by Selena Kitt
“Good. Thank you, Rayne.”
“Will you head back to Phoenix?” Trinity asks.
I shake my head. “No, I need to get away from everyone for a while. I’ll let you know where I’m going when I get there.”
I grab my purse and head down the hall. Rayne is on my heel the whole way. “Thanks again, Rayne,” I say as I hit the button for the elevator.
“Anytime, Cami. Please don’t hesitate to let me know if I can get you anything.” I hear the chime of the elevator’s arrival and the doors slide open.
I nod, turn, and step in.
Chapter Three
Calvin, my driver, stops in front of the Hawaiian Airlines section of LAX. I step out of the car, and the warmth of the sun kisses my bare shoulders; I’ve traded my button-up and sneakers for a tank top and heels on the way to the airport.
I’m blown away by the number of photographers and reporters surrounding the departure area. There are about six of them heading back to the larger group inside the media area. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen this while coming and going from LAX.
As I walk along the terminal, I see several young women with cameras around their necks. My guess is that some major celebrity is expected, so they’re camping out. The fandom is unreal. I watch as security hurries over to them. No doubt to tell them to move along.
I make my way through the rest of the departure terminal and into the first class lounge, passing through the security checkpoint there and bypassing the long public lines. One of the many perks of flying first class.
I enter a private room that’s reserved for me. The room is decorated in olive green and various shades of brown, surprisingly un-tropical for Hawaiian Airlines. In the center of the room are a square table and four very old-school office chairs. I sit in the one that faces the window overlooking the parking garage, my back to the door. Within a couple of minutes, a lounge attendant brings me a turkey sandwich, pickle, and chips. It isn’t much, but I don’t care. I’m not that hungry.
As I eat, I browse through the latest online edition of Entertainment Now magazine. The contents aren’t very interesting, but there is a really nice red carpet picture of Tristan Michaels. Dressed in a suit, he really is stunning. The black skinny tie, white dress shirt, and black pants and jacket really bring out his physique. The caption reads, “Tristan Michaels, outside Nokia Theatre at the premiere of friend Travis Jackson’s latest movie Rebound, wearing Armani.”
“I could have told you that,” I mutter to myself. Looking at Tristan’s eyes I feel the familiar tingle crawl up my spine, a sensation that makes me feel like he is really looking at me. “Gah!” I mutter, and close the magazine.
If I’m really going to be honest with myself, I’m only trying to avoid the drama of the last twenty-four hours. Especially what happened this morning at the gravesite. Then, of course, my embarrassing daydream during that board meeting. My emotions are all over the place, and I just need to get clear of everything that is driving me insane of late.
Suddenly there’s a lot of commotion outside in the lobby: camera flashes going off and a bunch of people talking at once. It sounds like they’re asking questions. Very abruptly, the noise is cut off and the silence returns. I shrug and pull out my iPod and headphones. Placing the earbuds into my ears, I am quickly distracted by the sounds of Chris Daughtry, which effectively block out all else.
Tristan
Will this madness ever end? I know the answer and it’s rather stupid of me to ask myself that question.
“You all right?” I hear Tyson ask.
“Yeah. Fucking people, I swear. They act like they’ve never seen a celebrity at the airport before. Though the EN reporter was a little too curious about some things. Obviously he was fishing for a comment from me.” I take a deep breath.
“Yeah, he was a bit insistent.” He turns and looks at the woman approaching us.
“If you will follow me, I have a room down the hall for you. We’ve made arrangements to have you escorted to the gate once boarding has completed.”
“Thank you.” I nod as she turns and starts down the hall. We approach a room on the right with the door slightly ajar. I stop dead in my tracks and stare at the woman sitting at the table. Her black hair is up in a ponytail that trails down her back and over one shoulder. The other shoulder is exposed and shows off a tattoo of blue, purple, and silver tones. It looks like a puzzle made of hearts and stars. But what really catches my attention is sprouting from the center of her shoulder blades. Done in some of the brightest ink I’ve ever seen: black and purple wings – fairy wings to be exact – just visible above the line of the tank top she’s wearing.
