Hollywood Deception

by Gemma Halliday

  "The guy wasn't being confrontational?" I asked.

  "Not at all." Henry shook his head. "They talked for a minute, and then the next thing I know, Bobby hauls off and punches the guy right in the face. I've seen Bobby in a mood, but I've never seen him hit someone."

  "What happened then?" I asked.

  "The guy fell to the floor. Then all hell broke loose. Security guards came running out of nowhere and grabbed Bobby by the arms. Of course, Bobby was yelling for them to let him go and fighting to get out of their holds. Then the cops showed up and arrested him. He was still yelling and acting like a fool when they shoved him into the cop car and drove away."

  "Did you happen to hear what the fan and Bobby were talking about before Bobby hit him?"

  "No. Sorry." Henry shook his head. "I was too far away."

  "That's all right," I said. "I'm sure I'll get the rest from Bobby." I checked my watch again. "If he ever comes back out here."

  "Let me go back to his trailer and see if I can get him to come out. He did promise you an interview, and it wouldn't be right to make you wait around all day. Give me just a second."

  I watched Henry jog outside the warehouse to where Bobby's trailer sat beside two others labeled hair and makeup and wardrobe.

  I hoped Henry could coax Bobby out. Unfortunately, the assistant hadn't told me much more than I'd already known from the social media accounts of the evening. What I really wanted to know was what the fan had said that ticked Bobby off so much. I'd seen firsthand today how easily Bobby could fly off the handle. But hitting a complete stranger seemed a bit much, even for him.

  I meandered over to the Craft services table while I waited, picking up a pair of blueberry mini muffins and a fresh coffee. I was just polishing off the second tiny treat when Henry finally appeared again. The expression on his face told me all I needed to know.

  I wouldn't be getting my exclusive today, if ever.

  He hurried up to me. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Quick." He held up his hands pleadingly. "But Bobby's refusing to talk to anyone. I know you were promised an interview, but when he gets like this, there's no changing his mind. He did say he would talk with you tomorrow morning if you're willing to come back then."

  "Of course." I nodded. "I can come back in the morning." What was I going to do? Refuse and lose the story? Not likely. I didn't really have much of a choice. On this, like it or not, Bobby was calling all of the shots.

  "Again, I'm so sorry about today."

  "It's not your fault," I assured him and patted his arm again. "Does he get like this often?" I motioned toward the trailer.

  Henry shook his head, and a lock of his thin brown hair fell over his forehead. "To be perfectly honest with you, he's always a bit of…a handful. But things have been worse since his arrest. Snapping at people, always late, paranoid."

  "Paranoid?" I jumped on the word. "How so?"

  Henry pursed his lips as if thinking twice about confiding in a tabloid reporter. Smart man. "Well, it's not one thing in particular, but it just feels like he's always looking over his shoulder, you know? I don't think anyone else has even noticed. Maybe I'm just imagining it." He shrugged then pressed on his little earpiece as if getting a call. "I'll be right there," he said into the mic. "I'm sorry, Ms. Quick, but I have to go. Duty calls."

  "Oh, no worries. I understand," I told him.

  "Be here around ten in the morning, and we'll get you that interview with Bobby before he starts filming."

  "I'll see you then," I called after him.

  I watched him jog away to take care of whatever crisis needed dealt with. Then I tossed the strap of my purse over my shoulder and made my way back to the golf cart that I'd ridden to the set. I hopped inside and steered in the direction of the studio visitors' parking area.

  Henry hadn't exactly been a fountain of information, but the bit about Bobby seeming excessively agitated and paranoid since the incident made me even more curious as to what was said between him and the fan he'd smacked around. Was Bobby hiding something? Did he know the fan personally? Did the fan know something about Bobby that he didn't want getting out? Did Bobby have something on the fan? My reporter brain spun in circles with a zillion questions.

  I parked the golf cart in its assigned slot by the main entrance, waved at the guard manning the gate, and hurried to my car. I'd sat on the set most of the day only to be told to come back tomorrow.

  An entire day wasted.

