by Maggie Marr
Mary Anne glanced toward the table on her left, where one A-lister sat surrounded by his well-paid sycophants, who for a fee would kiss his ass, suck his dick, and spend his money.
“Isn’t that Holden Humphrey?” Christina asked, walking back to the table and nodding toward a booth two down from their own.
Mary Anne glanced past the A-lister and his entourage. She remembered watching Holden in Purple Racer and thinking that he must have the world’s most pleasing ass.
“That’s him,” said the tiny sitcom actress. “He’s with Maurice Banks.”
Mary Anne looked at the two action stars and the two girls with them, one a blonde and the other a redhead. Wait, was that …? Mary Anne squinted her eyes. The room was dark, but she could just make out the person sitting on Holden’s lap like a pet pup. Viève.
“Who’s the ugly redhead?” Christina asked, sliding into the booth.
“Viève,” Mary Anne breathed, unable to tear her eyes away from Holden.
“Do I know her?” Christina asked. “What’s she done?”
“My ex-boyfriend,” Mary Anne said, sipping her champagne.
“Really?” Christina looked at Mary Anne with new
appreciation. “So you know firsthand.”
Mary Anne glanced at Christina. “Intimately. This is why I am convinced men have absolutely no dick control. Look at her. No tits, she’s odd-looking, kind of like a Chihuahua, and still she was not only able to fuck my boyfriend, but now she’s being groped by one of the finest-looking men in America. And why?”
“Because it’s easy,” Christina said.
“Exactly. The only dick control they get is when they’re old—”
“Usually fat.”
“And bald,” the tiny sitcom star chirped.
“And just too lazy to put up a chase,” Mary Anne said. “That isn’t really dick control, just loss of your game.”
Cici strolled up to the table. “What are we staring at?”
“Holden Humphrey,” Mary Anne said.
“And Mary Anne’s former neighbor who fucked Steve,” Christina added.
“That’s Viève?” Cici asked, scrunching her nose.
“Yes.” Mary Anne glowered.
“Want some payback?” Cici smiled.
Mary Anne considered it. She’d never before participated in the type of female games Cici seemed to have mastered—giggling, hair tossing, collecting men as baubles. But she felt scorned, and the idea of getting even felt empowering.
“Yes.” Mary Anne looked from Cici to Christina.
Cici sat next to Mary Anne and waved her hand. A waitress in a red silk bustier approached the table, carrying their fifth bottle of Cristal.
“Will you please ask Mr. Humphrey to come over?” Cici asked, slipping the waitress a hundred-dollar bill.
“Of course, Ms. Solange.” She eyed Celeste.
“He can bring Maurice, but not the Chihuahua.” Cici handed her another hundred. “Understand?” Cici asked.
“Of course,” the waitress said, already moving toward Holden and his table.
Mary Anne watched as the waitress tilted her head and whispered in Holden’s ear. First confusion, then a smile crossed Holden’s face as he glanced over and gave Cici a small wave. Then he leaned over Viève and whispered to Maurice. Mary Anne felt a burst of vindictive pleasure flood through her as she watched a baffled Viève stare at Holden and Maurice as they got up and walked away. Just as Holden arrived next to Mary Anne (he was a million times better looking than Steve), Viève’s eyes focused on her. First amazement, then horror registered on the Chihuahua’s face. Mary Anne gave Viève a sweet smile and a quick wave just as Holden Humphrey plopped his gorgeous ass on the seat next to her.
*
Sure, Holden Humphrey was as dumb as a post, but he was Mary Anne’s first one-night stand and an amazing fuck. She glanced at her watch: 3:35 A.M. The golden god slept to her left. She could still feel the heat of his kisses across her chest. Which was still bare.
Where were her clothes?
He’d tossed her bra over his shoulder when he carried her to his bed, but her jeans and thong, she believed, were tangled in the mess of pillows and blankets. She smiled. She knew she should feel slutty, but she couldn’t muster up any guilt or remorse. Just victory. She came, she saw, she conquered (not in that order, and she’d come at least three times). She wished she had a camera phone. Nobody would believe this—she barely did. She’d just had sex with People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive. And it was hot sex. Hot, upsidedown, sideways, spank-him-on-the-ass (she’d never done that before) sex.
