about his place?

  Actually, I could care less about his place. It was who had been there the night of his murder I was interested in. “Oh, no reason,” I lied. “I just heard it was a spectacular home, that’s all.”

  “Oh. Well, I wouldn’t know.”

  Bummer.

  I mentally recalculated my tactic as I laid down another cotton strip and pulled.

  “Hot damn!” Dana’s right foot jumped in the air, narrowly avoiding the tub of wax in my hands. “You sure you know what you’re doing? Olga’s waxes never hurt quite this much.”

  “Sorry,” I said on autopilot. “Hey, you know, that was a great hat you were wearing when you came in,” I said, gesturing the ballcap on the chair.

  “What? Oh, right. Yeah, thanks.”

  “It looks very unique. I’ve never seen that design before.” I laid another glob of wax down, this one ensuring she could go Brazilian.

  “Actually,” Dana responded, “they handed those hats out to everyone on the Lady Justice set at the beginning of the season.”

  “Oh.” I felt my spirits sink, my chance at hopping on the Barker train slipping through my fingers. “Everyone got one?”

  She nodded. “Yep. Everyone on set that day. All the cast, crew, producers, everyone.”

  Great. What was that, like two hundred people? So much for narrowing my suspect down.

  “Oh, hey! You know what?”

  “What?” I asked, laying down the next cotton strip.

  “You were asking about Barker’s place earlier, right?’

  “Yes?”

  “Well, one of the execs who works on our show might know more about what his home was like. He’s Barker’s business partner. Or, was, I guess.”

  Bingo.

  “Barker’s partner worked on Lady Justice?” I confirmed.

  “Yep. He was on set all season.”

  “So, he would own one of these ballcaps, too?”

  “Um, I guess so.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Alec Davies.”

  What did you want to bet that the shadowy figure outside Barker’s was Alec Davies?

  “Fabulous. Thanks!” I said.

  Then I ripped the last white strip off.

  In hindsight, maybe my excitement at having a real lead made me a little too vigorous.

  “Sonofa-“ Dana lifted off the table, her right foot kicking in the air, connecting squarely with the tub of wax in my hand. Which tipped over, spilling white, sticky stuff.

  All over me.

  I looked down. My pink blouse and skirt were completely covered in wax, not to mention my hands, legs, and cleavage area.

  Dana pulled the lavender pillow off her eyes. “Oh, wow. Sorry.” She frowned. “Maybe next time I should just ask for Olga.”

  Ya’ think?

  “I’ll go get her now,” I promised, feeling the wax set up as I slipped out the door.

  I looked down at my watch. Twenty minutes until the Informer edition closed for the day. If I sped, there was a slim chance I could make it to the office before we went to print.

  I ripped off the white coat (taking a few waxed arm hairs with it) and took my sticky self back out through the lobby.

  “Allie?” Marco looked up, a wrinkle of confusion on his forehead. “What are you doing here again?”

  Oops. I’d forgotten about him.

  “Uh. Hi. I, uh, forgot something in the back…” I said, trailing off. I ducked my head down to cover my terribly delivered lie and made for the front doors.

  Unfortunately, with my head ducked in shame, I failed to see the edge of Marco’s desk, bumping into it. Which jostled the sign he’d been making. And the bottle of glitter. Dumping the entire thing down the front of me.

  Glitter stuck to the semi-hardened wax, turning me into a kindergartener’s project. Or a Brittany Spears costume.

  “Oh, honey,” Marco said, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Look at you sparkle, girl!”

  I closed my eyes, thought a really bad word, then plowed my sparkly self out through the doors.

  I looked down at my watch. 4:42. I had 18 minutes left.

  I ran to my bug, revved the engine, and pulled into traffic down Wilshire while I simultaneously flipped my laptop open on the passenger seat beside me and powered it on. At the next red light, I opened my speech-to-type program.

 
“A shadowy figure was seen outside Chester barker’s estate the night of his death, and we have an exclusive on his identity,” I said out loud, watching the words appear as type on my screen.

  The light changed, and I surged forward, continuing to dictate what I’d learned at Fernando’s as I crossed town.

  Exactly sixteen minutes later, I screeched into the lot of the Informer, grabbed my laptop, and flew out of my car, not even bothering to beep it locked behind me.

