by Jillian Dodd
The first mention of Abby’s longtime fan (Vincent) in Stalk Me:
Mom laughs. “Even that fan of mine has been encouraging.”
“What’d the creeper say this time?” I ask.
“Nothing really. Just that he’d heard I was probably going to win awards for the role. Wished me good luck.”
Vincent is working late when his friend, Bobby, calls. Bobby doesn’t know how deeply Vincent’s feelings for Abby run. He just knows they both think she is hot.
“Dude, you’re never going to believe what I’ve got in my dirty little hands,” Bobby says. “Come have a beer with me, and I’ll show you.”
Vincent says he is busy. He knows his friend is proud of the fact that he’d recently been hired by one of the hottest directors around, Matthew Moran, to be in charge of casting for his latest blockbuster film—one starring Abby’s husband, Tommy Stevens.
“Come on, dude. I’ve got a bunch of hot, young actresses dying for this role. You’re so good at picking talent. I don’t know why you waste your time on all that financial stuff.”
“Because I earn ten times what you do,” Vincent states as he brushes a piece of lint from his fine Italian suit.
“Yeah, yeah. Rub it in. So are you saying you won’t help me? You can’t come here, have a beer, watch some screen tests, and help me decide which ones look willing to sleep with me to get the role?”
“I really don’t have time.”
“Okay, fine. You know how you always tell me you’re looking for the perfect girl to star in your remake?”
Vincent sits up straighter. “Yes?”
“The script is all top secret, of course, but we’re looking for a girl for a small but pivotal role to play Trinity’s daughter, who is kidnapped in the movie. I have this girl on film who is special. Trust me, you need to see this in person.”
“I’ll be right over,” Vincent says, excitedly.
When he gets to Bobby’s office on a big studio’s lot, Bobby hands him a beer and starts yammering. “I really don’t want to cast a complete unknown for the role, but the director just sent this to me.”
Vincent sits down on the sofa in front of the big screen TV. “You got me here. Just play it.”
Bobby presses play, and a video comes on the screen. There’s a girl out surfing in a bikini. She’s tan, blonde, appears to have a nice figure, but is so far in the distance that it’s impossible to tell what she really looks like.
“What is this? Some stupid home video?” Vincent says, pounding his beer and getting ready to leave.
“Wait for it,” Bobby says.
Vincent grabs the remote, his finger hovering over the pause button when the girl rides a wave into shore and comes out of the water, smiling.
This girl.
She lights up the screen with innocence and beauty.
Vincent is mesmerized, feeling like a teen again. It’s Lacy, he thinks, but it couldn’t be her. This girl’s eyes are not the same shade as Lacy’s. They are blue, but have an almost violet cast to them. Her hair is blonder and longer. But the smile is the same.
And when she speaks to the camera, it’s like music to his ears.
The voice.
The gestures.
All Lacy.
“So what do you think?” Bobby asks, interrupting his thoughts.
He doesn’t answer.
Finally, Bobby says, “Dude, I feel the same way. She’s totally right for the part. Can you guess who she is?”
Vincent still doesn’t answer.
He is trying to wrap his head around how Lacy could be on the screen in front of him.
“Lacy,” he mutters.
“Keatyn Douglas,” Bobby corrects. “Abby Johnston’s daughter.”
With his interest in Keatyn piqued, Vincent sneaks into Abby’s trailer to leave her a gift. When he sees the photo of Abby and Keatyn on the beach in Hawaii, he takes it with him and his school-boy crush comes back with a vengeance.
He becomes obsessed with learning more about Keatyn. He creates fake profiles on all social medias and friends her. He follows her everywhere, taking photos. It’s just research, he tells himself. He’s got to see how she will look on film. He goes to some of her soccer games and discovers she is surprisingly good at it. He likes that about her.
She seems to have more spirit, more life, than Lacy did. And she is real, not someone he’s watching on the screen.
He knows he has a business to run, but he can’t stop obsessing over her.
He finds out who her friends are. What boys she hangs out with. Knows who she’s dating.
She seems to have two boys in her life. One was a former child star, who has been cast to play the lead in a remake of the movie Grease. She always looks dolled up when she is with him. They go to parties together and appear to be dating, but not once does Keatyn take the boy back to her house.
She is a girl of virtue, just as he suspects.
She also hangs out quite a bit with a young surfer who lives up the beach. They have a closeness that Vincent doesn’t like, but he’s never seen them kiss. One night they go into the surfer’s house, and he can see them on the couch playing video games. He wants to stay and watch longer, but a security guard comes down the private beach and he doesn’t want to get caught.
When Abby realizes her trailer was broken into:
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
James replies, “That fan of your mom’s got into her set trailer early this morning.”
“That’s creepy.”
Mom comes out into the hall, hugs me, and whispers, “It is kind of creepy. He always sounds super sweet in his letters, so it’s not like I’m that worried, but we’re pretty sure he stole one of my photos. It pisses me off that security is so lax that anyone could walk in off the street and get into my trailer, but now the studio is blowing it way out of proportion.”
