Love, Chloe

by Alessandra Torre

  But whatever the reason, I jogged up the building’s steps at 10:17, seventeen minutes late in a city that was never on time. Tell that to Benta and Cammie, whose voices I heard the minute I got off the elevator. Loud voices, Benta’s even louder than normal, Cammie’s chiming in with equal vigor. Were they … fighting? My steps quickened down the hall, nearing the bend where I’d actually be able to see them. Fighting between the three of us was rare, especially when unprovoked. I winced at the slur in Benta’s voice. Drunk Benta could be hostile. I rounded the corner, a shhh already hissing from my lips when I stopped dead, the food bag swinging wildly from the abrupt stop, my eyes fixed on the two girls who were camped out in my hall, legs sprawled on the hardwood, a wine bottle on the floor between them, a second one open between Cammie’s thighs, their hands aggressively waving, scowling up at the man who stood over them.

  Standing between my two best friends, his hands on his hips, a T-shirt stretched tight across his chest, worn jeans snug on his hips, was the super. Who, if you missed my earlier swoonfest, was gorgeous. But right then, in the middle of my hall, with both girls screaming, he looked pissed. And pissed was an even hotter look on his face. If I were his girlfriend, I’d make it my mission in life to piss him off every day of the week.

  Apparently, the best way to do that was to get drunk in the hallway of his building.

  “Hey.” I stepped closer and was completely ignored, no one’s head turning my way. “Hey!” I whisper-yelled the word, setting the food down and righting the tipped bottle. Then I stepped into the fight, waving my hands in the air. “Shut up!” I hissed.

  That worked. The girls stopped, Cammie blinking up at me as if wondering who I was and what I was doing there. I looked at her warily and wondered how much of the bottle between her legs she’d had.

  “You’re late,” accused Benta, pushing off the wall and dragging herself to her feet. “And this asshole is trying to kick us out.” She glared at him. “You know my dad could buy this whole building.”

  “I’m impressed,” he scoffed, and I wanted to smack her myself.

  “I’m sorry, the restaurant was backed up.” I dug in my pocket and pulled out my keys.

  “I don’t need drunk girls waking everyone up. I thought this was explained to you during the interview process.”

  “Waking everyone up?” Cammie yelled and I winced, her voice five decibels higher than necessary. “It’s ten o’clock.”

  “Shut up, Cammie,” I chided. “Please, both of you, go inside.” I held out my keys and Benta snatched them. I listened to her struggle with the door and stepped around her, approaching the guy, who glared in my direction.

  And just let me say again, this guy needed to walk around pissed 24/7. I could scoop sex appeal off his cheekbones and bottle it in lube and be happy for the rest of my life. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I thought I’d be back before they got here.” Behind me, I heard them get the door open, their move inside, and the angry slam of it shut.

  His jaw clenched. “Are you guys going out or…” His eyes dropped to the bag of food.

  “Staying in,” I said regretfully. “But we’ll be quiet, I promise. Seriously.”

  “I don’t think the brunette has it in her to be quiet.”

  He was absolutely correct; Benta would probably scream lullabies to her future babies, but I wasn’t about to admit that. I tried a smile. Some inspirational poster somewhere once said that a smile could cross all barriers.

  The poster was wrong. He didn’t smile back. He scowled. I almost dropped my panties in response.

  “You are the only one-bedroom on this floor. Everyone here pays a lot of money for this space and expects a certain level of peace. Please don’t make me evict you.”

  At the word evict, any hope I had for an impromptu hallway sex session dried up. I couldn’t get evicted, couldn’t land back on Cammie’s couch, couldn’t pack up all of my things and send them back to storage. I wouldn’t.

  I swallowed. “You’re not going to have to.” I stepped closer, clasping my hands together. “I swear.” From inside the apartment, Benta yelled my name, stretching the short word into about five syllables. I winced and tilted my head toward the closed door.

  “Yeah,” he interrupted. “You should get to that.” He stepped back, and I missed the minty smell of his soap. Then he turned and walked away. And I swear I only stared at his ass for the first five steps.

  I squared my shoulders, grabbed the bag of food, and turned the handle, prepared to give Benta and Cammie the reprimand of their lives.

