Fame (Not Like The Movies #1)

by Lauren K. McKellar

  He’s right, and I know it. I lick my lips, stalling for time while I come up with plan B. “Well, how about a pic of you two gazing into each other’s eyes or something. Readers love that.”

  Tate flicks an amused glance my way, and I shoot daggers at him. “You think that’ll sell magazines?”

  “Absolutely I do.” I nod. “It appeals to the female readership. The sort of shot where women can cut Mikaela’s head off and stick their own in its place.”

  “Thanks,” Mikaela says coolly, and I want to kick my own arse. What a dickhead thing to say.

  “Sorry, Mikaela. I didn't mean it like that. Honest. And I’m sure some of them will cut Tate’s head off, too.”

  Tate seems to whiten a little at that, and I enjoy the small victory. They take their poses again, gazing steamily into each other’s eyes, and I can’t decide if this is worse than Davo’s kissing idea. At least then I wouldn't be able to see how huge Mikaela’s boobs are in comparison to my own. They have to be fake. There is no way—

  “We gotta problem, boss,” Davo hisses, and I cock my head in confusion.

  “Take a few seconds,” I call to Tate and Mikaela, then turn back to the photographer.

  “Look at this.” He shoves his camera in front of my face. In front of us, the screen shows Tate and Mikaela, looking steamily at one another. It’s hot. It’ll sell magazines. Hell, it could practically sell as porn fluffer.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “This.” Davo zooms in twice, then points to a spot on Tate’s back.

  Four scratch marks.

  He thrusts and I scream in pleasure.

  “Hold on,” he grunts, and I do. My nails dig into his skin as he pumps again and again and again, emptying himself inside of me.

  Shit.

  “Looks like they’ve had a bit of kinky sex, eh?” Davo ribs me again, and I give a polite laugh. “You’re gonna have to tell ’im.”

  “Can’t you just Photoshop it out?” I try.

  Davo’s eyes widen as he drops his camera to his side. “I am an artist. Not one of these fake shitty paps with a bloody iPhone and a—”

  “Okay, okay.” I hold up one hand in defeat. Between the heat, my lack of sleep and his tirade, I’m developing a migraine. “I got it.”

  I walk over to Tate and Mikaela where they stand in the shade of the palm tree.

  “What’s up?” Tate asks, all cool, calm and collected.

  “It seems you have some … uh … something on your back.” I nod toward the spot in question. Ground, please open up and swallow me now.

  “What does he …” Mikaela trails off as she walks behind him and looks at the incriminating spot. Her eyes widen for just one moment before she pastes her sultry smile back in place. She raises her hand to the spot where the lines start, then traces four fingers in the exact same spot the scratches run. “I guess we got a little carried away last night, right honey?” She turns in an aside to me, as if her “boyfriend” isn’t standing right there. “Sometimes when we’re in the moment, I just can’t control myself.”

  “That’s … nice,” I say, unsure what else to add. I want to die. “So do you want to put some makeup over those scratch marks, or are you happy for it to be in the shots?”

  “Let it run as is,” Mikaela says, before Tate can get a word in. “There’s nothing wrong with showing the world our off-screen love is just as passionate as our on-screen.”

  “Right.” Tate coughs, but I catch the gleam in his eye.

  I head back to Davo to give him the good news, and he snaps a few more shots, setting up various angles and poses ranging from sweet to seductive. Tate’s hands wrap around Mikaela’s waist, and I imagine how they’d feel around my own. How they felt a little more than twelve hours ago. When she steps between his legs, her pelvis close to his, I remember how it felt to have his hardness against me, how his legs pushed mine open. When his lips kiss her jaw, my stomach clenches, and I can’t take it anymore. I turn away, taking my new phone from my handbag and pretending to reply to an email.

  Get a grip, Madison. This is Tate Masters—he’s not your boyfriend. He’s not even close enough for you to consider him a good friend.

  “How’s it going?”

  I look up to see Janie walking down the path, one hand over her rounded stomach.