Vincent goes to the beach near Abby’s house, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. And there she is. She’s wearing a skimpy bikini and prancing around in the ocean, flirting with the surfer. He can’t help but stop and discreetly snap a few more photos of her. She’s so gorgeous and full of life.
That was one thing that Abby didn’t have. Even though he fell in love with her in the movie, and he’s crushed on her, once she was done playing the role of Lacy, she never looked like her again.
Keatyn is different. She is literally a real-life version of the Lacy he fell in love with.
He glances down at the preview of a photo he just took of her and knows he will cherish it even more than the one Abby sent to him all those years ago. And when she speaks to him. . .
When I get there, Brooklyn is talking to some guy I’ve never seen before. He looks like he’s in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. He’s quite a bit taller than Brooklyn, has dark, slicked-back hair, and deep mocha-colored eyes. He looks really out of place on the beach, though. Like he got lost on his way to the boardroom. He’s wearing a well-cut navy Armani suit, crisp white shirt, red paisley tie, and shiny black Ferragamo wingtips that have to be totally filled with sand.
I shove my board into the sand and jog over to them. I should be polite and say hi.
When I walk up next to Brooklyn, he grabs my waist and pulls me into his side in a surprisingly affectionate and possessive way.
“And this is Abby Johnston’s daughter, Keatyn,” he says, introducing me. “Keatyn, this is Vincent Sharpe.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, and extend my hand.
I notice a scrolly tattoo peeking out from underneath Vincent’s French cuff when he holds out his hand.
He lets go of my hand and lets his eyes slowly wander down my body. Then he looks closely at my eyes. Like he knows me.
But he couldn’t know me. This guy is hot. I would definitely remember meeting someone that looks like him.
“Nice to meet you too,” he finally says to me. “Sorry if I was staring.” He lowers his voice and smiles a very charming smile at me. “You look ju
st like your mom did in A Day at the Lake. I kinda had a big crush on her when I was fourteen. You bring back some memories.”
I roll my eyes.
Figures.
He was only checking me out because of my mom. A Day at the Lake was her very first movie. It didn’t do that well at the box office, but the poster of her blowing a kiss in a bikini sold millions of copies and made her a household name. Now the movie is sort of a cult classic.
“It’s okay,” I say without hiding my disappointment. Seriously, someday men are going to notice me and say, Damn, that’s Keatyn Douglas, not, Oh, it’s Abby Johnston’s daughter. “You seem a little overdressed.”
He smiles and points his thumb up the beach. “I was just touring a property up the way. It looks like I’ll be in good company when I buy.”
“Yeah, I guess. There are some famous people that live around here, but you might want to rethink your wardrobe,” I tease.
He looks down at his suit. “I am a little overdressed. So, your boyfriend looks like he knows his way around a surfboard.”
I start to say, He’s not my boyfriend, but he says to Brooklyn, “If I’m going to embrace the beach life, I need to learn how to surf. You ever give lessons?”
“I’ve taught a few people,” Brooklyn says, nodding toward me. “She was my first student.”
Vincent smiles at me. “You looked great out there too,” he says, but the way his eyes slide down my bikini, I’m not sure he’s referring to my surfing skills.
Meeting her, speaking to her hasn’t quenched his desires, but rather strengthened them. He needs to see her again and comes up with a plan when he discovers her other best friend, Damian Moran, the son of the famous director, is playing with his band tonight. He will give her the story that works with so many other women, only this time, he believes it. He will play to her ego, offer to make her a star. Get her to come to him.
I work my way through the crowd and say hey to a few people I know. I’m almost to the long bathroom line when someone pushes me from behind and knocks me straight into a pair of strong arms.
I see a lime green polo, pleated khaki shorts, and an upscale version of a topsider. I’m pretty proud of the fact that I manage not to spill a drop of beer. As the guy pulls me up, I’m surprised to find myself face to face with the hot Armani guy from the beach.
He recognizes me and gives me the kind of smile that has probably bedded many a woman.
“Thanks. Vincent, right? From the beach?”
“In the flesh,” he says.
I get pushed closer into his broad chest when someone else bumps into us.
“I’m sorry,” I say. The poor guy. I’m practically in his arms!
He looks straight into my eyes, like he did at the beach. Like he’s searching them for answers to a question he’s yet to ask.
He puts his mouth by my ear and yells over the music. “I saw you standing next to your mom.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Look, I know you’re a fan. But if you want an autograph or something, you’ll have to be a big boy and go ask her yourself.”
“Already have her autograph,” he says, in a smart-ass way. “I don’t really know her, but we kinda run in the same circle.”
“And what circle is that?”
“The movie industry.”
“Oh, really? You a movie star?” He certainly is good looking enough. If I were to typecast him, I’d make him the guy you know you’re not supposed to fall in love with, but you can’t help yourself.
He laughs. “No, I finance movies.”
“Moneybags, huh?”
He blinks slowly. “Something like that.”
“Cool. Well, it was nice to see you again.” I make a move toward the bathroom.
He stops me. I look down at his muscular arm and read the now fully exposed scrolly tattoo.
It makes me laugh.
“Abby? Are you that big of a fan?”
He shrugs. “Not really. I dated a girl named Abby in high school. She left me for a guy with a Harley and unfortunately couldn’t take the tattoo with her.”
