“Hey, Alex. Starting without me?” The cocktail straw flicks liquid in my face as I flinch from hearing the voice behind me.
“Billy,” I say dumbly. “What are you doing here?”
“Finding you.” His smile turns to an expression of concern as he looks at me more closely. “We had a date, remember?” No. Of course I don’t remember that. From the moment Hillary confronted me I was only thinking about one thing. I turn back to my drink, not sure what to say, feeling a little embarrassed for Billy to see me like this. But Billy Fox doesn’t just go away. He slides onto the stool next to me. “I went to the studio; you weren’t there. The security guard Janeé? She thought you might be here.”
“Yeah. Sorry,” I mumble into my drink. It’s hard not to cry on his shoulder—it’s so tempting to just unload all my problems on him. I still have enough pride to keep that from happening, but small talk is beyond me at this point.
“Hey, that’s okay.” Billy starts to say more but stops as the bartender approaches.
“What’ll it be?”
“The Macallan Twelve. Neat.” Billy points to a bottle on display behind the bar. We wait silently while the bartender pours the caramel-colored liquid into a glass.
“So, you want to talk about it?” Billy finally says, taking a savoring sip.
“Not really.” I sound so petulant, but I can’t bring myself to care. The expression “self-destructive” comes to mind. Billy lets me wallow for a few minutes. We sip our drinks in silence. I wish my mood had affected my appetite, but I have no trouble stuffing the chips down.
When the sound of me sucking the last of my drink up the straw breaks the silence, Billy motions to the bartender for the check.
“Come on. We’re getting out of here,” he announces, which leads to the humbling moment where I need his help getting into my jacket.
As we step outside, the chilled evening air gets me reinvigorated a bit. I blink like I’m coming out of a daze as Billy flags down a cab easily. The ride back to his apartment goes by quicker than I’d like, as I’ve barely had time to mentally pull myself together.
“Here you go.” I struggle to scoot myself across the backseat to get out, and Billy ends up practically lifting me bodily out of the cab.
“I can do it,” I say grumpily.
“You’re doing great,” Billy replies, with both hands still supporting my elbow. Humoring me in the way people do when dealing with their drunken friends. The driver has brought my wheelie and overnight bag out of the trunk and sets them next to Billy, who tips him generously before hustling me and my possessions inside the building.
He keeps his eye on me as I lean against the elevator while he pulls out his key to take us to the top floor. “Have I ever mentioned how much I hate elevators? There are a lot of elevators in this city.”
“Should I take your mind off it?” he asks, teasing me. But just the idea has the desired effect. My body is tingling as we stop on the top floor. Of course he lives in the penthouse. Doesn’t everybody? I think, feeling snarky. An inappropriate snort of laughter bubbles up before I can stop it. His eyes widen, but Billy keeps his smile steady as he fiddles with his key ring. Bursts of giggles keep escaping as I follow him out of the elevator to an understated door off the elevator bank.
Billy efficiently escorts me inside and then collects my things while a dramatic but sincere gasp escapes me as I take in the gorgeousness. Billy, shedding the jacket accentuating his perfect physique, stands in the middle of his gorgeously appointed living space, which is designed to draw focus to the huge bay windows looking out over the park and the gorgeous sparkling city. I don’t know where to look first. But obviously the skyline has captured my attention, because I don’t see him coming; I just feel Billy’s closeness as he gently tugs my coat off my shoulders. I smell his aftershave as he keeps his body near mine. It’s like he’s hoping to shelter me from what I haven’t brought myself to tell him yet. It occurs to me that maybe I’ve been afraid to tell him because I don’t know how he’ll react. He’s a celebrity too, though it’s easy to forget when we’re together. But maybe he’ll be sensitive to the whole confidentiality issue and take Hillary’s side. Well, now that I’ve identified the problem, I’m going to have to just rip the Band-Aid off. One more deep breath, drawing in his comforting warmth, and I pivot around to face him.
“Here’s the thing,” I say, not quite meeting his eyes. The quick turn reminds me of the alcohol that’s still coursing through my system. Sitting down seems like a good idea.
