Fame (Not Like The Movies #1)

by Lauren K. McKellar

  The screen door opens, and Janie breaks the awkward silence between us. She glances from Madison’s folded arms to me and frowns. “Shit, I’m sorry, Maddie. This jerk probably reminds you of your ex from that whole cheating thing, huh?”

  Madison nods, and at least that part is truth. It’s just the and we made out like teenagers part that’s the bigger problem.

  “Well, look. I can let you in on a little secret.” Janie shoots me a wink and steps between us. “I can’t tell you everything, but I can promise you that whole thing was a media beat-up. Tate didn’t cheat on Mikaela. It was an old clip with an altered date on it.”

  “Oh. Good,” Madison says, but her voice lacks conviction. No wonder.

  Janie places the paperwork on the table, then wraps an arm around Madison’s shoulders. “Let’s go inside. Maybe we can order that room service now.” Janie ushers her through the doors.

  I give them a few moments and glance back at the sea. The sun has sunk lower so just a sliver of gold lines the horizon. A cool sea breeze rises up from the ocean and I drink it in, my eyes pressed lightly closed. Why does this woman have this effect on me? Why can’t I just go after the woman I want?

  Two months.

  That’s all.

  Then this will all be over, and I can find a hundred Madisons to bury myself inside of.

  As I turn to head in, I spot a cell on the table in the middle of the two chairs. It’s not Janie’s—I know for a fact that hers is glued to her hip. That’s if she hasn’t paid to have it implanted yet somehow.

  I reach over and pick it up. It clicks to life with one press of my finger, and then two smiling faces look up at me, Madison and some guy. Probably that douchebag of an ex of hers.

  Glancing back to check they can’t see me, I quickly snap a selfie, then change her home page to that.

  I may never see this woman again, but at least she’ll see me instead of that idiot next time she goes to check her phone.

  But before I place the cell back down, I do one last thing …

  ***

  Madison

  Tate takes the paper Janie places on the coffee table and leaves shortly after we head inside. Mikaela never comes back.

  “I think I’m gonna explode.” Janie stretches her arms over her head, and her round belly juts forward. “I love eating for two.”

  “I don’t know what my excuse is.” I smile, rubbing my own definitely larger-than-an-hour-ago stomach.

  “It’s the breakup rule.” Janie grins. “You’re allowed to eat anything for the first month post-breakup.”

  “Oh yeah?” I say. “And after that, the gym membership starts?”

  “You’re at a yoga retreat. I think it makes you exempt from gym for about a year.” Janie pushes up off the couch. She leans to collect the plates.

  “Hey, I’ll do that.” I stand and take the white china from her hands.

  “Thanks. I have to admit, I do need to pee. Again. Seriously, they don't kid when they say pregnant ladies have no bladder control.” She turns and waddles off down the hall toward her en suite.

  I place the two plates on the silver room-service tray they came on, then return to the coffee table where we ate, picking up the empty wine bottle that I’ve somehow managed to inhale and add that to the tray on the counter, too.

  Just as I’m about to sit back down, a flash of white catches my eye. It’s just underneath the tray, and it looks like—

  Papers.

  Like the kind of official papers that might contain secrets.

  And even though I shouldn't—even though I know snooping is bad, and Janie was sweet enough to invite me into her home—I can’t help but pull them out from their position. It’s the journalist in me.

  Glancing over my shoulder, as if maybe Janie will come racing out of the bathroom any moment, I pull them to the side and read the heading.

  Plan of Action. I frown, reading the three names that follow—Janie Masters, Tate Masters and Mikaela Howards.

  Water rushes from somewhere in the background, and I freeze. “Shoot,” I whisper, my eyes scanning the words in front of me even as I slide the paper back into place. Five key words catch my eye.

  Keep up the relationship charade.

  What exactly is Tate Masters hiding?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tate

  It’s who-knows-what-o’clock in the States when Shade finally picks up the call. Finally.

  “Hello?” Her voice sounds groggy, as if she’s just woken up.