“Sorry,” I say, sort of awkwardly. I could picture myself getting a Brooklyn tattoo.
Once he finally tells me he loves me and all.
“You know, you’re stunning. Prettier than your mom. I’m sorry I keep staring at your eyes, but they really are remarkable.”
I can’t help but smile. “I have my dad’s eyes.”
Vincent lowers his voice. “He died a few years ago in a plane crash, didn’t he? I’m sorry.”
I nod my head. “Thanks.”
“You ever thought of acting? I could cast you in my next movie.”
I roll my eyes and smirk at him. “That line usually work for you in a bar?”
He touches my nose with the tip of his finger, cocks his head at me, and curls his lips into a smile. “You are a spunky one.” He clinks his beer bottle gently into mine. “Just how old are you anyway?”
“Is that a trick question?”
He replies with a hearty laugh. “Well, you look old enough here, but on the beach I would’ve guessed you to be too young.”
I put my finger up to his lips. “Shh, don’t tell.”
Then I work my way to the restroom.
When I come back out, he’s waiting for me by the door. He looks me over again.
I look at him like, What?
“Forgot to give you my card.” He pushes a business card into my hand.
I take it to be polite.
“Uh, thanks, but if I want a part, I could get one through my family.”
“That’s too bad. This isn’t just any part.”
“Let me guess: I’m gonna win an Oscar? Have my name in lights?”
“I own the rights to remake A Day at the Lake. I’ve been hoping to do it for a few years now, but I haven’t been able to find the right actress. You would be perfect.”
“And, oh, what a perfect role it is!” I say in mock happiness, clasping my hands up by my cheek, and giving him a huge, fake smile. “I’d get to wear a bikini and scream! Please, sign me up!”
He laughs at me. “You’re very funny, and you have a very expressive face. If you could harness that, call it up on cue, you’d probably be a better actress than your mom. Have you acted much?”
“I grew up on movie sets, but no, I haven’t. And I’m not sure if I want to, but if I did—no offense—I’d probably want a more challenging role.”
He nods his head. “I can respect that, but I’ll give you a piece of advice. Don’t turn anything down until you have all the facts. The remake I want to do will have the spirit of the original, but not the script. I want this to be a blockbluster. We’re adding special effects and doing a total rewrite. There will be full marketing. Posters, Barbie dolls, lunch boxes. The lead role needs to be more like Lara Croft or Buffy the Vampire Slayer than the helpless victim your mom was. We want a kick-ass heroine. I saw you out surfing, and you seem pretty athletic. Still, I’d be taking a big chance casting an unknown like you.”
“You might be right. I should’ve listened. Something like that I might be interested in. I just thought—you know—we’re in a bar; you hear stories about that kind of stuff. So, is there a script I could see?”
“Not yet. I’m still working on the financing.”
“I see.” Hmm. Now I’m not sure there ever will be a script, and Mom has warned me about men that make promises to young girls that they can’t keep. I’m firm, but polite. “I’ll call you,” I say.
But I’m not going to call him. You can’t read for a part that has no script. Even if the producer is hot.
Well, not unless you want to sleep with him. And, to be honest, if I was a little older and not in love with someone else, I might consider it. Not for the part, of course. For his hotness. For his dark eyes. For his surprisingly strong arms. For his great taste in clothes.
He gives her his business card and waits for her to call him. Then tragedy strikes Vincent’s
life. His grandmother—the woman he believed to be a saint—dies. Vincent doesn’t really get emotionally involved with people.
But she was different.
She saved him from his mother. He idolized her and takes her death very hard.
When I get home, I don’t even bother to go in the house. I’m too pissed to be nice to anyone. I walk through the side gate, slam it shut, throw my shoes onto the sidewalk, and kick my way across the sand. I’m just past Brooklyn’s house when I notice Vincent sitting on the beach up ahead. His head is down, and he’s slumped forward.
I gently touch his shoulder. “Are you okay? Did you not get the house?” I quietly ask.
“We’re still negotiating,” he says.
I sit down in the sand next to him. “What’s wrong?”
His eyes are brimming with tears. He shakes his head and barely gets out the words. “My grandmother passed away.”
I give his forearm a gentle squeeze. “Oh, Vincent, I’m so sorry! Were you really close?”
He nods his head. “I didn’t have the best childhood. My mother, well, she was slutty.” He frowns. “Slutty is a nice word compared to what she was. She was wild. Had me at sixteen. I never knew my father. Honestly, I don’t think she knew who my father was. She married five times between my being born and my turning twelve. Guys one through five were low-life scumbags. One beat her. And sometimes me. I hated her for it. The sixth husband was a major upgrade. She saw dollar signs, so even though he didn’t want a kid, she married him. Then she dropped me on Grandmother’s doorstep and left.”
“But that was good for you, right?”
He smiles a little, but then he looks teary again. “It was very good for me. Grandmother was amazing, beautiful, a lady, and nothing at all like my mother. She was a film star in the early sixties. Back when stars were real stars. She was classy, glamorous, and always in full makeup. No running around in yoga pants and Ugg boots, you know?”