“You want some coffee? Or how ’bout I get you some water?” Billy offers with Southern grace.
“No. I’ve got to just get this over with.” Before I chicken out. “Sit,” I direct. Billy evaluates me briefly, then sighs and sinks comfortably onto his sofa. With my position on the edge of the love seat, our knees are almost touching. He waits silently for me to start.
“I violated my confidentiality agreement with Hillary,” I begin slowly. “I—unintentionally—talked to a reporter about her.” Billy starts to speak, but now that I’ve started, the words rush out like a freight train. “I didn’t know he was a reporter, I swear I didn’t. How could I know that he knew I worked for Hillary? I would never have said anything if I’d known. But none of that matters. All that matters is that this slimeball reporter has quotes about the nasty things I said about Hillary, and now Identity magazine is going to run them in this huge exposé on her. And Hillary knows about it, and her lawyers are going to sue me for violating my NDA, and I’m going to owe her five million dollars. Which, of course, I don’t have.” I haven’t even taken a breath yet, but I keep going. “I’m probably going to have to work it off in debtors’ prison. Do they still have that? I can’t go to my parents with this. They’ll be humiliated. And I’ll take away their life savings. No sailing around the world now, thanks to their idiot failure of a daughter.” Toward the end Billy got up and walked to a neatly arranged desk. He’s pulling out a notepad and walking back to me as he starts writing. I have no idea what he’s doing, but really only a corner of my mind is thinking about that. The rest of my brain is still at Mach 6 down the path of my complete and utter destruction.
Billy stops right in front of me and lowers the notepad. His expression is hard to interpret, and I find the words falling from my mouth finally slowing as I wait for his verdict.
“Why?” Billy is holding himself very still. We’re only a few feet apart, and I can feel the tension in him. “Tell me why you talked to the reporter.”
“I was lonely, I guess.” It’s a hard admission, but now isn’t the time for excuses. “It seemed safe, to tell some random stranger that I hated my boss. I told him some stories that I thought didn’t even give away that I work in TV. It felt nice to get some sympathy.” I meet his eyes, admitting my weakness straight on. And then it’s too much.
“I should have been stronger.” Looking out at the city is a relief from Billy’s intense gaze, but the twinkling lights sparkle up at me, mocking my weakness. “This city is tough. Maybe too tough for me.”
Billy steps next to me and we are silent for a moment. “Maybe it is,” he says quietly. “But I don’t think so.” I turn to look at him. He’s not looking out the window. He’s been looking at me.
“I would never violate your trust, Billy.” I want him to hear me say it. “I would never have intentionally violated Hillary’s. I hope you know that.”
“I believe you. It’s a tough lesson, Alex. But New York hasn’t beaten you yet, you know. That was just the opening parry. If you hang your tail between your legs and run away back to the warm LA beaches, then yeah. She wins. But if you want to try to fight for yourself, you may surprise yourself. And when you win”—his Texas drawl slows down to emphasize my presumed success—“then you can do what you want.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“You’re not going. Alex, be serious.”
“I am being serious.” I can’t believe we’re still arguing about this over an hour
later. It’s getting late on Wednesday night and I’m feeling the desperation of Friday’s deadline. “You won’t recognize Nick without me.” It’s my ace card. This is irrefutable. No matter how ridiculous it seems since the dawn of social media, Nick Slants is anonymous. His Twitter profile features a headshot of George Clooney. The photos he posts every few minutes are a dead giveaway of his location, but there are no pictures that include Nick himself. Whether Billy likes it or not, it keeps me in the game.
“Sophie will get me a picture. Being able to ID him is not a good enough reason to put yourself at risk. We’ll find another way,” Billy says as he disappears into the bathroom. If he thinks that’s the end of this argument, he’s lost his mind. The pipes whine briefly as he turns the shower on. “You know if Nick sees you there it’s over, right? Alex, trust me to handle this.” His deep voice carries easily through the open bathroom door. It’s more than a little bit distracting knowing he’s undressing on the other side of the wall. “I’ll text with you the whole time, how ’bout that?” And then his voice disappears inside the fogged-up glass walls of his shower.
