#1 Crush

by T Gephart

  Oh, my craziness wasn’t cured after a night of heavy drinking. Actually, the opposite. Getting drunk only solidified my resolve. In fact, as the night progressed I became even further convinced this was the only way to proceed. In between shots of Patrón and copious Mojitos, the premiere seemed like The. Best. Idea. Ever. Next-day sobriety—or the beginnings of it—didn’t convince me otherwise. Nope, I was too far gone.

  And I wasn’t going to be content with lining up along the barriers with all the other nameless, faceless screaming people. No. I needed an invite. I mean, how hard can it be? Studios handed those things out all the time. Surely these things had a tendency to * cough cough * get lost in the mail. It’s not like anyone checked ID once you were there. You just flashed your ever-important pass and moseyed on in. So obtaining one of those all-important passes was my number one priority. If only . . .

  “Oh shit!” Parts of the evening came flooding back to me.

  Yes, I had totally convinced both myself and Lila—she was a complete enabler—that I was going to get into the movie premiere on Monday. Yes, I had made it clear that I wasn’t going to be on the sidelines, needing up close and personal to get the eye contact and conversation I had predetermined necessary. But not content with just talking a good game, I had apparently put my money where my mouth was.

  “Shit.” My body almost levitated off the bed as I fumbled for my phone. The change in position was not doing wonders for my monster headache. Nor were my eyes glaring at my phone screen as I tried to pull up my emails. Not sure why I bothered, it was just going to confirm what I already knew to be true.

  “One ticket to LAX. Today.” The words did nothing but reinforce that I had purchased an airline ticket with zero actual plan on what I was going to do once I got to Los Angeles.

  “Okay. Calm down. It could be worse,” I told myself, because having a heart attack when I had non-refundable tickets would not be helpful.

  I mean it could be worse. Although I was talking to myself and I wasn’t sure that was a good thing, I hadn’t done anything to get me on a FBI watch list just yet. It’s not like anyone knew what my purpose for flying there was going to be. And as long as I didn’t attract any attention to myself, I would be totally fine. I’d chalk it up to investigative journalism. I’d write a column about it—my covert operation—and kill two birds with one stone. It was a win/win.

  #FirstAmendment

  #FreedomOfThePress

  #PleaseDon’tArrestMeOfficer

  “Hey, sweet cakes, you have any tomato juice? I’m making Bloody Marys.” Lila strolled in, not the slightest bit affected by last night’s assault on our livers.

  “Um. No. Why would I have tomato juice?” Ewww tomato juice. I swallowed heavily, the idea of a Bloody Mary making me want to gag. It wasn’t going to take much; I was already mentally willing my stomach to chill the hell out.

  “Well that blows.” She scrunched up her nose in disappointment. “Screwdrivers it is then.” Lila shrugged, completely ignoring my wide-eyed disbelief as she turned to leave.

  “Lila, wait,” I called out, wondering if she’d forgotten about my fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants idea. “I am flying to L.A. tonight. On a ticket I bought while drinking. I think now would be a good time to keep my blood alcohol level below the legal limit and formulate some kind of plan.”

  “Oh, you already had a plan, remember?”

  “Really? Was it a good one?” I mean, I hoped drunk me had been more productive than just making flight reservations.

  “Oh, it was brilliant. Although it was some next-level stalking on your part, remind me never to piss you off.”

  I scoured my mind hoping something would trigger, but nope, my brilliant plan stayed hidden. No ideas—brilliant or otherwise—came bubbling to the surface.

  “Nothing huh?” Lila laughed, my crazy cross-eyed expression giving away I had no recollection. “You found out that one of his co-stars had a small role in some B-grade soap opera. One of her co-stars has kind of fallen off the radar. Rumor is she’s in rehab and you were going to—”

  “Oh. My. God.”

  I was going to burn in eternal hell.

  “Like I said, brilliant.” Lila threw her head back enjoying my panic as the pieces of my drunken genius slowly came together.