  I shoved through the building’s front doors, stabbing the up button on the elevator. I waited a two count. Too long! I took the stairs two at a time in my heels, hit the second floor, and ran into the newsroom, weaving through the cubes toward Felix’s office. 4:59. Thirty seconds left. I didn’t bother knocking, shoving my shoulder into Felix’s door and pushing my way in. Felix was behind his desk, Tina hovering just to his right, a piece of paper in hand. No doubt, her take on Barker’s shadowy figure. I mentally crossed my fingers, hoping for once my informers trumped hers.

  “Stop the presses!” I yelled. I dropped my computer down on Felix’s desk with a thud.

  He looked down at my laptop. Then up at me as I panted like an Olympic sprinter. (The Stairmaster at the gym was one thing, but have you ever tried to run up metal fire stairs in three inch heels and a mini skirt? I think I deserved at least the silver for that.) Felix raised an eyebrow at the wax and glitter covering my entire person (and, incidentally, now all of my car upholstery), but had the good sense not to mention it. Instead, he gestured to my laptop and asked, “What’s this?”

  “The Chester Barker story you’re running in tomorrow’s edition.”

  He raised the other eyebrow, but reserved comment, looking down at the copy typed on the screen.

  Tina, on the other hand, never reserved her comments.

  “What the hell! Barker is my story, New Girl.”

  I hated it when she called me New Girl. I’d been here almost a year. And just because I was new didn’t mean I wasn’t good. New was fresh. New was hungry. And, I thought, not able to hide my smirk, new had just beat her to the headline.

  “Then I’m sure you know who the figure outside Chester’s house is,” I countered.

  She opened her mouth to respond, did a couple guppy faces, then shut it. Clearly she did not.

  “I take it that you do?” Felix asked me, his eyes quickly scanning the copy.

  I nodded triumphantly. “I do, indeed. Alec Davies.”

  Felix glanced up at me. “The producer?”

  “Correct. And he was Chester Barker’s partner.”

  “How did you get this information?” Tina asked, dancing around Felix, trying to read my copy over his shoulder.

  I shrugged. “I have my sources.”

  “What kind of sources?” Felix pressed. “This is a pretty big accusation to make blind.”

  “The hat,” I said. “The one with the snake on it that the figure was wearing in the photo? They gave them out to the cast and crew of Lady Justice. Davies worked on that show. He owns the hat.”

  “So must dozens of other people,” Tina jumped in. “If they gave them to everyone on the set, it’s hardly a one-of-a-kind.”

  “True,” I conceded. “But, it’s quite a coincidence. What are the chances anyone else on the set had that close of a connection to Barker?”

  Felix paused a moment, taking in both of our arguments. Finally he said, “Well done, Allie.”

  I felt my chest swell with pride. “So you’ll print it?”

  Felix nodded slowly. “Let me read it over first, but if it’s solid, yes, it will lead tomorrow’s edition.”

  Tina threw her hands up on the air. “Oh, come on! You gave me this story.”

  “Did you know about Davies?” Felix asked, turning on her.

  “Well, no, not exactly. But I have some very good feelers out there right now.”

  “Great. Let me know when those pan out. In the meantime, Allie, I want you to follow up with Davies tomorrow at the studio. Find out what he was doing there and what he knows about Barker’s death.”

  “Yes, sir!” I did a mock salute, glitter raining down onto his brown carpet.”

  Tina rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe this shit. You’re giving my headline to the glitter queen.”

  “Tina,” Felix warned.

  But she plowed ahead. “Though, why should I be surprised. It’s no secret she’s editor’s pet.”

  “Tina…”

  “I mean, we all know the only reason you even hired her was because she waltzed in here with her shirt unbuttoned to her navel and her skirt hiked to her do-da.”

  “Bender!” Felix shouted. “That’s enough.”

  Tina shut her mouth with a click.

  “If and when your leads get back to you, type it up,” Felix barked. “Until then, Allie is lead on Barker. Do I make myself clear?”

  Tina shot me a look that could freeze Mt. Saint Helens. “Crystal,” she spit out.

  “Good. Dismissed, Bender.”

  Tina turned and stalked out of the office, clomping her boots all the way back to her cube.