She slid out from under the covers and tiptoed around the room, picking her jeans out of the blankets and her bra from a far corner. She quietly shimmied into her thong and reached for her shirt on the chair next to Holden’s side of the bed.
“Hey, baby.” A groggy Holden reached out his hand and smiled a sleepy smile. “You gotta go?”
“Yeah, I need to get home,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Okay, I can take you.”
“No, stay,” Mary Anne insisted. “It’s good. I’ll call a car.”
“Sure?” His lids drifted down over his eyes.
Mary Anne smiled. “I’m sure.”
She leaned forward and kissed Holden Humphrey’s lips. “Okay, you got my number?” Holden mumbled.
Mary Anne stuck her hand in her jeans pocket for the wadded-up cocktail napkin. “Sure do,” she said. “But, Holden, I don’t think I’ll call.”
“Huh?” Holden opened his bright blue eyes.
“This was fun, but I’m not really looking for a relationship right now,” Mary Anne said, glancing around the room for her purse. She had a vague memory of tossing it as Holden dropped her onto the bed.
“Oh.” Holden looked befuddled.
“Ah.” Mary Anne spotted her bag under the night table and grabbed it. “This was so much fun, and I’m sure we’ll see each other out somewhere again, but really, this number, not ready to use it.” Mary Anne dropped the cocktail napkin onto the night table.
“Wasn’t it”—Holden paused, looking away from Mary Anne—“good for you?”
“What?” Mary Anne smiled. “Are you kidding? It was the absolute best. You are the man. It’s not the sex, really. It’s just, guys right now for me, I’m not in the right mind-set.”
Holden smiled, presumably relieved, Mary Anne thought, that her mental instability was to blame and not his sexual performance.
“Got it. Well, babe, you know where I am,” he reached out and rubbed Mary Anne’s thigh.
“Yes,” Mary Anne said, “yes, I do.”
Chapter 22
Celeste Solange and Her Lara Bohinc Shades
People had a hard time guessing Kiki Dee’s age. A ballet dancer before answering the call to celebrate stars by ensuring the best coverage in People, Star, or Us Weekly, Kiki kept her body lithe and firm. She was living proof of Dr. Charles Melnick’s skill with the scalpel (his best customer and an A-plus referral service). In return for referring all her clients for lips, micro-derm, Botox, breast enhancement, and any other service the best cosmetic surgeon in Beverly Hills could supply, Kiki received a thirty percent discount. A kickback if you will, and Kiki chose to take the kickbacks out in trade. No, you couldn’t guess Kiki’s age, but Celeste would bet her quote that Kiki had a recent battle scar to complement her signature Louis Vuitton eyeglasses (which matched her Louis Vuitton shoes) and Bettie Page haircut.
Celeste, having made her request prior to Kiki’s taking this call, watched as her publicist spoke to a magazine editor and waved her hands to emphasize why the B-list star of whom she spoke should be on the cover of Vanity Fair. On the wall behind Kiki hung a calendar studded with notes on film premieres and press schedules for her busiest clients. Celeste knew that Kiki’s client list was tiring. Five years before, when Damien had urged Celeste to sign with Kiki, she was the publicist to have, but because of a split within Kiki’s
firm (three younger yet top-level publicists left, taking their clients, and started their own publicity firm down the street), Kiki’s roster had shrunk and so had her income. Now Kiki concentrated on signing young talent. Up-and-comers. Actors with a few good credits but great potential. This way, in five to ten years, as these actors emerged from their film roles with awards and big box office, Kiki would once again be on top of the publicity world.
Celeste also knew that Damien had brought Brie Ellison to Kiki. It was a conflict of interest, of course, with Kiki forced to do damage control for Celeste’s image during the divorce while trying to keep Brie’s name and photos in all the right magazines for as long as the public’s interest held. Celeste hoped to get what she needed from Kiki by playing upon these two things: Kiki’s insatiable desire for young talent and her guilt over the conflict of interest. Celeste smiled sweetly at her publicist as she hung up the phone.