  Valerie Vine—her real name—had hit a rough spot. While she had initially been America’s darling, hopping from one daytime drama to the next, she had struggled in the last few years. Weight gain, erratic mood swings on set and a failed singing career had seen her unceremoniously dumped from her small-screen cash cow. Turning her back on the limelight and returning to her hometown of San Antonio, Texas, she hadn’t been heard from or seen in months. Some of her Hollywood friends had even tried to reach out to her, hoping to salvage her career before she went further off the ledge.

  Marilyn Steal—Eric Larsson’s latest on-screen love interest—was one of those people.

  “Valerie’s my in,” I said, shaking my head wondering if there was a fate worse than the hell burning eternity I’d already established was in my future. “Marilyn would give her an invitation to the premiere for sure if she thought she wanted to go.”

  “Yes, she would.” Lila nodded, her lips edging into an even bigger grin. “And no one would even suspect a thing. Hell, it’s the last name someone would use; most people would hardly know they are friends. Marilyn was like eighteen when she was on The Always and The After, it was like her first gig and she was on screen for maybe three episodes. Even in her IMDb profile, it’s buried. I can’t even believe you found all that in a few hours with a laptop and Wi-Fi connection. I’m seriously impressed.”

  I’ll admit, when it came to information, I was gifted. My thirst for needing to know had always driven me to research, explore every angle and get to the bottom of the truth. It’s why journalism had been a natural choice for me. I also loved to write—sharing my ideas and points of view in a cleverer and easier to digest way. It was definitely lacking in current media.

  “So.” I cleared my throat, the conscience I was missing last night making an appearance this morning. “I’m going to contact Marilyn’s people and impersonate Valerie’s personal assistant. Make the request that Valerie would like to attend the premiere but keep the details vague. Like she might come, or she might not. You can never really tell given her current mental state.”

  Hell.

  No two ways about it.

  I could feel the burning flames already.

  “And then once I procure the invite, I sashay my ass onto the red carpet like I belong there. Have my two-minute required eye contact with conversation and move on with my life.” And hopefully not end up in a police cruiser at the end of the night.

  Perfect.

  I was both giddy with excitement and disgusted in myself. Sadly, the disgust wasn’t winning in my internal battle as my heartbeat quickened.

  I was going to do this.

  I was going to meet Eric.

  I was going to walk away.

  And no one would have to get hurt.

  “You’re not having second thoughts are you?” Lila’s eyebrow rose as she seemed to read my mind. Not that it was hard to do, the silence after I regurgitated my questionable plan pretty much spoke for itself.

  “No. Of course not. I’m not going to impersonate her, and I’ll be vague. And no one ever has to know. And sometimes your hands get a little dirty for a story. This could totally be a story. Because I’m a writer and that’s what we do. It’s my community service.”

  “Yeah, you are such a giver.” Lila laughed. “Now get out of bed and let’s have breakfast. You have to pack and make a few phone calls.”

  It was almost midnight—local time—when my plane landed at LAX. The flight had been long and the killer two-hour layover in Dallas hadn’t helped. And while it was still technically Saturday where I was standing, my body was firmly on east coast time. Which made me the equivalent of a zombie, craving caffeine so I could have the strengt
h to get to the hotel, but knowing I’d regret it when I wouldn’t be able to get to sleep. The struggle was real.

  After collecting my suitcase and the biggest coffee I could find—I’d rather deal with the insomnia later than narcolepsy now—I caught a cab to a cheap hotel in Hollywood.

  Sure, I could have given my credit card a workout and stayed somewhere nicer, but it wasn’t necessary. I wasn’t here to lounge around by the pool and soak up the California sun. Nope, I was on a mission. And the mission dictated I found somewhere cheap but accessible, where no one asked too many questions. Just hand over my credit card, give me the key, I won’t leave any weird unidentifiable stains on the carpet. The front desk person would grunt an acknowledgement but not look up from their copy of The Enquirer.

  Thankfully the bleached-to-within-an-inch-of-her-life, over-tanned lady—and I’m guessing, because she had breasts but other than that it could go either way—at reception followed the script perfectly. Swiped my card, slid me my key and basically ignored me while I disappeared down the musky hall. Perfect.