  I watched her go, feeling my satisfaction at besting her slowly slip down a notch.

  Felix almost never raised his voice. In fact, I’d only heard him do it a handful of times. He was forceful, yes. Commanding, yes. But, in true Brit fashion, he was almost always in control of his emotions. So, the fact that Tina had rattled him meant she must have hit a nerve.

  I paused in the doorway. I knew I should just take my story and go. But instead I turned to my boss.

  “Um, Felix?”

  “What?” he asked. His eyes were still dark, flashes of navy shooting through them as his chest rose and fell faster than normal.

  I bit my lip. “I have to ask… you gave me the story because I’m a good journalist, right?”

  He gave me a blank look.

  “What I mean is… what Tina said has no merit, right? When you hired me, it was totally because you knew what a great writer I was and that I would deliver copy and sell papers for you. And not…” I trailed off, feeling my cheeks tinge pink, really wishing I’d just left it at “I was awesome and Tina was not.”

  Felix’s eyes met mine, his sandy eyebrows still hovering menacingly over his blue eyes. “And not what, Allie? Spit it out.”

  I took a deep breath. And spit.

  “And not because we slept together?”

  HOLLYWOOD CONFESSIONS

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  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  of the brand new

  Anna Smith-Nick Dade Thriller

  by Gemma Halliday:

  PLAY NICE

  Prologue

  “Take it off.”

  Anya looked across the over-furnished room at the man who’d issued the command. General Fedorov. Fifties, salt and pepper hair, eyes as dark as two bottomless pits. He took a deceptively casual position, leaning back in a plush, velvet armchair, one leg crossed over the other. But Anya wasn’t fooled. She could see the tension still present in his limbs, as if he were ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. He held a lit cigar in one hand, the cloyingly sweet scent tickling her nostrils as she complied, slipping the strap of her dress down her right shoulder, then the left. She shimmed her hips until it fell to the floor, leaving her bare beneath his gaze but for the red, patent leather heels on her feet.

  “Like this?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  Fedorov nodded, looked her up and down. A flicker of appreciation crossed his sharp features. He took another long drag from the cigar, as if dragging in the sight of her, then slowly blew it up toward the ceiling.

  “Come closer.”

  Her stomach clenched. But she did. Her long legs crossing the distance between them until she was standing directly in front of him, so close she could feel the heat emanating from his body.

  “And now?” she asked.

  “Kneel down.”

  Again, Anya did as s
he was told, her bare knees hitting the cool marble floor. She swallowed a shot of apprehension, noticing the growing bulge beneath his tailored slacks.

  You’ve done this a thousand times before. You can do it again.

  One last time.

  “And now?” she asked. Even though she knew full well what “and now” would be. They’d been watching him for weeks. They knew his habits, his mannerisms, what kind of soap he washed with in the morning and what color socks he wore at night. What kind of cigars he smoked and what kind of recreation he indulged in. Blondes. Expensive ones. If they were lucky, he let them leave in the morning. Others became just another casualty of war.

  Fedorov reached out, trailing a finger down Anya’s cheek. His hands were rough, calloused, like him. She shivered but leaned into his touch all the same, doing a kitten-like mew deep in her throat. He gave an answering groan, telling her she’d done her research well. He liked.

  His hand left her face, and Anya could swear she felt her skin sigh in relief. Fedorov moved to set his cigar down, his free hand reaching for his zipper.

  “No. Let me,” Anya purred, sliding her hands up the expensive wool fabric that covered his thighs. “Please,” she begged.

  A smirk crossed his features before he picked up his cigar again.

  He liked it when they begged.

  She smiled up at him, holding his eyes as she slowly lowered his zipper. She did another feminine coo, letting her eyes flicker to him as she licked her lips.

  He chuckled, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes in anticipation.

  Anya’s heart pounded in her chest, her hands shook. No matter how many times she did this, nerves always hit her. She supposed some small part of her was glad. At least it was a sign she was still human, still had some notion of right and wrong. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath.

  Then quickly thrust the zipper back upward, jamming Fedorov’s scrotum in the sharp teeth.

  He howled, hands going to his crotch as he jumped to his feet.

  But not quickly enough. Anya’s right hand shot out and grabbed the double action revolver he always kept strapped to his right ankle. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t think, didn’t feel.