“Celeste, I will not give you the security code to Brie Ellison’s house.” Kiki peered at Celeste through her glasses.
“But Kiki, I need it.”
“No way. Can you imagine? Tomorrow I read of a triple murder-suicide, you, Brie, and Damien, and me never knowing who killed who? No way!”
“Kiki, if you don’t give me this—”
“What? What will you do?” Kiki’s eyes turned cold and her smile faded. “Cici, I know where all the bodies are buried, even the ones you killed. So don’t take any kind of tone that even resembles a threat. Got it?”
Celeste turned up the wattage on her charm. “Kiki, my love, you are my publicist. I trust you with every one of my flaws. Everything that makes me human. All those things I want to hide.”
“All right, then. Now go do what stars do.”
Celeste stood and put on her Lara Bohinc sunglasses. “I don’t know why I even bothered. I guess it’s only because Bradford Madison’s become like a little brother to me.”
Kiki’s head snapped up. “Bradford Madison?”
Celeste knew that dropping Bradford’s name would catch Kiki’s interest faster than the paparazzi could say cheese. “Yes, Bradford Madison. He stayed with me during principal photography for Seven Minutes Past Midnight. You know, to keep his nose clean.”
“Go on.”
“Well, it seems like he and Brie started a little thing.”
“Really?” Kiki leaned forward. “I had no idea. Brie didn’t mention it. How could I not know this? How could People, Star, and Us not know this? This is huge news.”
“It’s very new and very under wraps. Especially since Damien is away on location scouts. I guess Brie does have a heart and wants to tell Damien about Bradford in person. Such a wonderful girl. So much more than Damien deserves.”
“You’re right there.”
“They had a tiff. Bradford and Brie. And, well, Bradford came to me and begged me to help. Darling, what was I to do? Seems that Bradford is really quite the romantic, and he wants to sneak into the house and do the whole rose-petals-champagne-I’m-so-sorry thing for Brie. I know it’s a little cliché. But young love …”
“Hmm … This Madison-Ellison thing could be big. Very big. It needs to be encouraged. Yes. Okay. I’ll do it. Have Bradford call me.”
“Kiki, my darling, no need. Bradford is here.”
“He’s here? Bradford Madison, the one client I’ve been salivating over for two years, is here? Cici, I adore you! Where? Where is he?”
“Right outside. Have your assistant send him in,” Celeste said.
“Boom Boom,” Kiki yelled, “bring Bradford in.”
Celeste could tell by Bradford’s slow shuffle that he didn’t want to enter this lion’s den. Kiki had, in fact, pursued Bradford mercilessly for over two years. But if this is his penance, Celeste thought, so be it. He’d absolutely broken Christina’s heart before she departed for Oxford.
“Bradford, so good to see you again.” Kiki rushed around her desk and grabbed him and kissed both his cheeks. She pulled back, eyeing Bradford’s face over the top of her glasses. “My goodness, lover, Seven Minutes Past Midnight must have been a rough set—look at those bruises! But your skin is so young it will heal. Believe me, I know, bruises heal. Now, darling, you’ve been a very naughty boy,” Kiki said, wagging her finger at him. “You haven’t returned any of my calls. Sit, sit. Tell me all about this little love affair with my client Brie Ellison.”
“Well, it’s not exactly—”
“Bradford, don’t be shy,” Celeste interrupted. “Kiki knows everything about everyone—it’s her job.”
“So rose petals and champagne.” Kiki peered over the top of her glasses again. “Well, red is her favorite color, and I think that Veuve is her favorite champagne. We have some in the fridge out front; take a bottle when you leave. Boom Boom, get me Brie’s security code,” Kiki yelled. “Now, darling, I am happy to do this little favor for you, but you must promise me that when you and Brie go public with your relationship, I get to announce it, and of course a dinner. You and me. There is so much I can do for your career. I have so many ideas.”
A tiny Asian girl with dark glasses rushed in and handed Kiki a card.