  “Good.” I break into an easy smile, glad for the distraction and yet another excuse to focus my attention elsewhere than the shoot. “Davo’s getting some great shots.”

  “Fabulous.” Janie nods. “I was a little worried. Julien said Tate was off his game this morning.”

  Heat rushes my cheeks. “Oh. He was?”

  “Mmhmm. Probably just a bad night’s sleep,” Janie says, her eyes focused on the couple behind me.

  “Well, it is really hot here,” I hedge.

  “Very.” Janie nods, then snaps her focus back to me. “Just confirming, you have all you need for the feature, right?”

  Right. The feature. The one I need to tell Courtney I can’t write, and that I’ll have to instead focus on the true love story of Tate and Mikaela. Because how can I betray him now when he’s given me so much? Tearing his career open to save my own is wrong—it’s a journalistic line I’m not willing to cross. “Sure do.”

  “Good.” Janie smiles and rubs her belly again. “You know, running into you was fate. I’m so glad we have you on this. I’m happy to call you a friend.”

  Guilt, guilt, guilt. No doubt she’d be less thrilled to learn I snooped and read a private note on her table, then screwed her brother. Probably not winning any awards for Friend of the Year.

  “I got all I need here, boss.” Davo saves me from having to answer Janie, and I nod.

  “Great. Thanks so much.” I walk over to him to look at the images on his camera screen. There they are in brilliant colour—Tate and Mikaela, looking every bit the couple in love. It’s no wonder the world believes their story—looking at these images, I would too.

  “Well, thanks so much,” I say to Tate and Mikaela.

  Tate opens his mouth as if to say something, then stops.

  “Not a problem,” Mikaela replies. “And did you get all you needed with Tate yesterday?”

  I swallow. Five orgasms and a deep-and-meaningful? Yeah. I’d say we got it covered. “I did, thank you.”

  “You don't need any extra?” Janie chimes in, and this time my cheeks turn to fire.

  “Yeah?” Tate’s eyes glance at me then focus on something in the distance, as if this very conversation is boring him. “You need anything more?”

  “I … I’ll be fine. Thanks.” I catch Tate’s eye, and I can see the laughter there. Bastard. “I’ve got enough for the time being.”

  “Well, if you need any more, you give me a call, okay?” The laughter has gone from Tate’s eyes. Now they’re all fire, and I feel naked under his gaze.

  “A call?” I squeak, then school my voice lower.

  “It’s what people use their cells for.” Mikaela deadpans, then flashes me that million-dollar smile. “Sorry, sweetie, that was mean. I’ve had a long day.” This glare is directed at Tate, and I think of Janie’s words from earlier. I hope things weren’t too tough at the shoot this morning.

  “I’ll give you my number.” Tate extends his hand, and I pass over my mobile, letting him type the information in.

  “Okay, well, thank you so much for your assistance, Davo and Madison. I’ll let you two get back to it. I’m sure you have a lot to take care of.”

  She’s right.

  We say our goodbyes and turn and walk back toward the entrance to the resort, Davo prattling on about all the celebrities he’s shot in the past, my mind a million miles away as I wonder how soon I can text Tate, and if he even wants me to.

  As we reach the little open-air cart Davo hired to lug him and his gear around in, my phone rings, and I glance down at the unknown Sydney number in surprise. Back home, the time is all wrong for someone to be giving me a buzz.

 
; “Hello?”

  “Hi, is this Ms Winters?” a male voice asks.

  “Yes …”

  “It’s Adam Lukovic here from the Royal Prince Edward hospital,” he says. “A Betty Storey asked me to call you. Your fiancé has been in a terrible car accident.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Tate

  Taking photos with Mikaela is always fun. It reminds me why I agreed to this faux relationship in the first place—because she makes me laugh.

  Today, the game was what would you never do in a film.

  “Anal,” she whispers as she gazes lovingly into my eyes, the photographer snapping away in the background.

  “Anything involving shit.” I smile sweetly at her, and she giggles and bats at my chest with her hand, as if I’ve just whispered the softest sweet nothing in her ear.

