Hollywood Prince

by Kim Karr

  Lucky for me, California is one of the best states for riding a motorcycle. With its thousands of miles of scenic routes, elevation changes, and twisty roads, to me it is one of the best places in the world to ride.

  I rode over Tioga Pass on my BMW Roadster a couple of years ago and fell in love with Yosemite. So much so I stayed extra days to film the still waters, and I ended up writing a bit, too.

  Sonora Pass is another favorite place of mine. Snow-covered mountain peaks, meadows, waterfalls, and a whole lot of nature make for an interesting ride. Also, the roads are steep and narrow with some sudden drop-offs, which keeps the ride fun and exciting.

  Need that little rush every now and then.

  Today I celebrated the New Year with a cruise along the Pacific Coast Highway in the rain, enjoying its tight little slick curves and the danger of it all.

  Nice thing about places, as opposed to women, is that I can like more than one of them at the same time and not be accused of philandering.

  The memory of what happened last night hits me like a slap in the face.

  Went to the Montage for a party. Ran into a chick I’ve known for years, started talking about old times, and after midnight we decided to make the party private. It was then this other chick showed up that I’d taken out last week, and before I knew it they were both accusing me of being a cheater.

  A cheater?

  Fuck, no.

  I don’t even think I knew either of their last names.

  Pissed as hell, I crashed by the pool—alone.

  Who needs that shit?

  Women.

  Sometimes I just don’t get them.

  The possessiveness.

  The black-and-whiteness of relationships.

  It boggles my mind.

  Then again, maybe, just maybe, the problem is me, not them.

  To be blunt, women are a giant pain in the ass. Always looking for something from me I can’t give them. And that’s the problem right there: they are interested in Brooklyn James the ex–television star, the Hollywood Prince, not the real me.

  You see, almost eight years ago I was famous. Pretty fucking famous. As the star of the MTV reality show Chasing the Sun, I was a teen who loved to surf, and had a team of execs who wanted to film me doing it.

  Cool—right?

  Not so much.

  For years a crew of cameras followed me everywhere. And I mean everywhere, as I made my way around the California surfing circuit, navigating not only the waves, but life, too.

  Unsupervised, my life was full of things not every teen would be allowed to experience—women, waves, and wild turns, all the time. Whenever I wanted any of them, it wasn’t a problem.

  The show was doing well, but I quit after I went off to college at UCLA. I’d had enough of the lack of privacy. You might not think so, but it can drive a person crazy.

  So yeah, at the young age of eighteen, my television career was over. And shit, I was more than ready for it.

  Yet all these years later women still keep thinking a camera is going to pop out of the shadows and they are going to be famous, like the chicks it happened to back in the day. Every time with every chick is like they’re auditioning for my next new show.

  Last night was no different.

  Same old shit. Different day.

  And to boot, they have this whole possessiveness thing going on.

  I just don’t get it.

  The rain continues to fall, and I pull over to flip open the shield on my helmet. Moving once again, the cool air blasts my face as I ride faster.

  Weaving in and out of traffic, I lean left, lean right, swerve over a hill, around the bend, and then before I know it, it’s dusk and I’m slowing to take the turn onto my street.

  After I graduated college, I told myself I’d take a year to get my shit together and figure out what I wanted to do with my life.

  Needing to get out of LA, I left and came to Laguna Beach. I couldn’t remain in my famous mother’s shadow or try to clean up the darkness my father’s bad reputation had cast on me any longer.

  That was almost three years ago and I’m still here, and although I know what I want to do with my life, I’m still trying to figure out how to do it—from Laguna Beach.

  Staying here has kept my mind free. Still, I know if I want to take my screenwriting career all the way, I should move to LA.

  Yet moving back to the same old scene I grew up in scares the living shit out of me. Losing yourself in the fame, fortune, and women is just too easy.

  I saw it happen to my old man, who before I was born was an A-list actor. Witnessed firsthand how his need to be on top destroyed his life. Took him apart piece by piece until there was nothing left but a washed-up hack. I won’t let it happen to me.

