Hollywood Prince

by Kim Karr

  Twelve-point Courier font is a necessity.

  Two brass brads in white, three-hole-punch paper.

  With approximately 90 to 120 pages.

  Title is important, although not always.

  Yes, to play it safe, I delivered my manuscript to Blake Johnson in that format the day Amelia left. And he said yes.

  Yes.

  Fangirl got the green light!

  The yes came almost six weeks ago, five days after Amelia left, to be exact.

  And I’ve spent every single one of those days working my ass off to prove to myself I am the right man for her.

  That I can be responsible.

  Grown up.

  Mature.

  I moved out of Maggie’s house to be closer to the studio. And truth be told, to be on my own. I rented a condo in West Hollywood, which I have the option to purchase if I want.

  Blake is independently producing Fangirl. That means we are moving at lightning speed. Stars have already been attached, and at my request, Chase Parker is playing Kellan. My mother is directing, and Scott Edwards is producing it.

  Preproduction is well under way. Location scouting, storyboards, production schedules, permits, budgets, and more are done.

  Production design, art direction, costume designs, rewrites, and more rewrites are almost done.

  Purchasing film stock, getting a film crew together, hiring a caterer, renting sound stages and equipment—all almost done.

  Shooting—about to begin.

  And then there is postproduction, which will be minimized to get the movie out by November.

  With so much to do, I can’t believe I agreed to meet Keen for lunch today. I stride down the hallway of the Simon Warren offices on Melrose and open my brother’s office door to see if he is ready to go.

  He is not the one in there, though.

  Imagine my surprise when I see Cam sitting behind Keen’s desk. I’ve been avoiding him since the day we came to blows. Skipping family meals and cutting his calls short.

  Truth is—I feel like a shit for what I did.

  I don’t regret what happened with Amelia, but I should have been a man about it and told her brother from the start. Proved I wasn’t the asshole everyone thinks I am.

  I stumble over my words. “What is this?”

  “We need to talk,” Cam tells me, standing up and placing his palms on the desk.

  “Yeah, we do,” I respond, leaning against the wall and crossing my arms. Not at all liking the ambush, but knowing it is time to put all the cards on the table.

  “Then talk,” Cam says tersely.

  Uncrossing my arms, I walk toward him, then stop on the other side of the desk and flop in the chair. “I’m sorry.”

  He nods, saying nothing.

  “I fucked up. I should have told you about what was going on between your sister and me.”

  His eyes narrow. “And what exactly was going on?” There’s a challenge in his voice. Something like, say she was your plaything and I might cut your balls off.

  With a huge intake of breath, I rub my jaw with my hands. “We . . .” I pause, pulling my hands down my face. “We started out just having fun.”

  His entire body goes live wire.

  I quickly add, “Or that is what I told myself. It was never just fun, though. She is a very special woman, and I knew that from the minute I saw her on your porch.”

  “Yet, you kept her at a distance?” His tone is angry.

  “I did. I was a coward. I said it was because of you, but it was all me. I knew I wasn’t right for her.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Because I’m in love with her.” I tell him bluntly, surprising even myself, but knowing it’s true.

  His eyes narrow. “And so let her go?”

  “Yes, she deserved more.” It’s why I’ve worked my ass off. It’s why I can’t get her out of my mind. It’s why I texted her.

  Sitting down, he steeples his hands, and the corners of his mouth quirk down even farther. “That’s really fucked up.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Fuck you, you don’t get to judge. I love her, and want what is best for her. I thought you of all people would understand that.”

  “I’m not judging. It’s just if you love her, you have a funny way of showing it.”

  His laugh is dry, and I consider my next move carefully. I can tell him to fuck off, that his sister or not, I want her, or I can be calm and act like a man.