“Tristan,” Tyson whispers in my ear. Slowly I turn toward him, tearing my gaze away from the woman’s back.
“Yeah?”
He extends his hand, gesturing for me to follow the lounge attendant.
I look back at the fairy woman one more time and then continue on down the hall.
For the next few minutes she is all I can think about, and a pretty big part of me is hoping against the odds that she’s on my flight.
Cami
As soon as I board the plane, I throw my knapsack in the overhead bin, sit down, and pop in my earbuds to shut out the world. I quickly become absorbed in a book I picked up in the first class lounge that had an eye-catching cover and sounded interesting, so the flight from L.A. to Honolulu passes quickly.
Once in Honolulu, I move quickly to the gate for my flight to Tahiti. I’m not just going to get away, I’m really getting away. About as far as I can without ending up in China. I’m silently hoping that I’ll be far enough out there to be out of range of cell phones, emails, and hell even American news.
The flight from Honolulu to Tahiti is just as uneventful as the flight to Hawaii. I watch a couple of movies on my iPad, read some more of the book I started, and even manage to doze off. When I wake from a disturbing dream about the days that followed Bobbie’s death, I push it aside and instead call to mind the image of Tristan Michaels. The day keeps dragging, but soon the time change gives me a second wind. Tahiti is far enough behind Phoenix time that it will still be early morning when I get there.
When I arrive in Tarah the next day, I learn that the occupant of the penthouse just checked in last night. I don’t do a very good job of hiding my disappointment. “Will you keep me posted? Once it becomes vacant, I want to move to that suite.”
“Of course, ma’am, but there’s a good chance it won’t be empty for a while.”
I can feel myself scowling, though I know it’s not her fault.
“How long are you planning to stay?” she asks me.
“Until the penthouse becomes available.”
She laughs, but watch me: I’ll stick around until I have at least one day and one night in that suite.
As I follow the concierge up to my room, we pass a tall, well-built man with dark blond hair who has an aura of security or protection about him. Not a cop, but he is definitely packing some heat, judging by the slight bow of his arms. Or if he’s not packing right now, then he usually is.
“Geez, you’d think the President of France was here,” I joke.
The concierge laughs. “No, ma’am, no president.” His accent is thick and hard to understand. I wait for him to tell me who in the hotel needs that kind of security, but he doesn’t say any more on the subject.
My room is absolutely stunning. Set on the seventh floor, it has two bedrooms, along with a sitting and dining room. The master suite is equipped with the largest whirlpool I’ve ever seen in my life. The concierge informs me that the tub is small compared to the one in the penthouse. I’m in heaven, very ready to relax and enjoy my stay.
I ask the concierge, “Can you please have a bottle of Cristal 2002 sent up here along with some strawberries?”
“Yes, ma’am. Will there be anything else this afternoon?” he replies politely.
“No, I believe that will be all for now, thank you.”
H
e bows his head and leaves the suite, palming the twenty I gave him.
About ten minutes later my Cristal arrives, chilled to perfection, with two flutes. The server opens the bottle and pours a glass for me. I thank him and pass him a generous tip.
I step onto the patio and look out at my view. The sun is lower in the sky and starting to cast long shadows along the white sand and royal blues of the ocean. The view is beyond amazing, nearly taking my breath away.
While I sit on the balcony, in the quiet, alone, I start to think about some of the decisions I know that I will need to make over the next few months. I’m under immense pressure from Trinity and Vincent to begin stepping into my role as CEO of Bold International, Inc. The argument before the board meeting was proof enough of this fact. I know deep down that the roll of CEO will not be anything near what I fear it to be. I know that a large part of my fear has more to do with the fact that I will be giving up my freedom to do as I please when I feel like it.
Eventually the exhaustion of traveling and the emotional turmoil of the last forty-eight hours overcomes me, and I crawl languidly between the nice, crisp, white linen sheets on the king size bed.