  Acting, though, would be an easy out. But after seeing what happened to my father I’m glad it isn’t my gig.

  I studied film because I want to create movies, not star in them. Two years ago I started to write my first screenplay, so I felt vindicated for a while that I still wasn’t settled in my career—that I still wasn’t sure what direction my life would take.

  I finally showed Fangirl to my mother on Christmas Day. Emma Fairchild is a very independent woman. Broadway star turned film actress turned director, she’s never been able to stay married for longer than two years. But let me tell you, she knows her shit in Hollywood. To be honest, she’s a powerhouse. Everyone wants her attention. She’s gold, considered Hollywood royalty since the day I was born.

  So when she said my screenplay was good but it lacked real emotion, I felt a little crushed.

  Okay, more than a little.

  In her defense, she wasn’t totally heartless; she gave me some ideas on how to improve it.

  I trashed it the next day. It was shit.

  Thank fuck I have my lifeguard job to help relieve the draw on my royalties from the syndication of Chasing the Sun, or I’d be in some serious financial trouble until I get my other manuscript polished and ready to show people.

  If that doesn’t happen fast, though, I might be taking the network up on their offer for a little reunion show, and won’t that just rain down all kinds of chaos on my life?

  Fuck me.

  Riding slowly, I pass the house I rented when I first moved to Laguna years ago. Back then I lived with Camden Waters. He is my brother’s—well, half-brother’s—best friend, and mine too, I suppose.

  At the time, Maggie May lived alone next door, until her best friend moved in with her. A woman Cam was instantly smitten with and couldn’t get out of his head. Then one day he told me he was in love and asked if I minded moving next door, so that Makayla could move in with him.

  Asshole.

  Not really. I love the guy like a brother, and honestly Maggie’s house was nicer anyway. So it all worked out.

  No longer my place, I push on to the next beach bungalow. The one I now live in—alone, most of the time, anyway.

  The place isn’t mine. Like my last place, I rent. It still belongs to Maggie, who just so happened to marry my brother. I knew her first, but there was never anything romantic between us. I met her lifeguarding, and she, like Cam, and unlike me, grew out of that job and went on to bigger and better things.

  Just a year ago, she met my brother. She and Keen are so much alike it’s no wonder they hit it off. Anyway, last year Maggie moved out and moved to West Hollywood with my brother, where they live with their two-month-old son, my nephew, Presley. The cute little family comes down on weekends, so Maggie’s room has stayed intact, and because of this, my rent is cheap.

  Yes, I’m surrounded by love, and sometimes it’s too much. Sometimes I have to disappear to get away from it all.

  Lost in my own mind, my head snaps just as I pass Cam and Makayla’s place. There is a sack or blob or something of the sort on the front porch and it catches my attention.

  Slightly concerned, I stop, remove my helmet, plant my boots on the ground, and push backward.

  Fai
rly certain now that it is a person, I park my bike in the drive and open the gate. The rain is still coming down, but even through it, I can see the figure on the front porch is a woman with a mass of curls covering her face. For some reason she is slumped against Cam’s front door with a winter coat wrapped around her and an older-looking camera hanging from her neck.

  Paparazzi?

  Taking the two steps up, I glance around. Looks like whoever she is, she’s been here for a while. On one side of her are bite-sized bags of empty peanuts surrounded by a half dozen small vodka bottles, like the ones you get on an airplane. On the other side of her is a suitcase.

  Ruling out paparazzi—they’d stay alert—my next thought is that this is possibly a homeless person seeking refuge from the rain on Cam and Makayla’s porch.

  My eyes wash over her.

  I’d say homeless is out as well. Then again, the cleanness of her vintage-style coat should have given that away at first glance.

  In what has to be the dickiest of all dick moves, I take advantage of her eyes being closed and lower my gaze, taking her body in. She’s wearing a T-shirt with a peace sign on it and black yoga pants that cover shapely legs with a pair of what look like go-go boots on her feet. And her eyelashes—her lashes are so long, unlike any I’ve seen that weren’t fake. A throwback from the groovy chicks of the sixties in a way, and I say that meaning in the most attractive way.