  “Hi. It’s me.” I pause, but no sound comes forward. “Tate.”

  “I know who you—”

  “Well I’m just a little surprised you picked up.” I throw my head back against the soft leather of the lounge in my hotel room adjacent to Mikaela’s.

  “I guess you want me to apologise, huh?” she asks. There’s a bitterness to her tone that wasn’t there three years ago when we were kids.

  “I have to admit, I—”

  “Well you don't always get what you want, Tate Masters,” Shade spits venom, and I shudder. “Did you drop the lawsuit?”

  “Yeah, I got it taken care of.” I pause, hoping that somewhere in there is the vulnerable girl I once cared for. “Listen, we need to talk about your brother. How can you let him manipulate you like this? He doctored those videos, and now—”

  “Danny is just looking out for me, like Janie always did for you when we were kids.” She huffs out a breath. “It just blows my mind. How is it possible that you were the kid who came into our family with nothing and broke my heart, and now you’re a fucking movie star, huh? How about that?”

  My eyes bug out of my head. She can’t be serious … can she? “Shade, you know I worked hard to get where I am today.”

  “Worked hard? Or fucked hard?” she asks, and the word hits me a little too close to home. “That’s the real reason you dumped me. Because you knew my pussy wouldn’t get you into the movies.”

  The words are so vile, I have to swallow down the sour taste that invades my mouth. “Shade, you need to calm down and watch what you say.”

  “Or what?” she sneers. “You’re gonna do what?”

  I purse my lips. God, do I want to tell her where to go. To get the hell out of my life.

  But her brother has photos that would destroy my sister.

  And so I don't.

  “Just as I thought.” She laughs, an empty, sinister sound. “You ain’t gonna do shit.”

  And with that, she hangs up.

  And leaves me hanging and in need of solace once more.

  ***

  Tate

  It’s two hours and two beers later when I check my email. The cool evening breeze wafts in through the open balcony doors as I unwind after the day’s shoot. We’ve been working on Tropical Love for two months, with this two-week shoot in Bali the final location in our long list. It’ll be great when it’s over, and I can gear up for the promo—and pay-day.

  Ding.

  Twenty-one new emails.

  I scroll through them all, but one name pops from the list. One name sends a chill of dread down my spine.

  Danny McPherson.

  If you don’t send us $50,000 in one month, I’m leaking those pics of your sister.

  You might not owe my sister’s brat anything, but you owe us emotional damage.

  Pay up.

  His words chill me to the core. And I do the one thing I seem to do well when it comes to emotional situations I just can’t handle myself in.

  I drink.

  ***

  Madison

  Janie sees me off in an open-air cart, and a sting of guilt rushes through me as she hugs me goodbye. Her round belly presses against my stomach, and I try to pretend like the extra squeeze she gives my shoulders doesn't compound that horrid feeling swirling around in my stomach.

  I betrayed my friend and snooped while she was peeing. And for what? The knowledge that perhaps Mikaela and Tate’s relationship is a sham? But why would they
do that? What would be in it for them?

  The first and most obvious benefit is for Tate. Before Mikaela, he was something of a nobody. But what would Mikaela get out of being in a fake relationship with him? What would she have to gain?

  When I’m safely back in my resort room, I open the doors to the ocean. The soothing murmur of the waves on the shore sounds in my ears as I lie back on the bed, deliberating my options. Do I call Courtney? Tell her that I have the scandal she’s after? Do I try and get my job back?

  I hardly have enough to report on, but I roll over and reach for my clutch anyway, pulling my phone out.

  When my thumb hits the screen, it lights up—to a close-up of Tate’s face. A cheeky grin stretches his lips, and the ocean behind him is as blue as his eyes. This time, my stomach twinges for an entirely different reason to before. Did he seriously steal my phone, take a selfie and make it my home-screen photo?

  As I swipe right to unlock, a message comes through.

  Sexy & Secretive: So, seen any good home screens lately?

  “Ha!” I clap my hand over my mouth. No. Apparently he didn't just steal my phone, take a selfie and make it my home-screen photo—he saved his number in there, too.

