I dug into my dinner, then took a long sip of chardonnay, the cool liquid a perfect contrast to the spicy tofu as it warmed my insides. I leaned my head back on the chair, watching the sun paint pink, purple, and golden hues along the ocean’s surface. I inhaled deeply, catching just the faintest whiff of saltwater over the eau de car exhaust from the PCH.
I’ll admit, I hadn’t always been a fan of the California lifestyle. When I’d first moved here from Montana ten years ago, the city had thrown me into total culture shock. I was used to our family ranch, horses, skies so clear they looked like artists’ paintings, air so clean it smelled like fresh rain all the time. And quiet. Something that you could never find in L.A. It drove me nuts those first few weeks and made me so homesick I’d cried myself to sleep every night.
Of course, I was only sixteen then, dreams of gracing glossy magazine covers anchoring me in the city even as my heart broke for the quiet hills of home.
I’d been discovered by Hal Levine of the Levin Modeling Agency when, after a nervous breakdown over a Cosmo shoot, his therapist had suggested a nice, quite vacation at a Montana dude ranch. Hal had reluctantly agreed and spent the next three weeks getting saddle sores and mosquito bites. I’d taken a summer job at the ranch caring for the horses, who, after being ridden all day by overweight tourists, I had much more sympathy for than the saddle-sore city slickers. Hal had picked me out right away and handed me his card. At first, I’d chucked it. I mean, how many times have we all heard the stories of the “agent” luring the teenager into the city, only to see her face weeks later on the ten o’clock news? Besides, I was not what you’d call a girly girl. While the California girls had played with Barbie and taken ballet lessons, I’d been making mud pies in a pair of hand-me-down overalls. Being a supermodel was the last thing I’d envisioned for myself.
But, after a full week of Hal promising he’d make me famous (and after I’d googled him extensively to make sure he was a real agent and not some serial killer), I finally agreed to let him fly me out to L.A. for a test shoot.
Twelve years later, I was still here. Though my modeling days were a distant memory.
And that was the way I liked them.
I polished off my takeout and traded the carton for my camera, putting the lens to my eye as I began my nightly ritual of roving the neighborhood.
To the right, I had a view through the living room window of a woman with a baby on her hip and two kids slurping spaghetti at a scarred dining room table. The Lopolattos. Not that I’d ever met them, but I peeked in on their lives at least once a day from this vantage point. I noticed the older of the two kids had recently gotten her ears pierced. Little gold stars. Cute. I popped off a shot as they caught the last rays of sunlight coming though the curtained windows. Mama Lopolatto looked tired today. Maybe the baby was keeping her up at night? The biggest commitment I had was to a house plant; I couldn’t imagine the responsibility of taking care of three little human beings. Poor mom.
I zoomed in, capturing the weary look on her face, a sharp contrast to the fresh chubby cheeks of the baby on her hip.
Many native tribes felt that having your photo taken would somehow steal your soul. Personally, I’ve always seen the truth in that statement. Maybe it’s not an actual act of larceny, per se, but a photo can break through those barriers we put up and freeze a moment in time where your soul does, in fact, reveal itself for all to see. It’s always amazing to me how the camera lens can see what the naked eye passes by dozens of times a day without noticing.
I turned my camera left, checking in on my neighbors to the south. A Russian couple occupied the top floor of the condo building. He was in some sort of international banking, and she was the twenty-years younger trophy wife. In fact, I’m not totally sure he hadn’t bought her and had her shipped in special order.
They were having sushi tonight, the wife’s favorite. Not that the husband ate much. He usually spent the bulk of his evening meal on his cell, shouting at whoever was on the other end. The wife silently ate her sushi, staring out the other windows.
I zoomed in on her face and clicked the shutter on my Nikon. The look on her face was wistful defined. I wondered what she was thinking. Was she homesick? Lonely? Daydreaming about some young Russian stud she left back home?
She glanced at her husband, and I shot a series of photos as her expression turned from wistful to downright sad. Then her face disappeared from my view as she ducked her head to take another bite of sushi.
Maybe someday I’d meet her. Walk over and introduce myself as her neighbor. She looked like she could use a friend.
I moved on to the beach below me, snapping shots of the few straggling tourists catching the last of the sun’s rays.
As they sky turned a dusky blue, I called it a night, turning in early in anticipation of a busy day on Wedding Watch tomorrow.
Chapter Three
My alarm went off at six sharp, the Beatles’ Revolution keeping me company as I grabbed a cup of black coffee and suited up for my morning run. I made a clean circuit down to the beach, along the Venice boardwalk (largely empty at this time of day), then back around to my apartment just as the sun was starting to warn of another scorching summer day.