The next day I wake around four in the morning, cursing life because it’s so early. I stumble to the bathroom, where I indulge in the eight shower heads. All these shower heads reach places that I didn’t even know existed. I don’t think I’ve ever been so clean. I wrap up in a fluffy white bath robe and grab to the bedside phone to order room service.
Once that’s done, I sit down on the couch to read through the many amenities the hotel has to offer. I’m pleased to discover that the fourth floor contains several shops, including Gucci, the Gap, a couple of other high-end stores, and a commissary of sorts that sells the kinds of things guests maybe forgot to bring or run out of during their stay. Perfect. I haven’t unpacked yet after settling into my room yesterday, but looking at the hotel’s amenity list reminds me that I barely packed a thing Tuesday evening on my way out the door. Sticking to a few changes of clothing makes traveling faster and easier, but it also makes a trip to the commissary necessary.
While I’m waiting for my breakfast to arrive, I power up my iPad. Four new emails. Two from Mick, one from Beau and there’s even one from Trinity.
They’re all wondering what happened and why I took off so suddenly. Mick and Beau let me know they’ve tracked me to Tarah. I take strange comfort in the fact that they worry enough about me to track me. I reply to all of them, letting them know everything is fine, and I let Beau and Mick know that I will probably be bringing them out to Tarah next week sometime. The thought of spending a weekend with them in Tarah puts a smile on my face. I just need some time alone before I let their invasion begin.
But the questions about what happened and why I left remain unanswered. I’ve been avoiding thinking about it, but I need to figure it out. Then maybe, with luck, I can explain it to my friends.
I put aside the iPad and pick up a pad of paper and a pen from the desk in the sitting room. I begin by writing down a list.
Reason One: I could not and did not want to deal with Reed and his infidelities, now or in the future.
Reason Two: I was disturbed by the fact that I was turned on at seeing Reed with another woman.
Reason Three: I knew in that moment, when I was turned on and not wanting to make a scene, that I don’t love Reed. Reed and I have been on and off again for the last six months. Yes, the sex is amazing but beyond our bedroom compatibility we have nothing in common with one another.
Reason Four: Bobbie.
Over the last week I’ve felt off, felt wrong about something. Like a change was coming, and it scared me. I know now that change was Reed and whatever we had going. But it’s not just that. Over the last year so much has changed, and in such a short time. When Bobbie died, I was angry, and I’ve stayed angry, but my reasons for being furious with him have changed. Because of him, nothing in my life seems to make sense. I’ve been given opportunities that most people can only dream about, and yet I waste them. I waste them because it feels like I’m giving in to Bobbie and all of his misdoings. I feel that if I step into the role of CEO, I’ll be giving Bobbie what he wanted. But God dammit, what about what I want? What about my wants & needs? Fuck, I sound so selfish. This is not who I am.
There is also the fear of failure. Bobbie knew damn well that I would be fresh out of college and starting out my own life. Okay, he didn’t plan to die, but still. Never once did he bring up coming to work for him. Hell, he never even asked if I had applied anywhere. Maybe he had intended to bring me into Bold while he was still alive, and then, of course, when he died, the natural flow of things would mean that I would take over.
There’s plenty of time to dwell on that subject while I’m here so I decide that Mr. Amex and I are going to have some fun. I call the spa and make an appointment for an in-suite massage for around five this afternoon and a manicure and pedicure at four. This is going to give me ample time to shop to my heart’s content. I make up a list of the toiletries I need; I’ll make a stop at the commissary on my way back up to my room. I know full well that I could give the list to a staff member and they would get what I need, but I am not used to being waited on hand and foot and I would rather do it myself.
Chapter Four
Tristan
I am not sure if despair is really in my vocabulary anymore. There is something strange about being locked away in a hotel, thousands of miles away from everything I have come to know. My life has been on the fast track for the last five years, and there seems to be nothing I can do about it.