  It wasn’t until the morning that the situation got critical.

  I had twenty-four hours.

  The invitation wasn’t going to magically fly through the window like an invitation to Hogwarts. No, I was going to have to do some serious, serious hustling.

  So with my cell pressed against my ear and my laptop on the unmade bed, I started what I had dubbed Operation: Larsson. Film distributors, the studio, agents, the catering company—no one was safe. I called them all, giving my rehearsed speech and waited patiently to see if I could charm—fine, swindle—someone into giving me what I needed. It was a delicate dance. Being assertive while not sounding like a bitch, being personable without sounding like a flirt and hoping to appeal to their humanitarian side. It was just one ticket. And hadn’t poor Valerie suffered enough? Yes, we’ve already established I’m the worst person alive and a horrible opportunist, so save the judgment.

  Each time I came up empty, but I wouldn’t be deterred. Nope. My parents hadn’t raised me to be a quitter, and I wasn’t tapping out until every avenue had been exhausted.

  Nearing the end of my list—the sound engineer didn’t have any tickets but asked me out for a non-business related drink, ewww—and I was starting to get desperate.

  Surely I hadn’t come all this way to turn around and go home empty handed? Okay, God—or whoever else was up there—there doesn’t have to be conversation. Just let me get close I bargained.

  And just when I thought I would have to abandon my initial idea and repel down the side of the Dolby Theatre, it happened.

  “Of course, we’d love to help out. We love Ms. Vine.” The friendly voice on the other end of the phone giggled before taking a breath. “Is she well, we’d heard—”

  “Yes, Ms. Vine has had her share of rumors swirling through the press.” I cut them off before I was forced to confirm or deny something I actually knew nothing about. I swallowed hard, shaking my head as I continued. “One of the reasons she left L.A. and decided to go back home. People can be so unkind.”

  “Yes, Yes. Of course.” She had the decency to sound a little embarrassed. “Well, we’re glad she is in town, even if it’s just for a visit.”

  “I would have contacted Ms. Steal directly.” The words almost got stuck in my throat as I tried to authenticate my request, the Marilyn Steal connection not needing to be explained thank God. “But Valerie had hoped it would be a surprise. And of course she still suffers terrible anxiety . . .”

  Hell.

  Burning.

  Eternally.

  “So if she doesn’t make it for whatever reason, we would hate for Marilyn to be disappointed.”

  Honestly I was amazed that I hadn’t ignited already. If I’d been wearing pants—I could think better in my underwear—they’d have definitely been on fire.

  “Oh, I completely understand. We won’t breathe a word of it.” Her voice lowered to a whisper.

  Yeah, because I was an idiot and believed that.

  “I can stop by tomorrow morning when your office opens and pick up her invitation.” The less information I gave these people the better; it was bad enough I used my real name.

  Some might argue it was careless, reckless even, and lord knows I’d been both in the past. But I’d learned through previous exploits not to make the lies too elaborate, it made them harder to keep track of. Then before you knew it, you had no idea who you were supposed to be. So I kept it simple, Tia Monroe, personal assistant at your service.

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” she said, I pictured the whole hand waving in midair. “We can send out a courier. At what hotel is Ms. Vine staying?”

  FUCK.

  Okay, let’s not panic.

  Stay calm and go with the flow.

  C’mon, Tia, think.

  “The Roosevelt.” The words shot out of my mouth before thinking. “The Hollywood Roosevelt,” I clarified like a moron, in case there was any confusion as to whether I meant here or another state we currently weren’t in.

  “Wonderful.” She sounded delighted, no doubt smiling from ear to ear. “I’ll send someone tomorrow morning. Please extend our best wishes to Ms. Vine and we hope she enjoys the night.”

  “Yes. Thanks.” It was all I was capable of, my mind in free fall as I said a quick goodbye and ended the call. I abandoned my laptop and phone, my back collapsing against the mattress.

  “Shit.”