  Almost instinctively my eyes dart to the wall and the collage of photos Maggie hung. They are of everyone in our happy, little unconventional family. All of us sitting around a bonfire at the beach. On Christmas morning when Maggie gave us all socks she had attempted to knit while she was pregnant that looked more like ass warmers, if there were such things. Of the life we’d all built because we had no one else. Of the life I want desperately to remain a part of. Sure, I’d always have my brother, but I want Cam and Makayla, too. And Amelia. I clear my throat, emotion taking hold of me, and then set my gaze on Cam.

  Those gray eyes so much like his sister’s narrow on me. “Ignoring her for the past six weeks isn’t any way to win her back.”

  Shock tears through me. “You’re okay with this? I mean with her and me together?”

  Cam shakes his head at me. “She’s my sister, for Christ’s sake. All I care about is that she is happy, and if you make her happy, what do I have to complain about?”

  I stare at him, my mouth open.

  Cam stares right back. “You don’t have a lot of faith in our friendship, Brooklyn, or in yourself for that matter.”

  I slam my hand on the desk. “That’s bullshit. The last thing I wanted was to do anything to separate this family we’ve built. It’s the only fucking one I’ve ever had.”

  Cam circles the desk and comes to stand beside me, offering his hand. “Then don’t. I think you’re a great man, Brooklyn. I’d be happy for my sister to end up with you. And I think she would, too. If you ask me, you’re the only one who thinks it isn’t possible. That thinks she’s out of your league.”

  “Everything okay in here?” Keen is standing in the door.

  I look at him, and then at Cam. “Yeah, I think it is.”

  “Does that mean you’ll start coming to Sunday dinners in Laguna again? Because I’m sick and tired of cleaning up all by myself.”

  “Fuck you, fucker,” Cam says. “I help.”

  Keen leans against the wall and props a foot up. “Yeah, right—you help by laying your ass on the couch and warming up the television.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Cam remarks, and looks at me. “Tell him, Brooklyn—tell him how much I help.”

  I make a face. “Keen has a point. You do end up watching football most of the time.”

  “Fuck you,” he says with a smile. “And just so you know, my sister arrives in a few hours.”

  “She does?” I ask.

  He lifts a brow. “Yeah, she’s moving here. And what are you going to do about it?”

  I start pacing a tight line in front of my brother and my best friend. “I don’t know. Do you think she’ll talk to me?”

  “Not sure,” Cam breathes out. “She told me you texted her yesterday, but she wasn’t sure what to make of it.”

  I pause and ease into one of the two chairs beside him. “Yeah, I did, but when she didn’t answer I just assumed it was her way of telling me to go to hell.”

  “You know what they say about assuming.” Cam smirks.

  In a surprise move, Keen picks me up from under my arms. “Stop being a pussy and go get the girl. Shit, you write movies for a living—don’t you want to know how this ends?”

  Standing on my feet, I shrug out of his hold, and then grin at him. “Yeah, motherfucker, I do.”

  “Then tell me,” Keen demands, with amusement in his tone.

  “The only way it can. With me getting the girl,” I answer, and head out the door to LAX.

  To get my girl.

  SL
EEPLESS IN SEATTLE

  Amelia

  The airport looks more like a shopping mall than a place people come to travel to and from their destinations.

  The tiles gleam white under my feet as I walk toward the main gate. Everywhere there are people milling around. Looking to my right, I see two glass elevators leading to an upper floor, which is a food court. To my left is a large open area with blue fabric-covered seats that are completely occupied by people on their phones, laptops, and tablets.

  The air is cool, and only the faint aroma wafting from the food area gives this large space any scent.

  I keep walking, following the signs for baggage claim. This airport is so different from LaGuardia; nicer, I guess, is the best way to put it.

  Some stairs lead up to an open viewing deck where eager children watch the airplanes take off and land. There are mounted telescopes for them to look through and the back wall is one large window. Behind the telescopes is a scale model of the airport with the runways marked on it.

  In front of me is a group of little old ladies in Las Vegas T-shirts hugging their grandkids.

  In my flats and skinny pants, I move fast, eager to get to baggage claim, and more eager to start this new chapter in my life.