  Lowering onto my haunches, I push her hair from her face and speak softly. “Hey, are you looking for someone?”

  Rather than answer me, she slumps some more and is now practically lying on the porch, her mass of out-of-control curls once again covering her face.

  Not wanting to startle her, I carefully try once again to push the hair from her line of sight. “Are you looking for someone?” I repeat.

  Her eyes open and she sits straight up and then points her finger at me. “I know who you are,” she slurs.

  Great.

  Another fan.

  Another campout.

  And here I thought those were over.

  Wrong house, girlie, I think. Then I think, No, this is great. Leave her here. Cam and Makalya went with Maggie, Keen, and Presley to Mexico for the weekend. That means no one is home. I laugh to myself. She’ll be waiting for the ex–television star Brooklyn James, who no longer lives here, for a long time.

  On my heels, I’m about to take the two steps down and slither onto my bike to roll it out of sight next door, when she says, “You’re the pool guy, right?”

  Pausing with one foot on the first step, this time I can’t contain my laugh. “Ummm . . . no, I’m not the pool guy. In fact, there is no pool at this house.”

  She laughs, and a small hiccup leaves her full lips. “Wait, wait, wait. I know who you are.”

  Here it comes—Brooklyn James, the famous surfer, the MTV star, Hollywood’s Prince. Can I have your autograph? Or better yet—wanna fuck?

  The porch creaks behind me. “Securty. Secrety. Secutiyity.”

  For some crazy reason, I have to laugh over my shoulder. “Security?”

  Another creak. “Yes, that.”

  Unfazed in the slightest, I’m more bemused than concerned that she is walking toward me.

  “I probably set the alarm off trying to break in,” she slurs.

  Surprised by the quick closeness of her voice, I whirl around.

  I should call the police.

  I don’t.

  Her coat might still be on the ground, but her hot little body is only inches from mine. And this time when I look at her, I take her in fully. Mounds of curly light-brown hair. Petite. Perky little tits. Extremely toned limbs. Somewhat athletic in nature, but way more hot chick. As soon as my stare meets her gray one, my body gives a little jerk of excitement.

  Chill, boy, chill.

  Stranger danger.

  Stalker alert.

  And all that kind of shit.

  Yet, I can’t wipe the smile from my face because she is fucking adorable.

  This girl is standing, or maybe I should say swaying, and she has her hands outreached like I might handcuff her. Kind of wish I had a pair of cuffs on me, because screw adorable, she’s fucking gorgeous. A proverbial ten and a half, and I never rate any chick over an eight.

  I tilt my head in a coy gesture, more than interested in playing along with her. Even if she is drunk, she’s funny as hell. “Guess again.”

  She makes a face as if thinking really hard. “Gardner?” Hiccup. Hiccup.

  Really enjoying this, I shake my head and make a buzzer sound. “In the rain? No. Want to try again?”

  Those eyes sparkle with good humor, and this time she takes me in from head to toe.

  I can feel her stare all the way to my cock. As soon as this girl sobers up, I’m so doing her tonight.

  With her bottom lip between her teeth, she hiccups, “Another frog?”

  “A what?” I ask, with a raise of a brow.

  “I’d say my Prince Charring, Charming, but as of last night I’ve given up on furry tails, no, not bunnies, fairy tales, for a while.”

  Puckering my brows, this time I don’t laugh. There’s something sad in her voice and for the moment, I’m at a loss for words.

  Trying to remain standing straight, she blows the hair from her face. “Who are you?”

  “You tell me.”

  That’s when she takes a step back as if suddenly she’s worried about who I am. “It wubee just my luck that Jack the RRRipper decided to make a stop at my bruther’s house tonight.”

  Her words are slurred, but I get the gist of what she is saying.

  Brother?

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Fuckity fuck.