  I didn't lead a glamorous, exciting life, but I did have a life, and I enjoyed what there was of it too much to waste my days. And I didn't like the idea of depending on someone as volatile as Bobby Baxter for my article. What if he decided to give the interview to another reporter?

  I slid into the driver seat of my Volkswagen Beetle. The white vinyl seats seared the back of my thighs. I'd been so excited at the thought of interviewing Bobby that I'd forgotten to put the sunshade over the windshield. I shook my head at my mistake and cranked up the air conditioner. The cool air blasted against my face, and I almost sighed aloud. L.A. was hot no matter what time of year it was, and today I could practically feel my makeup melting off of my face. While the interior of the car cooled, I flipped to my favorite radio station and pulled my phone out of my purse, turned my ringer back on, and texted an update to Felix.

  No interview today. Diva drama. I'll explain over dinner.

  The phone chimed with a response almost immediately.

  See you at 8.

  I tossed the phone back into my purse and tossed the bag onto the passenger seat before putting the car in gear and pulling through the studio gate. I made a quick stop at the nearest drive-thru and grabbed a chocolate shake. It would take hours on the elliptical to burn off that little cup of deliciousness, but with the day I'd had, it was worth it. I mean, when wasn't chocolate worth it?

  After what felt like an eternity of being stuck in traffic on the 2, I finally turned into my neighborhood and onto my street. My standard gray apartment building was a small fourplex on the outskirts of Glendale, hugging the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. Nothing terribly fancy, but it didn't break the bank either.

  I pulled into my assigned parking spot in front of the building and took a minute to appreciate the semi-quiet (for L.A.) neighborhood. Tall trees lined each side of the street, and on a good night when the smog was at a thin layer, I had a clear view of the mountains, which in my mind was almost as good as living in the Hollywood Hills. Almost.

  I killed the ignition, grabbed my purse, hopped out of my Bug, and made my way up the stairs to my apartment door.

  The new sprinkler in the side yard area was blasting away, coating the grass in cool water and making a racket on the side of the building with every rotation. I pulled my keys from my purse and let myself inside. I had one hour to get fab for Felix…and I intended to put it to good use.

  CHAPTER TWO

  My cat, Mr. Fluffykins, greeted me by winding himself around my legs. I reached down and gave his head a generous scratch as I tossed my purse on top of my hand-painted pink coffee table.

  I love the color pink. It might sound silly to some, but the color pink, in all shades, made me happy. And who couldn't use more happy in their lives, right? Especially in my line of work, I felt that pink kept me from becoming jaded…like certain of my coworkers. I'd hand painted and sewn most of the items in my tiny apartment, including the pink coffee table, the kitchen table, which I'd painted gerbera daisies—my favorite—on, and the hot pink throw pillows with gold tassels on the corners that adorned the sofa I'd found on Craigslist.

  I was a do-it-yourself kind of girl. Mostly because my paycheck from the Informer wasn't big enough to be a hire-a-decorator type yet.

  I kicked off my heels and padded to the kitchen, where Mr. Fluffykins meowed and gave me his feed me now, peasant look. I complied, pouring him new bowls of food and water.

  "You wouldn't believe the day I had, Mr. Fluffykins," I said as I pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator. I'
d poured my heart out to my sweet kitty on more than one occasion over the years. He probably knew more about me than anyone else in the world. I was glad that cats couldn't talk, because if he could and ever got mad at me, he'd have plenty of blackmail fodder.

  He looked up at me and meowed then dug into his meal.

  "I was supposed to interview Bobby Baxter, but he stood me up. Rude, right?" I continued.

  Mr. Fluffykins grunted—though whether it was in response or simply a byproduct of inhaling his food, I couldn't say. I went on anyway. "I hate to say the guy's a jerk before I even meet him…but I'm pretty sure the guy's a jerk." I shook my head and took a sip of the water.

  "And now I have a date with Felix in…" I checked the clock on the microwave. "Less than an hour. I better get ready. Can't keep the boss waiting!" I grinned as I gave Mr. Fluffykins another quick scratch and hurried down the short hallway to the bathroom.

  I took a quick, hot shower, dried myself off, and wrapped my hair in a hot pink towel.