I know he’s right about Nick. But I just feel in my gut that I have to be there tonight. It doesn’t seem right to let Billy take all the risk when it’s my trouble I’ve brought to his door. But how can I be there without Nick seeing me? Pacing a track through Billy’s main living room, I’m desperately trying to work through my predicament when I trip and almost fall over the bags I left by the door. Stacking my makeup kit next to the overnight bag neatly against the wall, I am pacing back into the kitchen before it hits me.
In an instant I’m locked away in Billy’s guest bathroom. Without the time to unpack and set up nicely on the roomy marble counter, I settle for just sitting on the tile in front of the floor-length mirror and getting to work.
Less than an hour later, I lean back and examine my face closely. I’ve done it. My huge smile completely ruins the sultry look I’ve created. Mental note: From now on I’m going to have to stay in character. I don’t really have the right wardrobe to sell this transformation, but I’ll have to make do with what I’ve got in my suitcase. Pulling out the memory of high school drama class, I try to copy the posture of the girls at that calendar shoot I did, which seems like a lifetime ago now. Slinking back into the main living area, I wait for a reaction from Billy.
“Alex, there you are. Listen, there’s just no way we can…” He trails off as I turn to face him. The fact that I’ve made him speechless should definitely go on my résumé.
“I don’t think he’ll recognize me now, do you?” I purr. Ha! Who knew a little makeup could give me so much confidence. Okay, a lot of makeup.
“Alex?” Billy is still shell-shocked.
“I told you I was a good makeup artist.” It’s hard not to be smug when he has to double-check to make sure it’s still me. And frankly, I knew I could do it—I’ve practiced this look on several test models, though never on myself. The fact that I don’t wear makeup a lot only enhances the transformation. It wasn’t that hard to reshape my brows into severe manicured arches. The cat-eye look seems to change the shape of my eye with the thick, dark pencil liner I winged out and the long strip of eyelashes I glued in. I darkened my skin to a Miami Beach glowing tan color with instant tanner and lotion, and emphasized my cheekbones with a NARS crème blush called Palm Beach.
Add to that my newly ripped low-rise jeans and the form-fitting tank I’ve only ever worn under a blousy sweater, and I’m definitely making an impression. Unreasonably, it gives me the confidence to strut up to Billy, so close that one deep breath from either of us and our chests would touch.
“You look like a boy who knows how to party.” This could be fun, I think, getting into the role by running my finger up his arm all the way to his mouth.
“Alex. It’s still risky.” Billy takes a deep breath and seems to force himself to pull away. “If he somehow does see through…”—he pauses, apparently searching for words, and ends up gesturing to me vaguely—“… this, it would ruin your chances of getting that story shut down.”
“I know, Billy. Believe me, I know what’s at stake.” I follow him to look out at the spectacular view of Central Park from his penthouse window. “I also know that it’s my life at stake. I can’t tell you what it means to me that you want to help me. That you’ve come up with this incredible plan. But I can’t let other people solve my problems for me for the rest of my life. I can’t let you be another person who protects me from myself.” Billy hears the certainty in my voice. He knows I’m not backing down. For the first time, I feel the full weight of responsibility on my own shoulders. And it feels right. It feels good. I charge forward, determined to convince Billy, too. “I’m sure about this. He won’t recognize me. I won’t let him. And we can sell this story together. He’ll fall for it.”
Billy sighs heavily. Even though we’ve just started dating, I know this means I’ve won. And when he pulls me in close, his frustration and passion are clearly evident in his kiss.
While I’ve been getting ready, Billy has been busy setting the stage. He shows me the tweets in the car on the way to the club. I’m not even surprised that several of Billy’s celebrity friends have stepped up to help. No doubt he’s done as much if not more for his friends over the years. But it’s somehow both comforting and alarming to see them rallying around the plan. It is slightly relieving that Billy isn’t in this alone, with only his reputation and star power at stake, but having his friends also on board heightens the twisty feeling in my gut, magnifying what’s on the line if something goes wrong.