  I COULD USUALLY TALK MYSELF into or out of trouble. It was a talent—that and thinking on my feet. Those two skills had safely seen me escape any major mishaps until this point, and something my mother warned me to use for good not evil. Which I did, for the most part.

  Unfortunately today wasn’t one of those days. The evil part of me clearly won as I strode out of my cheap no-tell hotel and cabbed it to The Roosevelt. I looked the part too, thankfully packing a tailored skirt and jacket before I’d left home. It was my something respectful to wear on the slim chance I needed to appear before a judge. See, realist—I knew I probably wasn’t getting out of this unscathed.

  In my head it all made perfect sense.

  Sitting in the lobby of The Roosevelt waiting to intercept the courier.

  Of course, there had been some serious side-eye and a few throats cleared before he arrived with my coveted package.

  The first two attempts hadn’t been for me—awkward—something I learned while trying to tackle unsuspecting couriers as they walked in the door.

  Still, no harm done other than making a fool of myself in front of strangers.

  Nothing new there. Think of it as fodder for a future article, always a silver lining.

  But the third attempt had been fruitful. The spandex-wearing bike messenger carrying an invitation for none other than Valarie Vine, but being signed for by—you guessed it—Tia Monroe. And with a quick swish of my pen, the prized envelope was in my hands.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  This was it.

  It was to cure myself of this stupid obsession I reminded myself, not just to gaze lovingly at his ridiculously beautiful face. No, that wasn’t the reason my pulse was thumping out of control. It was me readying myself for the disappointment that I was surely going to meet.

  Now all I had to do was wait until tonight, and one way or another it would all be over.

  Right, and I was now lying to myself as well as everyone else.

  Lord help me, I was no longer convinced this was going to cure me of anything.

  I was going to throw up.

  Nerves twisted in my gut as I stepped out of the cab and onto the sidewalk, a few feet away from the red carpet. Sure, I would have loved to roll up in some fancy car and step out to a flurry of flashes. But I was on a budget and a cab was cheaper, and the less attention I drew to myself the better. The last thing I needed was to be discovered and tossed out on my ass when I was this close. Not when I’d come this far.

  Instead, I kept a low profile, stra
ightening my classy, yet unremarkable little—the hem possibly a touch too short—black dress as I strode slowly to the theatre. It had to be timed just right. If I got there too soon I would be ushered in before Eric arrived. Show up to late and everyone would be inside. It was a delicate dance, and one where I’d have to rely on pure instincts.

  Limos slowly arrived, the press clamoring around the shiny black cars as girls in the crowd screamed at varying decibels. It was too early for him, something that was confirmed when some of his co-stars stepped out and waved to onlookers.

  “Not yet,” I whispered to myself as I lurked like a creeper watching it unfold.

  “Excuse me, Miss, are you coming through?” A man who was about ten feet tall and almost as wide—okay, slight exaggeration, but he was huge—looked down at the invite I clutched tightly in my hand.

  “Err . . . I’m just waiting for a friend.” I pulled out my phone and diverted my attention. “Should be here any minute.”

  “Okay, fine but I wouldn’t wait too long.” His warning tone hinting he had better things to do than deal with unimportant stragglers like me.

  My heart raced as another shiny black car pulled up to the curb. Another round of screaming cued as the door opened and Marilyn stepped out. She was beautiful, even more stunning up close as she lifted her hand to the crowd and her blood-red lips spread into a huge grin. Her gorgeous gown was Valentino for sure, fitting her body perfectly like she’d been stitched into it minutes before. I was mesmerized as she turned to me and gave me a warm smile. Unlike so many other starlets and Hollywood types, Marilyn was rumored to be down to earth and genuine, something that when paired with all that beauty made her compelling to watch. Which was my biggest mistake.

  While I stared like an idiot, I had unwittingly stepped onto the carpet and started moving forward. Not my original plan. Security was so glad I had moved along they hadn’t bothered to recheck my invitation, allowing me to walk unhindered as I floated behind the sea of flashes and reporters calling out her name. And it wasn’t until I had already progressed halfway up the red carpet that I had realized my mistake.