  Surprised. Shocked. Stunned. I look at her. Her eyes. Her gray eyes. Then I see it. The resemblance is right there. How could I have missed it?

  All of a sudden, I can so clearly picture the photo Cam has of her with their brother on the wall inside. I can also remember the one and only time I met her. I was ten and my mother sent me to visit my brother Keen in New York City. His father got called away on business and Keen ended up taking me to Cam’s house for the weekend.

  This is Amelia Waters.

  The girl with all the dolls who made me play house with her, or Cinderella, or some fairy-tale crap like that, and then forced me to marry her. She was my first kiss, if you could call it that at ten. The girl I’ve laughed with on the phone more than a few times over the past two years.

  The girl with the gray stare.

  That stare that is slaying me right now.

  The girl . . . who isn’t really a girl. Not anymore.

  “You’re Amelia?” I finally manage to say.

  She snaps her fingers and points at me. “Bingo.”

  All I can do is stare.

  Leaning against the house for support, she lifts her finger a little higher. “And you are?”

  Somehow I manage to utter my name. “Brooklyn James.”

  “Oh my God, Brooklyn!” she screeches and throws her arms around me. “You are my Prince Charming.”

  Pressed against her, I feel that familiar tension erupt within me.

  Lust.

  Desire.

  That kind of primal need to fuck right here and now.

  What the hell?

  Asshole, she’s off-limits. She’s Cam’s sister.

  Right, I think, but I am not in the least bit convinced. Or my cock isn’t, anyway; it’s long and hard and throbbing in my pants.

  And that’s when I know it’s time to get my head on straight. Carefully peeling her off me, I look at her. “What are you doing here?”

  She stares at me for the longest time. Eyes moving from the top of my head to the tip of my toes.

  Fuck, I think she just licked her lips like I might be dinner.

  I clear my throat as a reminder that I asked her a question.

  Again, she tries to steady herself and then she says, “I found some things out last night that wer
e very disrobing, I mean, undressing, no I mean—” She continues to stammer.

  Finally, I speak up. “Disturbing. I think you mean disturbing.”

  “Yes, that’s what I said, disrobing. Anyway, like I was saying before you interrupted me, I’m here to talk to my brother and get to the bottom of it.”

  Unsure what to say to that, I stupidly ask, “Does he know you’re coming?” I know he doesn’t. He’d never leave her on his front porch in the rain.

  Color appears high in her cheeks as if she’s angry. “No, I told you I just found this stuff out.”

  Casting my gaze anywhere but at her because I think I might laugh at the little firecracker, I blurt out, “Cam is gone until Sunday.”

  Still angered, she points to the driveway. “But his car is here?”

  There’s doubt in her voice, like she’s uncertain I’m being truthful. “That’s not Cam’s Jeep. It’s Makayla’s.”

  Pivoting on her toes like a ballerina, she points to my driveway. “Then that one is his.”

  I try not to laugh. I wonder if we’re going to go duck, duck, goose, down the entire street. “That’s not even a Jeep, it’s a BMW, and it’s Maggie’s. She and Keen drove down from West Hollywood and left it.”

  Very gracefully, especially in her condition, she whirls around, and by the look on her face I think she finally believes me, but I’m not certain about it.

  “Cam drove to Mexico,” I tell her to prove my point.

  Barely able to stand straight after her pirouetting stunt, she looks around before her eyes focus on a black bag near her suitcase. “Then I’ll call him and tell him I’m here, and see when he can come home.”

  I stare at her. Her head is still moving with that shake of a no, but now her body is swaying. Worried she might fall, I step closer to catch her if I have to.

  Somehow she manages to get to her bag, but when she bends down, she instantly stands up. “Wow, why are you making the porch spin?” she asks.

  She’s funnier than I remember. The serious girl who bossed me around has a silly side, or perhaps it’s the booze. I slip my hand in my pocket and remove my phone. “Here, use mine.”

  Her hands bring it closer and then push it farther away. “What kind of phone is this?”

  “Ummm . . . an iPhone.”