  My phone pings with a text, and I stop to pull it from my pocket. Assuming it’s Cam telling me he is running behind, I’m shocked to see the text is from Brooklyn, and even more shocked to see that it directs me to look to my left.

  My heart starts to pound frantically.

  I draw in a breath.

  When I finally turn my head, I see him coming down the escalator. As I exhale, my breath stutters raggedly over my lips, and for a brief second, I simply forget how to breathe.

  Frozen in place, I stand in the middle of the busy airport as heat infuses my entire body. Unmoving for moments, I don’t know what to do.

  With my mouth dry, I lick my lips and wait with uncertainty. What does this mean? What is he doing here? How did he know I was coming?

  Once Brooklyn is off the escalator, his gaze catches mine and holds it, all the while striding toward me with an odd determination. There’s something different about him. Like that brooding stare of his has morphed into something different. Something softer, and yet those blue eyes still simmer with that confidence I have grown to admire.

  Seeing him, seeing his gorgeous face and pretty mouth, something snaps inside me, and exhilaration takes over.

  Suddenly I’m on a roller coaster with the wind in my face, and all I want is for it to go higher, move faster, and never stop.

  With my heart beating a mile a minute, I start to run toward him as fast as I can. Now I’m off the roller coaster. Instead, I’m on the ledge of the tallest of building and I’m about jump. If he doesn’t catch me, at least I tried.

  Like a scene from a movie, we meet in the middle of the busy airport and when I throw myself at him, he catches me and twirls me around.

  He doesn’t let me fall.

  It really is like a cheesy movie, and we’re starring in it as the romantic couple.

  Brooklyn buries his face in my neck and nibbles. And in turn, I squeeze him as tight as I can. Then he sets me down and pulls a bag from his pocket. He laughs when he looks inside. “I got you a cookie, but it’s squished now.”

  I grab the bag from him, and then throw my arms around him again. “What are you doing here?”

  This time when he pulls back, he keeps his hands anchored on my hips. “I came to tell you how fucking sorry I am, and get on my knees if it means that you’ll forgive me.”

  When I don’t answer, because I can’t, because my words are stuck in my throat, slowly, he starts to lower himself. I stop him. Joy floods my heart and tears well in my eyes. “Brooklyn, of course I forgive you. What went wrong between us wasn’t just your fault. It was mine, too. But you have to believe me, those texts were innocent—”

  He shushes me with a finger over my lips. “No more about it. No more rules. No more pretending this isn’t real, and absolutely no more sneaking around.”

  The crowd thickens around us—another flight having landed, or maybe another one taking off. Still, we don’t move. We stand in the middle of LAX, with our hands on each other and our eyes only for each other, and then he takes my mouth in a swooping kiss that makes me weak in the knees. Pulling me closer, his mouth is hard and fierce over mine. I cling to him just as fiercely as he kisses me.

  This is not the homecoming I expected. It is so much better. But then I realize we have things to settle before can get to our happy ever after. “Sir Towhead,” I say, around his lips.

  “Yes, Princess Amelia,” he mutters with a laugh.

  “You are my Mr. Right and I want you to be my Prince Charming. Can you do that?” I ask.

  Brooklyn smiles. A genuine smile meant only for me. “I think I can, but first I have one thing to ask you.”

  Tears leak from my eyes as I stare at the man who once upon a time at ten years old had married me. “What is it?” I ask, breaking our embrace to wipe the tears from my cheeks.

  Taking my hands in his, he places them over my tears of joy, and then those blue eyes find mine. “I love you, Amelia, and I want you to be mine. Can you do that?”

  This time when I launch myself at him, I nearly topple him over. “Yes, I can do that. And I love you, too.”

  And that is how my prince, turned toad, turned frog, turned prince again came to be mine.

  It might not top Cinderella’s story, but it comes pretty darn close.

  Don’t you think?

  I know I do.

  SPOTLIGHT

  Amelia

  Love comes in many different shades. Sometimes it’s consuming and violent, other times it’s goofy and messy, and sometimes it’s sweet and perfect.