  The photographer asks us to reposition, and when Madison suggests a goofing off pose, I hold back my laugh. She’s … is she jealous? She knows this relationship is a farce. Images flash through my brain. Her legs, wrapped around my waist. Her lips, wrapped around my dick.

  Oh yeah. If she doesn't know, she’s a really good actor.

  When she stops the shoot to point out the scratch marks on my back, I know I’m in trouble. “What the hell, Tate?” Mikaela hisses, all mirth gone from her voice.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you think?” She shoots me a quick glare before softening it around the edges, wrapping her hands lovingly around my neck. “It’s one thing to fuck a random. But for her to leave marks?”

  “I didn't know.” I lean down and press a kiss to her neck. I’m so tempted to give a little bite, just to see how she’d react, but I don't. Because I’m professional like that. “It’s seriously not that big a deal. It adds weight to our whole ‘mad lovers’ story.”

  “I guess.” Mikaela spins in my arms and wraps my hands possessively on either side of her waist. “Did you see that journo’s face? Poor thing was so embarrassed. She ate it up.”

  I hold back the laughter bubbling in my chest. Mikaela’s right. Madison had looked as if she wanted the earth to open up and swallow her whole.

  Next time I look up, she’s on her new phone, her back angled away from the shoot, and I frown. Why didn't I pre-program it with my number? Then she could call me. If she wanted.

  Although she’d sure seemed in a hurry to leave my apartment early this morning.

  Still, there has to be a way I can get her to call me. To see me again.

  I dart furtive glances in her direction for the rest of the shoot. When she smiles, her whole face lights up. The sun gleams against her hair, and the curves of her body are so damn perfect.

  She’s—

  Oh shit.

  Did I seriously just think that? About her hair? Her face lighting up?

  I shake my head to try and clear it. The lack of sleep must be getting to me. I don't think shit like that. I’m a guy. We don’t do stuff like that unless …

  Unless …

  Unless maybe I really care for her.

  Shit.

  That’s why, when the shoot ends, I take her phone and program my number in it. I don't know what I want—well, more sex, obviously, but it’s more than that. I want to get to know her.

  I don't miss the raised eyebrow from Janie as I hand the cell back to Madison, but I race out of there as soon as the shoot wraps to head back up to my room anyway.

  I have a plan.

  And I can’t wait to set it in motion.

  ***

  The computer screen goes fuzzy before Bill, my manager, and Marty, my agent, blur into a semi-focus. WiFi is shit on the island.

  “So how’s life in paradise?” Marty starts, his cheesy grin eating his entire face.

  “Good man, good.” I nod, angling the screen so the ocean is visible in the background. “Check the view.”

  “And to think, us suckers are back here in LA,” Bill jokes, his belly wobbling as he laughs.

  “While our boy is out there on some tropical island, starring in a film opposite the world’s hottest Victoria’s Secret model—”

  “Ex-model,” I point out, just in case Mikaela’s listening to this too. That woman has serious hearing power, as she pointed out earlier today.

  “Whatever. The point is, you’re in paradise, starring in the next big rom-com to hit the screens, opposite your hot woman. Does life get any better than that?”

  “There’s just one thing boys.” I sigh, then reach off-screen to wrap my hand around the tall iced drink and pull it into camera. “You forgot the Long Island Iced Tea.”

  Guffaws and laughs all round. That’s the thing about Hollywood. Even those who are supposed to look after you, who manage your career—they don't want to know what goes on behind the cameras. They don’t want to know that you’re tired, you haven’t slept in a week, your relationship is fake and you’re worried about committing career suicide all for some random chick you met in a bar. They want the edited version. The version the public will see. I guess it’s their own version of what they don't know can’t kill ’em.

  “So how’s everything tracking?” I direct the question to Marty, since he’s the one who brokered the whole deal with Global.

  “Good, good. Looks like that initial blip we had has all but gone away. They’re keeping a close eye on you, but we don't have any more scandals that could creep out of the woodworks, right?” Marty’s smile is bright. Too bright.

  “Marty, what aren’t you telling me?” I frown.