“Here it is,” Kiki said, passing it to Bradford. “Now, don’t you share this with anyone.”
“Sure,” Bradford said.
“And have Boom Boom schedule our dinner before you leave. Now go, go.” Kiki waved both the actors toward her office door. “Both of you go make hits!”
Celeste smiled at Kiki and glanced at Bradford. Yes, they certainly needed to make a hit.
*
Celeste had parked up a hill and around the corner from Brie’s Silver Lake home. The spot gave her the best view of both the drive and the front door. She held a wireless receiver in her hand that got both audio and video transmissions from the tiny camera (shaped like an exact replica of the Mont Blanc pens Damien used) that Bradford was positioning on the nightstand next to Brie and Damien’s bed. She also wore a wireless earpiece with a microphone, as did Bradford, so the two of them could talk.
Very high tech. Who knew that good divorce attorneys came equipped with spy gadgetry.
“Bradford, that’s perfect. Great view of the room and the bed,” Celeste said into the microphone. “Now get out of there.”
Headlights flashed in Celeste’s rearview mirror. She scrunched down in her car. The last thing she needed was someone calling the police because they thought she was a peeper. As the black Hummer cruised by, she saw the license plates. BIGD. Shit, she thought. It’s Damien and Brie.
“Bradford, can you hear me? Bradford!”
“What’s up?”
“I’ve got Damien and Brie pulling into the drive. They must have taken an earlier flight. Get out.”
“You’re kidding? Cici, there’s only one way into this place, and I’m on the second floor.”
“Then hide.” Celeste peeked around the steering wheel. She watched as Brie hopped out of the Hummer and Damien went around back and pulled out their luggage.
“Bradford, she’s opening the front door now. Hide, do you hear me? Hide!”
“Cici, shut up. Okay, I hear you. Just make sure the damn thing is recording.”
Celeste looked at the wireless receiver. “We’re good. Bradford, where are you?”
“Closet.”
“Their closet?”
“Yeah.”
“But they’ve got luggage. Clothes to unpack.”
“Cici, I know Brie: There won’t be any unpacking tonight.” Celeste watched Damien haul the last bag into the house and shut the door.
“Damien, let’s go to bed,” Celeste heard Brie call, and then Brie walked into frame. “I need to relax. Can we get one on?”
How romantic, Celeste thought. She sounds just like a man. Damien passed into frame. Celeste was shocked. She hadn’t seen Damien in months and he looked haggard and old.
“Brie, really, I’m just too tired. What about in the morning?”
Damien too tired for sex? That was a new o
ne.
“I’ll toss and turn all night if we don’t just do a quicky.”
“Fine,” Damien said. “Let me brush my teeth and then we’ll get this done.”
Damien walked out of frame.
“Get this done?” Brie muttered under her breath. “Old man.”
Celeste watched as Brie approached the full-length mirror next to the closet door. She slowly took off her clothes, watching herself undress as though doing a striptease for herself.
Damien came back into frame, wearing his silk boxer shorts. His body showed the effect of forgoing his morning swims; the aging that Damien managed to keep at bay with rigorous physical exercise and an impeccable diet had assaulted his body. He looked every bit of his fifty years plus five more. The best word to describe his appearance, Celeste thought, was awful.
Damien reached for the light next to the bed to switch it off (not that it mattered, since the spy camera had night-vision capability).
“Leave it on, baby. I’ve got lines to read when we’re done,” Brie said.
Damien gave an exhausted sigh and rolled over to the sexual succubus lying with him in bed.
Celeste watched as Brie mounted Damien like a dog deciding to dry-hump a leg. Celeste flipped the screen down and took the earphone out of her ear (keeping the two-way radio piece in, in case Bradford needed her).
Bradford! Poor Bradford, Celeste thought, stifling a giggle. He’d get the full effect of Damien grunting and Brie moaning while he stood in Brie’s closet. Celeste knew Damien would conk out after the sex, but she hoped that Brie would work on her lines in another room so Bradford could slip out of the house. The idea of spending hours sitting in her Porsche in Silver Lake waiting for Bradford to find an escape route irritated her and marred her brief good mood.