  24. Mo Money, Mo Problems

  Day ten of being a sellout. Being the girl who took a pay raise instead of the high road. The girl who felt guilty when she wasn’t throwing dollar bills in the air, making it rain.

  Three hundred extra dollars a week. I felt rich. Rich … and completely sleazy. It didn’t help that the man Nicole was cheating on, the one I was keeping in the dark by taking her bribe, had covered my ass on the broken crystal.

  I almost wished he hadn’t done it, his kind act making it even harder for me to swallow Nicole’s affair. Did knowing about it and not saying anything to him make me as guilty as her? I groaned, plopping my head on the desk, and winced when the tip of the holepuncher caught me in the temple.

  Next to me, upright against the desk were three Vuitton trunks. I’d spent the morning packing them with every possible thing that Nicole would need to outfit her trailer. Nicole had left the packing list, written in metallic pink ink, taped to my office door, a smiley face in its upper right hand corner like we were best bitches now. It was ninety-seven items long. Ninety-seven. I actually counted them, losing a personal bet with myself that it was over a hundred. The list included things like Q-Tips and Spanx, but also Valium and condoms. Three weeks ago, I would have admired her ability to bring her condom promotion to the movie, but ever since I saw her making out with a hipster in broad daylight, I was rethinking her condom motives. I almost didn’t pack them in a passive-aggressive attempt to thwart her adulterous plans.

  “Chloe?” Nicole’s voice came from behind me and I straightened, peeling a Post-It off of my cheek.

  “Yes?” I turned.

  “Ready to head to set?”

  “Yes.” I scooted my chair, grabbing at my bag. Turning to her, I gave my best attempt at a smile, while scanning her for signs of infidelity. Nothing. There should be a sign, the words TRAITOR blazoned across her forehead. Then again, if cheating were that obvious, I’d have caught Vic way before I did.

  Today was the first day that Nicole would be on set and—let’s not be coy—I was excited. Clueless, but excited. My knowledge of the film industry was limited to watching film geeks run around the NYU campus with lighting kits and cameras. This would be different; this was real. Well, as real as a straight-to-TV movie could be. And I was pretty sure that was what it was. I couldn’t find anything out about it online. Plus, Nicole was the queen of the TV movie circuit, her résumé boasting one episode in a soap and seven movies no one had ever heard of.

  If I hadn’t IMDB’d her ass, I probably would have been more excited. Especially because Nicole had been walking around like Boston Love Letters was A BIG DEAL. And her agent and publicist had been frequent visitors to the Brantley household in the last few weeks. So who knew? Maybe this would be a feature film. I was just excited to be getting out of the house, my new office feeling more like a jail cell. On the set I could make some contacts, maybe find another job that wasn’t laced with deception. Seeing Clarke’s innocent face on a daily basis was seriously increasing my wrinkle count. I could feel crow’s feet forming, caught a glimpse of them in the mirror just that week. Granted, it was a dingy mirror in a dark bar bathroom, but I’m almost positive they were there. Hiding. Lurking. Waiting.

  I watched Nicole leave and studied the trunks. Hitched my bag higher on my shoulder and grabbed the first handle with both hands. Grunted a little when I lifted it.

&nb
sp; “Don’t do that.” The world’s hottest husband spoke from behind me. I turned to face him. “You’ll kill that back of yours. Dante and I can get those.”

  “Thanks.” I glanced around for anything I might be leaving, grabbing my S’well off the desk and sticking it in my bag.

  “A raise, huh?”

  “Excuse me?” Maybe he’d want money for the vase, after all.

  “Nicole says she gave you a raise.” Clarke stepped forward and bent over, grabbing one trunk in each hand and lifting them easily.

  “Yes.” I looked down, examining the fascinating hem of my shirt.

  From the hall behind us, Nicole barked into her phone, voice loud, her hands gesturing wildly. No wonder she was so skinny. The woman worked off a thousand calories a day by sheer expression alone. Clarke glanced at her and lowered his voice. “So, you’ll be on set with Nicole?”

  “Yes—” I stopped myself just in time, swallowing the word sir. “I will.”