I quickly showered, dressed in a pair of jeans, black tank top, and flip flops and hoped in my Jeep to get a jump on the happy couple’s plans.
Which ended up being plentiful. I trailed Jamie Lee through her final visits to the caterer (the star of the high-intensity cooking show Hades’ Oven), the florist (the star of TLC’s Flower Boss), and her wedding planner (the star of Bravo’s Wedding Wars). All three were top notch, all charged more than my yearly salary, and all were, as I found out, un-bribable for a sneak peek at their wares. Which sucked, but at least I caught couple good pics of the bride-to-be licking frosting off her fingers as she excited the bakery.
While Jamie Lee dragged me all over town, Trace spent most of the day doing post production on his latest action piece, Held for Ransom, due out just in time for Christmas from Sunset Studios, a fortress so impenetrable as to be one of the only places on earth immune to my telephoto lens. But, as soon as Jamie Lee drove back home (speeding and talking on her cell phone, the naughty little fashionista), I parked outside the front gates of the studios and waited for Trace to make his appearance. I ate a granola bar, listened to the radio, and read the first three chapters of a mystery novel on my e-reader. It wasn’t until after dark that I finally got a glimpse of Action Hero, driving his big, black SUV off the lot.
I set my e-book aside and pulled my Jeep into step behind him. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one. Waiting along with me were four other cars carrying other hungry paparazzi. No big surprise there.
I joined the camera-toting crowd and immediately recognized a car carrying the guys from Entertainment Daily – our rival paper. Or, as we Informer staff affectionately referred to it ED. (And, yes, we totally meant that kind of ED. You have no idea how many times I’ve seen them pull out their cameras, only to shoot blanks – or unusable close-ups of elbows, knees, and latte cups.)
Mike and Eddie were ED’s photographers. They were twins, sporting matching pregnant-looking bellies and scruffy beards, usually tinted orange with cheese doodle stains. They drove a beat-up Impala, smelled like day-old gym socks, and had, to the best of my knowledge, at least four restraining orders filed against the two of them. All from celebs they’d stalked. (Not that I hadn’t stalked said celebrities myself, but Mike and Eddie had yet to learn the fine art of subtlety.)
As we turned down Sunset, Mike made kissy faces at me from the passenger-side window of their car, passing me on the right. I choked down a gag reflex, stomping down on the gas pedal and pulling ahead of them at the next light. Eddie revved his engine, causing a cloud of black smoke to explode from his tailpipe, and pulled up even to me, narrowly missing a beamer double parked in front of a tanning salon.
My competitive side came out in full force as we chased each other through Holl
ywood, one eye on the competition and one eye on the back of Trace’s car, half a block ahead. Which finally stopped four blocks later, pulling to the curb at the Boom Boom Room, where Trace got out and handed his keys to the valet.
A move that caused a groan of disgust to bubble up in my throat. I had to ditch my own car fast if I wanted to get a shot of him going in, and the valet expense was not an option Felix would let me indulge in.
I made a hard left, illegally crossing three lanes of traffic, and shot into a gas station, pulling up beside the bathrooms where a homeless guy was taking a leak. Outside. On the door.
Welcome to Hollywood.
I ignored him, instead grabbing my camera and locking the doors behind me as I dodged a taxi and two Porsches crossing the street.
Miraculously, Trace was still outside the club by the time I reached the door. He was loitering, saying hello to his pals, posing for the camera, all while trying to look natural like he wasn’t posing. It was a skill all young Hollywood perfected their first month in the spotlight, and Trace was a master.
Just beyond the bounds of the velvet rope stood a dozen paparazzi who had gotten there before me, cameras all flashing at the same time, popping off shot after shot, some even daring to come precariously close to the actor’s perfectly chiseled face.
To Trace’s credit, he neither preened annoyingly a la the Kardashians, nor got pseudo-Russell Crow pissed. If a guy could be alpha manly and graceful all at the same time, Trace was it.
I vied for position among the other photo hounds, my camera to my eye. Unfortunately, it appeared as if everyone else’s editors gave them lager expense accounts than mine, though, as all the good spots had already been taken by those who valeted. Meaning I was stuck at the back of the pack of ravenous wolves all shouting, “Trace, over here! Look over here!”
Which, of course, he was veteran enough to know to ignore. Instead he made sure his “good” side was to the crowd, his nonchalant air betraying nothing of the awareness that he was being watched by dozens of eyes, popping off dozens of shots that would likely be seen by star gazers in dozens of countries by morning.
I caught a couple shots of his elbow, but with the jostling and my craptastic position it was hard to see anything of substance.
“Finally caught up with us, huh, Cammy?” Mike said, blocking my view with his Shamu-esque figure.