  Madison: No, unfortunately. There’s a serious lack of good home screen images in my phone right now.

  I place the phone back on my bedside table, and it beeps again a few seconds later.

  Sexy & Secretive: Sounds like you need some help. Let me send you some photos.

  I swipe right, just as a photo message flashes across my screen. The logo for a popular men’s underwear line is embedded in the corner of the pic, but the bulk of the screen is Tate in those jocks, and nothing else.

  When I tear my eyes away from his chiselled face, I scroll down his body. Damn, is that a good torso. Rippling muscles stretch over his stomach, supporting a broad chest. A V points seductively toward the line of underwear over his groin.

  Holy mother of Jesus. I trace one finger over the muscles longingly. It’s all I can do to stop myself from licking my phone.

  Sexy & Seductive: I’ve shown you mine. Show me yours?

  Goosebumps ripple across my body. Tate Masters is flirting with me. And even though I’m not ready to date, and even though I know he probably does this with a whole lot of women and he maybe has a girlfriend—after the papers I’ve seen, I can’t be sure—I want to flirt back.

  I do the only thing I can do in this situation.

  I call Courtney.

  She picks up on the third ring, her voice light and airy. “Hey, miss.”

  “Hey,” I say. “Is this a bad time?”

  “No,” Courtney says, her voice a little deeper this time. “I was just … stop it!” She shrieks, and I hear a deep laugh in the background.

  “You have company,” I squeal.

  “Yes, yes, but I always have time for—ah!” Courtney shrieks again, then dissolves into giggles. “Okay. What can I do for you, sweets?”

  “Well, summary version, Tate Masters is flirting with me. Again. And I think I found out about a major scandal—his whole relationship with Mikaela could be a sham.”

  That gets Court’s attention. The line rustles, and a door clicks closed before Courtney speaks again. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah.” That guilt twinges at my stomach again, and I push it away. After all, it’s only Courtney. It’s not like I’m submitting the story to Chloe or anything.

  “You need to go for it.” Courtney’s voice brims with excitement. “Get proof it’s false. This could be your ticket back in.”

  Her excitement is catching. “It could be, right?”

  “Right. You need to get this scoop, Madison.” She pauses, then speaks again. “Flirt, if he’s putting it out there. Don’t jump into bed with him again, and whatever you do, get that story! This could be your job back. Hell, you could get promoted. Just make sure you have rock-solid evidence before you break it.”

  “Got it.” I smile.

  “Plus, you break this epic story—it would make Mike so upset,” Courtney says.

  “You think?” Doubt creeps into my voice. Why would this upset him?

  “You? Getting the lowdown on a sexy-arse movie star and getting a kick-arse new job?” Courtney harrumphs. “He’d be upset for sure. Especially since Missionary Mike isn’t exactly known for his bedroom prowess.”

  “True,” I muse. Could this story have more than one benefit? “Look, I should go. Get back to your own sexy times—and I expect details!”

  “A lady never kisses and tells.” Courtney laughs, and we end the call.

  Seconds later, I pick up my phone again.

  Madison: I’m not sending you a pic. Haven’t you seen the news? Multimedia can land you in a whole heap of trouble.

  Sexy & Seductive: Touché. I’m not asking for anything untoward … just a photo of your beautiful face.

  I roll my eyes. What a charmer. Does that line actually work on any of the ladies? Who would believe that?

  Sexy & Seductive: And a photo of your boobs. Because, you know, fair’s fair.

  On cue, my nipples tingle and I curse the traitorous bastards for siding with the enemy.

  Madison: I don't know what kind of a woman you think I am, Mr Masters, but this holds no interest for me. Is this what you send to all the women you cheat on your girlfriend with? Or is there really more to the story?

  It’s a long shot, but it’s worth it. All I need is for him to tell me the relationship is a façade and I’ll have the print evidence that I need to sell the story to Lola and hopefully get my job back.