  “Keep an eye on her.” He said the words shortly, with a bit of an edge. “For me.”

  “Keep an eye on her?” I asked hesitantly.

  “You’ll understand what I mean.” He held my eyes for a heartbeat, then nodded and turned, the trunks in hand, and headed for the hall.

  I followed numbly, almost bumping into Dante, and I pointed out the last trunk, whispering my thanks to him. I watched Clarke and Nicole move down the stairs and wondered, his last directive echoing in my mind, what he was talking about.

  I hated her more with each passing day. I hated her for what she was doing to Clarke, and I hated her for bringing me into it, for tainting my journey of self-improvement.

  Most of all, I hated all of the things I saw in her that reminded me of myself. It was like she was the Ghost of Christmas Freakin’ Future. A ghost I despised.

  Maybe it wasn’t too late for me. Maybe all this was just my wakeup call.

  25. The Benefits of Grape Bubble Gum

  My movie set salvation had a full tattoo sleeve, hot pink hair, and matching nails. Any question I had about her inappropriate appearance was forgotten within five minutes of her walking through the door. She was the assistant I hoped to one day become, one who knew everyone, anticipated everything, and was utterly calm despite it all.

  “Yo.”

  That was her introduction. She propped open the door to Nicole’s trailer and popped a bright purple bubble of gum. I was alone, surrounded by trunks, and in the midst of a panic attack. The girl saw my face, stepped inside and shut the door.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I didn’t think, just held out my list of Nicole’s demands, all screamed at me with morning breath fifteen minutes earlier, when she walked into the trailer and had an absolute conniption. I had scribbled down the items while Nicole stalked around the tiny space, waving her arms and opening and slamming things shut.

  “Ha.” Another pop of purple gum by the tattooed stranger, the grape scent hitting my senses. Grape. When was the last time I’d had grape bubble gum? Elementary school?

  She passed the list back. “Her contract outlined what would be in her trailer. She knows that.”

  “So … I tell her no?”

  She laughed. “Nicole Brantley? No. You call an outfitter and get her what she wants. But she’s paying for it, not the studio.”

  I took the list from her outstretched hand. “And she’ll be okay with that?”

  She shrugged. “She doesn’t belong in this movie anyway. Trust me, she won’t do anything to jeopardize her role. If she told you to get these perks, she expects to pay for it.”

  I blindly followed the woman’s lead, listening as she made a call and rattled off Nicole’s list without pause. I dumbly handed over Nicole’s AmEx and verbally approved the ridiculous price the guy quoted. When she locked my phone and tossed it back, I finally found the manners to introduce myself.

  “I’m Chloe. I’m new. Nicole hired me a couple of months ago.”

  “Hannah.” She reached out and shook my hand. “I’m Joey Plazen’s assistant.”

  My hand stalled halfway through the shake. “Really?”

  She grinned, detangling from my grip. “Really.”

  “Joey Plazen? The Joey Plazen?” my voice squeaked.

  “That’s the one.” She headed for the door.

  “He’s in this movie?” I couldn’t figure it out. Why would an A-list movie star be in something like this?

  She paused in the doorway. “Yeah. It’s a big budget film.”

  “But…” I couldn’t think of a nice way to ask my question.

  “You wanna know why Condom Queen’s in it?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Great question.” She raised her eyebrows at me and, with another pop of gum, left.

  I finally discovered the meaning of a hard day’s work. It had rained all day, the bottom half of my pants soaked. Running from vehicle to trailer, lugging all of Nicole’s things over every inch of the film grounds, had covered my skin in a film of sweat, rain, and dirt. And my hair. I’d been hoping for beachy waves, but with all the moisture, it’d become a teased out cotton ball. My feet were too tired to properly pick up and down and I dragged the soles of my flats across the nasty sidewalks until I finally reached the stairs to my building’s front door, my hand heavy as I reached for the handle.

  When the front door of our building swung out, my hand wasn’t yet on it, and the swift motion caused me to stumble back, my foot missing the step below, the dark New York City sky tilting forward as I fell back.