  Hollywood, of course, loves every single gradient—from love triangles, to long-distance romance, to a teenage lust you could only hope for. And sometimes they even love a quirky, finding-love-when-you-least-expect-it kind of romance, as in the case of Fangirl.

  The limo picks us up at 3 p.m., and we drive for what seems like a million miles. As soon as we get to LA, the drive becomes even slower because streets are closed off everywhere.

  A block before our destination, we are brought to a stop and the car is searched, and then we’re in the home stretch. Excitement flutters like pinwheels all around me. I can’t believe we’re here. All I can do is squeeze Brooklyn’s hand and look out the window in wonder.

  Giant, twenty-four-foot-high twin golden Oscar statues loom large outside the Dolby Theatre, and suddenly I can’t feel my hand because Brooklyn is squeezing it so tightly. It’s hard to believe we’re here. Here where all the eyes of the world are focusing on those statues with the most anticipated ceremony of the year just minutes away from commencing.

  My heart feels like it’s pumping out of my chest. I glance over at him and smile. He looks so nervous. Covering our connected hands with my free one, I mouth, “I love you.” His free hand covers mine and he mouths it back, and he finally gives me a small smile.

  Before I know it, we’re exiting the car. Someone pushes a ticket into Brooklyn’s hand to get the car back later, and he shoves it into his pocket. I shade my eyes and look toward my right. It’s so unreal. The sea of black limousines can be seen for miles and miles. Photographers, too. Flashes going off like mad as they attempt to capture every step each star takes. And stars are everywhere. All stopping to pose, with their hair done perfectly, their fancy clothes, and their designer shades, every woman looks like a princess and every man a prince.

  Glamor and sophistication are everywhere. I feel like I want to blow glitter—that’s how happy I am.

  I look over toward Brooklyn, my brother, and Keen, and realize none of us has any idea what to do now.

  Within moments, a woman wearing a headset and a black pantsuit asks, “Brooklyn?”

  He nods, and the woman introduces herself, adding, “I just came back from walking Emma through. What
a nice coincidence. Would you like me to take your party through?”

  “Yes, that would be fantastic,” he answers.

  She glances down at her clipboard. “Would you like to walk past the cameras?”

  For only a moment he hesitates before responding, “Yes.”

  All together, we take a few steps and head into the throng. The four of us are so nervous, not a single one of us utters a word.

  No jokes.

  Or backslaps.

  Or jabs.

  Just wobbly legs that bring us closer to our destination with every single step we take. The closer we get, the more my gaze wanders, and I take in even more of my surroundings. To the left of me are large grandstands that have been set up to allow spectators a view of everyone exiting their cars curbside, and then beginning their walk toward the auditorium.

  Every one of the spectators gawks and gasps as we make our way up the red carpet. I watch as the stars in front of us run the gauntlet of photographers, stopping for a pose every now and then. Some stop to give interviews to the horde of TV news crews and entertainment reporters along the way, and others pass right by to enter the tent and go through security before entering the theater.

  The attentive press ravishes Brooklyn. The prince of Hollywood is on the red carpet, and this time not as a guest of either of his famous parents. This is all him, and Hollywood loves their royalty. After all, the four of us are at the Academy Awards for three very good reasons.

  Number one: Fangirl has been nominated for Best Original Screenplay. Number two: Chase Parker has been nominated for Best Actor. And number three: Emma Fairchild has received a nomination for directing.

  When Entertainment Tonight asks me what I am wearing, my nerves take flight. But then I look at my dress and smile. I’m wearing a red strapless dress with white embroidered scripting all over it. Jordan Cartwright, the head designer for Simon Warren, made it especially for me. The scripted lines are movie quotes from Fangirl. I answer, and I know this is huge for Simon Warren because my brother can’t stop beaming.

  At the bend in the red carpet we pause. More cameras flash. Brooklyn has his arm around me, and we pose just like those in front of us did.