  “I’ll give it to you straight, kid. They’re thinking of postponing the release.”

  “By how long?” My fingers grip tight around the icy glass.

  “Six months. Ten, max.”

  “Shit,” I curse, and run a hand through my hair. The ice is cool against my forehead, but it’s not enough. This could change everything with Danny. “Can we change payment terms then?”

  “I doubt it. Besides, do you really want to be makin’ a fuss right about now? After the recent media blow-up, I’d say you wanna keep your nose clean,” Marty says. He lifts a glass of water and knocks some back.

  Crap. It’s not ideal. It’ll mean I have to do something to get some cash, quick, to make sure Janie gets to have this baby and that dick leaves her alone.

  “Okay. I’m just a little … strapped for cash right now.”

  “What?” Marty frowns.

  “You know …” I hedge, taking a sip of the cocktail. “I bought the house for Janie. I don't have the kind of spare change lying around I’ll need to make it through till then.”

  “How much cash do you need?” Bill asks.

  I swallow the acid taste in my mouth. “Fifty grand.”

  “Fifty!” Marty scoffs. “I know this will be your first big pay-day, but surely the deposit they gave should be enough to tide you over. What, do you only eat caviar or somethin’?”

  “I just … I want to support Janie during the birth,” I rush out.

  “Sure your supermodel girlfriend can sling you some moolah.” Bill smirks.

  “Well, that’s the thing. I’m also thinking I might …” Think Tate, think, “buy Mikaela a ring. You know how good that’d be for the media. And the movie company.”

  Bill’s eyes light up. I practically see the dollar signs rolling through them. “Say no more. Who am I to stand in the way of true love?”

  I smile as bright as I can, and ignore the way the lie sits uncomfortably on my shoulders, the way my mouth is now a desert, all rough and dry.

  “Why don't I try hook up a few more endorsement deals?” Bill asks. “You know … something else that fits in with the wholesome good ol’ boy thing we got goin’ on here, to make sure the movie folks don’t get their noses out of joint.”

  “Yeah. That’d be great.” I take a sip of the drink, and it’s like heaven going down my parched throat. “I finish up here next week, provided the volcano ash has cleared, so if you could organise it for any time after that I can sw
ing it.”

  Next week. I finish up here next week.

  It’s a date I’ve looked forward to for so long, but now, after spending so much time with Madison, it feels like I’m speeding on a rollercoaster to the finish line, only I don't want this ride to end.

  ***

  Madison

  Sometimes in life, time seems to stand still. This phone call is one of those times.

  “Wh … sorry, what?” I press my finger against my outside ear, as if perhaps the gentle wash of the ocean could be responsible for the incomprehensible words coming down the phone.

  “He’s in surgery right now. Are you able to come down?” the man says.

  I shake my head, then remember he can’t see me. “No. I’m … I’m in Bali.”

  “Oh. Is there someone else I can call?”

  That’s when it hits me. I’m not the person who should be there, on the scene. This should be Canada. Or even my parents.

  Anyone but me.

  “I’m actually … we’re not engaged anymore,” I say, and for the first time in more than a fortnight, it doesn't hurt like it used to. It still has a subtle sting, but it’s not the great, gaping ball of ache it once was. “I can get in touch with his girlfriend though, if you’d like?”

  “Yes. Yes, that would be advised.” The man heaves a great sigh. “He was asking for you, though. So if you can make it down here, I’d recommend you do.”

  My jaw drops.

  The call ends.

  What the hell just happened?

  ***

  I spend the trip back to the resort:

  Texting Mum to go speak to Betty. She must be worried out of her brain—her only grandson in hospital. And, even though things with Mike sure aren’t like they used to be, I can’t help the sting of concern that washes over me. He’ll be okay. He has to be okay. Doesn’t he?

  Blocking out Davo’s chatter about the celebrities he’s photographed, how he can’t wait to eat something, and how flexible he’s heard yoga girls really are, wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

  Laughing politely every few minutes to ensure Davo’s talk doesn't venture any deeper than the surface level thing we have going on.