  Felix and I had been out together several times over the past few months, but our relationship status was still somewhat ambiguous. While I wouldn't quite call him my boyfriend yet—at least not to anyone but Mr. Fluffykins—if I saw him with another woman, I think I'd be justified in clawing her eyes out. Or his. Not that I thought there were any other women in Felix's life, but the "exclusive" talk was one bridge we'd yet to cross. While I knew Felix had lived in L.A. for years, he still held on to his typically British aversion for discussing emotion in any form. For the most part that worked for me.

  I let the towel fall from my hair and grabbed my blow dryer from the small pink hook on the wall and blasted my hair. Once my blonde locks were dry, I piled them in loose ringlets on top of my head and secured them with crystal-tipped bobby pins. I kept my makeup fairly light but added an extra coat of lengthening mascara on my lashes. Then I finished the look off with a swipe of Tickled Pink lip gloss on my lips.

  I stepped into my tiny bedroom closet and pulled out my latest consignment shop find. A silver spaghetti strap dress with a low cut front that accentuated my "girls," and a short hemline that barely reached midthigh. The dress was backless with the exception of half a dozen thin crystal-adorned silver chains that dangled low toward my hips. Consignment shops in L.A. could be amazing if you knew which ones to hit. Most of my closet consisted of gently used finds. I had a bit of a shopping habit, but as long as it was in secondhand stores, it was a habit I could afford to indulge in.

  I applied a thin layer of my favorite Virgin Mint Mojito body butter then slid the dress on over my head, secured some areas with lingerie tape just to be safe, and topped the ensemble off with a pair of matching silver stiletto heels and an electric pink sequined clutch for a pop of color.

  With one final look in the full-length mirror, I grinned. I was going for sex kitten, and I think I succeeded. This dress was sure to make Felix sweat. I grinned at the thought.

  While our relationship was flirting with the exclusive territory, the one thing that had me second-guessing our status was a distinct lack of overnight visits. We'd been seeing each other for a few months now, and the grand total of times he'd spent the night was three. That's it. Just three. I'm not some sex-crazed maniac or anything, but I read Cosmo—I knew that was not normal. Not that I had any complaints about the glorious three times. And I guessed there was something to be said for taking it slow. But some days I felt like I was in a relationship with a nun.

  I slid on a silver cuff bracelet, a long silver necklace with a teardrop shaped pink faux sapphire that dangled between my breasts, and matching dangling earrings. I dared Felix to resist me tonight.

  Mr. Fluffykins hopped up onto the bed and stretched out to watch me.

  I glanced over at him. "What do you think?" I asked and spun in a circle.

  He meowed and rolled over onto his back.

  "What a lot of help you are." I laughed.

  The doorbell rang. A quick look at the bedside clock told me Felix was early. As usual.

  "Be good." I pointed at Mr. Fluffykins and hurried into the living room. With a deep breath, I opened the door.

  Felix stood on my porch. I watched as his eyes did a quick head to toe. He must have liked what he saw, because the corner of his mouth quirked upward, along with one perfectly arched eyebrow.

  "Something wrong?" I asked.

  "On the contrary," he said, the other corner lifting up in a true smile. "You look amazing, love." He stepped forward, wrapped his arm around my waist, and pressed his lips to mine in a quick kiss. "That dress." He grinned and shook his head.

  "Do you like it?" His palm heated the skin of my lower back where it rested.

  "Like isn't a strong enough word." He winked. "Are you ready to go?"

  "All set. I just need to lock up."

  I closed and locked the door behind us and dropped my keys into my clutch. I said a silent prayer about our transportation for the night as I followed him down the steps.

  Felix normally drove an old beat-up junker that had seen better days. And those better days were back when people were still doing the Macarena. The last time I'd ridden in it, the seat belt had snapped, and I'd almost fallen out the rusted passenger door when he'd taken a quick left. I had no idea why he hadn't ditched the bucket of bolts for a newer model a long time ago. The truth was he could more than afford it.