“Stop thinking so hard,” Billy whispers as he pulls me out of the car onto Bleecker Street in the artsy SoHo district. The paparazzi Sophie, Billy’s publicist, promised us haven’t appeared yet, but since Billy had only just called her with the unusual request, it’s not surprising that it didn’t work. The dark street is making me nervous that this will all be for nothing. “It’s going to work,” Billy says with a look that for an instant makes me forget everything and appreciate the kiss he lays on me.
The kiss is electric. An instant after his lips connect with mine, his arms strongly drawing me flush up against him, and I’m lost in the moment. It takes several moments for me to register that even with my eyes closed, they are flinching from the blindingly bright flashes from several different cameras all crowding around us. The paparazzi appeared out of nowhere. Obviously Sophie Atwater has a way of getting things done for her clients.
“All right, guys.” Billy laughs good-naturedly. “At least let us go get a drink.” He ushers me past the photographers, who are all racing to be the first to get the new photos uploaded. I don’t even recognize some of the technology they sync up with their long-lens cameras, but I have no doubt I’m going to see it all online in minutes.
Which for once is exactly what we’re counting on.
Billy speaks with the manager of the loud dance club, and he settles us into a large corner booth in a private area. He brings over the drinks menu, which just about makes my eyes pop out of my head.
“A thousand dollars for a vodka?”
“It’s for the whole table,” Billy says, as if that explains anything. “Is that what you want?”
“No, no. I’m fine. Thanks,” I say, scanning the list to see that everything on the menu has the same outrageous prices.
“Well, we have to get something.” He never even picks up the list; he just gestures to the waiter I didn’t notice hovering nearby. “Let’s have some Scotch. Do you still have a bottle of that Glenfiddich 25 somewhere?” The waiter looks mildly dazed at the request. “We’ll have that, and I think the ladies would like the vodka service.” After the waiter heads off to fulfill our outrageously expensive orders, the humor leaves Billy’s face, and he goes very still as he catches me still staring at him. “We’re putting on a show here, right? You know this isn’t my life anymore.”
“I know,” I reply simply. It’s a bit unsettling how comfortable
he is with all this.
“I don’t need this.” Billy gestures around us. “I just want to be sure we’re clear on that. This is my past. And this.” His hand flicks between us.
“We are not having this conversation right now,” I interrupt, grabbing his hand to stop him. But I end up pulling him closer to me. “You’re taking a big risk for me. We need to concentrate on what we’re doing.”
“Doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun in the process.” And that’s all the warning I get before he pulls me onto his lap and kisses me so deeply it’s hard to remember we’re still in full view of everyone in the darkly lit dance club.
After an hour, Billy’s private table is filled with celebrities and even a few significant others. I’m starting to sweat from the dancing we’ve done. Billy took me out first, but then his friend Jared asked me to dance, and a few of the girls in the group and I had to honor the Madonna mash-up the DJ played. But I’m still sipping my first cocktail and my eyes never stop scanning the crowd, looking for Nick’s slimy self to appear.
Finally, returning from a trip to the bathroom, which took longer than usual because I had to reglue my false eyelashes, I see Slants hunched over his drink at the bar. He’s clearly scanning the room, as most single men in the club are doing. But it’s clear that his eyes keep resting too long on the celebrity party in the corner.
I slip back into the VIP section, showing my hand stamp to the badass guy whose sole job is preventing enthusiastic fans from interrupting Billy and his friends’ evening.
Snuggling in between Billy and Jared, I make sure not to even glance in the direction of the bar as I announce, “He’s here. At the bar.”
With no hesitation Billy meets eyes with a few of the others in the group. “Okay, guys, this is it.” The tone of our group goes immediately from vibrant and raucous to more intimate and quieter, which syncs up perfectly with the plan. We’re all huddled up, and without glancing away from our intimate discussion, I can tell our new vibe has been noticed not just by the fans and partiers on the floor but by the sleazeball at the bar, too.
Opportunity Knocks Page 11