  I almost died. A backward tumble, down six concrete stairs, onto the sidewalk. For sure, my head would have cracked, brains spilling out, blood gushing, heartbeat flatlining.

  But I didn’t die. I didn’t because a hand reached out, a body rushed forward, and my wrist was grabbed, my back supported under the warm cover of an umbrella. I inhaled the rich scent of oranges and leather on a dress shirt and looked up, my body carefully righted on wobbly feet.

  “Carter?” I found my footing and stood. My super-sexy super was there in a dark blue dress shirt, charcoal pants, a thick watch glinting, hair neat, sex appeal kicking.

  “Are you okay?” He looked at me with worry. “Are you crying?”

  Crying? I reached up and ran my hand underneath my eyes. My fingers came away black. Oh. Guess that cheap mascara I’d grabbed wasn’t waterproof. Great. I probably looked like a drowned raccoon. “Rain,” I mumbled.

  “Sorry about the door.” He stepped right and opened the door, holding it for me.

  “It’s fine.” I stepped inside. “Fixing something in a suit?” I nodded to his outfit, the hour late.

  He glanced down, then shook his head, a wry smile crossing his lips. “Ah—no. I live here. C9. Perks of the job.”

  Oh. Of course. “Lucky me. I guess I can find you whenever I need you.” As soon as the response came out, I felt the blush creep along my cheeks. I rushed to cover my words. “Going out?”

  He smiled. “Just down the block. Whiskey Tango. It’s my friend’s place.”

  I nodded. Whiskey Tango. Fancy shmancy. God, he looked hot. And he lived in the building; that was a fun fact. C9. Not that I’d ever need his room number.

  “You gonna make it upstairs okay?” He looked at me carefully, probably wondering why I was still standing, staring at him.

  I nodded, trying for a casual smile. “Yeah. Of course. Have a good night.”

  “You too.”

  He waited until I got on the elevator, the gesture sweet, and I waved a goodbye as I stepped on. In the moments before the door closed, I heard the front door settle and wondered, the elevator starting its ascent, if he would return home alone.

  C9.

  C9.

  C9.

  Interesting.

  Not that I’d ever need it.

  27. Meeting a Movie Star

  Week two of being on Boston Love Letters’ set and I already felt so
much smarter. Most of my education came from Hannah who took me under her bubble-gum-smacking wing. The rest of my education came from watching, leaning my butt against any spare surface and collecting as much information as I could.

  The movie was about Jenna (played by Nicole) a middle-aged waitress who started getting love letters from a stranger. The stranger ended up being Mark (played by the talented and gorgeous Joey Plazen), a younger guy who lived across the street and watched her every day through his window. Which, in normal life, would be totally creepy, but it was Joey Plazen, so of course it’d come across romantic and sexy.

  And it really was big budget. Like, an actual gonna-be-in-theaters movie. While Nicole strutted around like she was big shit, I kept my mouth shut and tried to not mess up. I hadn’t yet found out what Clarke wanted me to watch out for, but I spent all my time stuck to Nicole’s side. Taking notes when she barked. Texting Hannah when I was lost.

  I was mid-text, doing exactly that, when I first met Joey Plazen.

  “Hey.”

  I didn’t lift my head. I couldn’t. I really, really needed to know where Set 14 was, and what the hell a stinger was, because Nicole needed one on Set 14 “ASAP.” I finished typing out the questions, adding extra question marks for urgency, then pressed SEND, looking up in agitation once it went through.

  Any chance I had of responding was stuck in my throat. Joey Plazen was the actor who kicked Brad Pitt’s career to the curb. The guy who raced cars on the weekends when he wasn’t sunning himself on his two hundred foot yacht. The guy who bed costars without apology, got in street fights (and won), and who went full-frontal in his last role, an action movie that had no need for penis-flashing but whose ticket sales absolutely exploded as a result. I’d gone with Vic to the theater. Squirmed in my seat when Joey had pulled off his shirt, revealing a rippling set of perfect abs. Audibly gasped when he pulled at the drawstring of his pants and ditched the sweatpants, revealing pure freaking perfection between his muscular thighs. It was never a good idea to audibly gasp with Vic. Talk about passing a blowtorch to an arsonist.