  Felix was what one would call a cheap rich man. Not only did he make a decent salary as the editor in chief of the Informer, but his family was old money. I'd even heard a rumor or two around the newsroom that he was titled gentry back in England and distantly related to the queen. Despite that, he lived a frugal lifestyle—drove an old car, wore off-the-rack (and I sometimes suspected that was the clearance rack), and rarely carried more than $20 in his wallet.

  I must have made enough of a fuss over his duct-taped seats damaging my Valentino gown when we'd covered a recent red carpet event that he'd taken note, because the last time we'd gone to a nice dinner, Felix had miraculously sprung for a car service, allowing us to arrive in appropriate style. I mentally crossed my fingers and chanted a "please, please, please," hoping for a repeat of that experience (and not the junker one) as we descended the stairs.

  I peeked around the corner of the building and spotted the black town car waiting at the curb. Yes! Not that I was superficial, but I did want to make it to dinner alive.

  When we reached the car, he opened the door for me before sliding in beside me.

  The driver pulled away from my building, and we were on our way.

  "Where are we going tonight?" I asked, secretly hoping it would be somewhere private, romantic, and delicious. All I'd had since breakfast were the mini muffins and a chocolate shake.

  "I made a dinner reservation at Beverly's. I hope that's all right."

  I shot him a look. "Purely coincidence that's where Baxter had his fight?"

  He turned his face to the window so I couldn't see his expression. "You know I don't believe in coincidence."

  I narrowed my eyes at the back of his head. "So, this is a working dinner then? Not a date?"

  He turned toward me, a charming smile in place. "There's no reason it can't be business and pleasure."

  It didn't escape my notice that he was talking to my cleavage. Which, in this case, I didn't completely mind.

  "Fine. But I'm totally ordering the lobster now."

  I thought I saw him cringe at the thought of the expense, but he quickly covered it with a peck on my cheek. "Anything for you, love."

  "I'll keep that in mind for later," I mumbled.

  "What was that?"

  "Nothing." I shot him a big toothy smile.

  While the thought of lobster at Beverly's was making my stomach rumble, it wasn't my first choice for a romantic evening out. Beverley's was the type of place people went to see and be seen. So while I had a good chance at catching a glimpse of my fantasy crushes, the chance of a quiet romantic dinner was slight. Especially since
I knew Felix had the Baxter story on the mind—which likely meant paying off waitstaff for any dirt he could get them to spill.

  "So what happened to the interview?" Felix asked, as if he could read my mind.

  I sighed. "Did you know Bobby Baxter was a class A diva?"

  Felix shook his head. "No. I know he's had a few scuffles with the paparazzi, but nothing out of the ordinary. Why? What happened?"

  I told Felix about how I'd shown up on set to watch the taping of Bobby Tells All, how Bobby was a total jerk to everyone who crossed his path, and how he'd had a tantrum and stormed off the set.

  "His assistant promised me an interview in the morning."

  "Well, let's hope Bobby keeps his word this time. I'd hate for you to waste another day on his nonsense. If you can't get the interview in the morning, then come back to the office. You can write a piece on how he stood you up, how he behaved on set, or something along those lines."

  "Not exactly the same as an exclusive," I said.

  He shrugged and smiled. "We could always make something up."

  We both chuckled at his joke. (At least, I was pretty sure he was joking.)

  Thin laugh lines fanned out at the corners of his eyes, and I had the urge to lean over and kiss them. But I controlled myself. Instead, I placed my hand on his and enjoyed his easy company until we arrived at the restaurant.

  * * *

  I'd lived in Southern California all of my life, but I never failed to be a bit starstruck when out for a night on the town. There was a clash of realities when walking through a crowded restaurant and bumping into the likes of Julia Roberts and Jennifer Lawrence—people who normally greeted me from my TV screen. As our car pulled up outside Beverly's main entrance, I couldn't help but crane my head to see if anyone interesting was hanging around outside. Unfortunately, all I saw were a few members of the paparazzi, smoking and leaning against the building, cameras in hand in case anyone noteworthy pulled up. They jumped to attention when we exited our car, cameras poised…until they realized we were no one of importance. Still, I felt more than one set of eyes on my back as we walked through the doors.