  I wait and wait, my finger hovering anxiously over the home screen for his reply.

  When it comes, I swipe faster than I’ve ever swiped, air caught in my throat.

  Sexy & Seductive: Good night, Madison. I’ll see you in my dreams.

  “Crap,” I mutter, and throw my phone to the other side of the bed. I pull the sheets up to my chin and close my eyes, ready to call it a night.

  Sleep doesn't come for a while, and when it does, it’s full of images of half-naked Tate and just what he could possibly do to my nipples with that talented tongue.

  Chapter Twenty

  Madison

  As someone who works in the media, I’m used to the hype that goes with a headline. One text message sent from a movie star to a live-in nanny signed off with ‘xo’ becomes Sexy Sitter Sleepover Scandal quicker than you can say sign that paparazzi cheque.

  So you’d think when Yoko texted me the link to the article with the headline Volcano Eruption Imminent: Will Bali Survive? I’d have been immune. Right?

  “I don’t care what it costs. Just get me off this stupid island.” With tired, sleepless eyes, I look out toward the ocean that I’d previously described as idyllic. There’s no sign of the apparent ash cloud, but we’ve been informed it’s grounded every plane on the mainland. Idyllic my arse.

  A man in the hotel’s standard blah-coloured uniform sweeps the few stray leaves that have dared to fall on the deck separating my villa from the shark-infested, salty separation order between me and my home.

  “Madison, the volcano has not erupted and killed people in dozens of years,” Yoko says, her calm voice floating down the line. “It’s just talk.”

  Easy for her to say, from the comfort of her designer desk.

  “The last time there was ash—just ash, Yoko, not even a proper lava-spews-everywhere eruption—the airports closed for …” My fingers dance across the keyboard, and I tap my index rapidly against the bottom of my silver laptop as I wait for the hotel’s WiFi to kick in. “Three—three weeks! I can’t stay here for three whole weeks.”

  Yoko makes a choked sound, and I can all but hear her subtext of yes, that’s the voice of a woman who doesn’t need to spend more time doing yoga and finding inner peace.

  “Listen, Madison, I know things are tough for you right now, but panicking won’t help. Make this a part of your story—dealing with anxiety, and—”

/>   “I’m not—” The cleaner’s head whips around, and I school my voice to a lower, less panic-filled level. “I’m not anxious about it, Yoko. I’m just …” I search for the right word, “I’m just … I don’t want to miss out on too much work, is all.”

  And it’s true. I work hard—it’s what I do. I don’t want to miss out on cementing my place in the magazine world, whether with my breaking Tate and Mikaela scandal or something else. I don’t want to miss out on the Publisher’s Australia awards that I know are happening in just one week’s time.

  And most of all, I don't want to miss seeing Mike’s face when he realises just how much better off I am without him. How I have a plan to get my career back. It’s very hard to be smug when you’re 4,654 kilometres away.

  Yoko sighs. “Madison, this will be good for you. Try to see this as an opportunity. Use it to your best advantage.” I hear the smile in her voice. “And if all else fails, I hear there’s a local bar a few kilometres down from the hotel where you can get your hands on some vodka.”

  I slap a hand over my face. Because that worked out so well for me last time. “Thanks, Yoko.”

  “Call me any time. Also, I’ve hired a contract photographer who was working in Bali, since the one you requested won’t be able to come over now.”

  I frown, thinking of all the fabulous shoots Jean Paul and I have done together. “What? Why?”

  “He’s …” she clears her throat. “He doesn’t want to risk it, with the ash.”

  “Oh my God, Yok—”

  “I have to go, Madison. Good luck.”

  The line goes dead, and I throw my phone across the bed in frustration. Fabulous.

  After shooting off a quick text to Courtney (I’m going to die in a bed of lava on a tropical island) and receiving her extremely useful speedy reply (Can you make jewellery out of lava? Or is that not how those lampwork bead things are done?), I grab a bottle of Zen sparkling water from the fridge and knock half of it back in several long gulps. If only sculling Zen would actually have the effect of its namesake.