But out here, surrounded by water, in a hotel that holds everything anyone could possibly imagine, I feel free. My BlackBerry is off, my laptop is stowed, and the weather here is utterly amazing. I cannot even begin to describe how liberating this is, and for the first time, I’m questioning whether or not my life is worth all this madness.
Don’t get me wrong; I love what I do. But even the love of acting and the money are small compensation for the madness I am required to endure.
I’ve realized that I left Hollywood so fast that I forgot to pack toiletries, so I’ve ventured into the little mall inside the hotel. It’s early in the day, so fortunately for me there are hardly any other patrons floating around.
As I stroll through the mall I notice a petite beauty with black hair – several packages in her hands – walking out of the Shoe Shoppe that I just left not moments before. Her skin is pale, translucent even. Her beauty is soft, sophisticated, and natural. She’s not wearing much makeup, but her lips are full with a beautiful pink tint.
I slowly follow her from a distance as she strides purposefully into Versace. “Well, that’s definitely something you don’t see everyday,” I mutter to myself.
“What do you mean by that?” Tyson says.
“Someone like her, carrying her own bags and walking into Versace.” I chuckle and he joins in.
It has been my experience, with woman especially, that shopping is something that is either done in pairs or with the help of a some poor sap hired solely for the purpose of being a servant. If you sit still long enough along Rodeo Drive in California, you will see the wealthy women walking with poles up their asses and at least one sorry sucker following her with her bags. This little lady strides into Versace, confident, calm, and collected, and minus the stick up her ass.
“Do we know who she is?” I ask.
“Not completely. She looks familiar but not in a way that I can place her. She is definitely not Hollywood.”
“Good.”
I watch as the Versace matron stops her from putting her bags on the floor. She quickly picks up the girl’s bags and bustles off to find the concierge.
My eyes float back to the black-haired beauty. She is standing there talking with the sales lady, and she must be ready to try something on because she takes off the light jacket she is wearing. The tank top she has on underneath is a deep purple, and as soon as she tu
rns to hand her jacket to the sales lady, I see it: the blue, purple, and silvery heart and stars on her shoulder.
“It can’t be,” I mutter. My knees are growing weak, and then I realize I’m actually shaking as she continues turning around until her back is to me. And there, staring back at me, are the purple fairy wings from LAX.
Cami
I have been pampered with a manicure, a pedicure, and some much-needed waxing. My in-suite massage was out of this world, and I’m now dressed in the teal blue halter mini dress that I bought from Versace. The dress is accented by the matching Lady Peep Crocos from Louboutin that I purchased specifically for this outfit. The dress is extremely short and barely covers the lace top thigh highs, garters, and suspenders. The dress is comfortable and makes me feel sexy and confident. Stepping into the shoes has really completed the look, and my legs feel long and sleek. Ready to be shown off.
Examining myself in the mirror, I find that I’m dressed to impress, though I’m not sure who I intend to impress on this night. But I’m on vacation, after all, and it’s my first night out. Something good has to come from tonight, right?
After finishing my hair and makeup, I head downstairs toward the bar. I pass first through the little casino. It contains a few blackjack tables, roulette, poker, and a good handful of slot machines. It surprises me that it’s so empty. I smile. The privacy of this island is really showing its colors tonight.
But as I reach the far side of the room and begin to enter the bar, I quickly realize that this is where most of the crowd seems to be tonight. I pass by the muscular blond man I saw yesterday in the hall. He is standing in a corner, overlooking the bar. Maybe he’s hotel security.
The room is huge, consisting of several high top tables, booths, a dance floor, and a stage that’s in the process of being set up for a band. The sign next to the stage says, “Country Junkies Live, Friday June 8th at 10 p.m.” In front of the stage is a huge wooden dance floor. Pink’s “Bad Influence” is playing over the sound system. There are all manner of people in here, from suits and cocktail dresses to jeans and t-shirts. You name it, it’s in this bar. It’s easy to separate the locals from the tourists. I chuckle to myself, knowing that I am obviously a tourist, but I feel separate from them. I don’t see any other women with black and blue hair who are tattooed and pierced like I am.