“Shove it, Mikey.” I know, lame. But, as I said, I’m not the best at coming up with clever repartee on the spot. Besides, even if I had it would have been lost on Mike. Mike had the I.Q of a donut. Instead, I held my breath, ignoring his deodorant-defying stench as I jockeyed for position beside him.
“I’ll shove it to you all night long, baby,” he replied, giving me another kissy face.
Ew.
“In your wet dreams.” I stood on tip-toe, just grabbing a shot of the top of Trace’s head as he shook hands with the bouncer.
“Trace!” Eddie shouted, shoving a red haired guy with a camera around his neck out of his way. “Trace, you sample any of Jamie Lee’s goods before the honeymoon, man?”
“Real classy, Eddie,” I muttered.
But if he heard it, Trace was gentleman enough to ignore the comment altogether. Instead, he turned and gave the crowd one more I’m-not-posing-I’m-just-naturally-perfect smile, then slipped past the velvet rope into the club.
A collective groan went up from the crowd assembled outside. Myself included. A shot of Trace’s elbow was hardly the kind of stuff Felix put on the front page.
“And that’s all she wrote,” Mikey said, dropping his camera to his side.
“Hey, Cammy girl,” Eddie said. “Sorry you didn’t get a clear shot.” He snickered. Clearly not sorry at all.
“Better luck next time,” Mikey said, his features echoing his twin’s mocking grin.
“Say, if you want, we could let you stand in front of us when he comes out,” Eddie offered. Then followed it with a loud, “Not!” He giggled like a twelve-year-old at his joke.
“Real mature,” I mumbled.
Only I hated to admit that unless the twins took off, they had a point. No way was I going to be able to get a clear shot of Trace. The front of the club was packed with paparazzi that had all somehow managed to convince their editors that valet was a necessary expense. Either that or they were chancing the parking tickets in the red zones. Not something I could do unless I wanted to see my Jeep towed. I already had seven outstanding fines. Occupational hazard.
It was clear if I wanted to get any shot of Trace worth printing in tomorrow’s edition, I needed a new angle.
I left the gruesome twosome arguing over whether they thought Jamie Lee liked it on top or on bottom (seriously, what were they, fifteen?), and decided to case the rest of the building. If I was lucky, there was a window or balcony that lead to the VIP area. Any place I could get a glimpse of Trace inside.
I rounded the corner of the building, coming into an alleyway housing a pair of green Dumpsters, a mound of empty Bicardi boxes, and one emaciated cat. I ignored the hissing from the cat, pressing around to the back of the club. The building jutted up against a chain-link fence and parking lot beyond. No windows. No balconies.
Shit.
At the rear of the building stood one metal door with a rectangular window atop it, the glass painted out black so that no one uncool enough to be denied entry could spy on the ultra-cool happenings inside the club. It was also pretty good paparazzi repellent, I decided staring up at it. I squinted, trained my lens on it. Couldn’t see a damned thing.
Okay, I had three options. One - I could go back around to the front and pray for an opening between the blob brothers big enough to fit my Nikon and get a semi-decent shot of Trace. Two - I could concede defeat and call it a night, hoping for a better photo op tomorrow. Or three - I could set up camp here on the off chance that Trace decided to sneak out the back way. I did an einie meenie miney moe. But really, it was no contest. Going back out front meant enduring inane chatter form Mike and Eddie for possibly hours on end. Not my first choice. And going home meant a lecture from Felix in the morning. Again, not high on my list. So, while the alleyway wasn’t the prettiest of places that I’ve spent an evening, waiting for the back door to open finally won out. What can I say? I’m a girl who believes in long shots.
After surveying the alley for a good place to hunker down, I settled on a wooden staircase snaking up the side of the building next door. It was dark, out of the way, and afforded me a place to sit down. Perfect.
I climbed up to the second-floor balcony, hiding in the shadows behind a billboard advertising the latest season of Heroes on DVD, and found myself a clean(ish) corner with a clear shot of the back door and sat down on the wooden planks to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
I waited so long my foot fell asleep. I counted the number of stairs on this side of the building fifteen times. I ran through the names of all fifty states, all forty-four presidents, and all seven dwarves. I made a mental grocery list, composed a thank-you letter to my grandmother for the fifteen-dollar birthday check she sent last month, and made up one dirty limerick involving Mike, Eddie, a goat and a bag of ho-hos.
Two hours later, the only action I’d seen was a delivery truck pulling into the alley by the dumpsters. I was about to give up and call my night a bust, when the back door of the club finally opened.
I rocked forward on my toes, put my camera to my eye, and held my breath as the door pushed open…
…to reveal a waitress in a tiny cocktail dress lighting a joint beneath the billboard.
Swell.
I leaned back again. Clearly, my gamble wasn’t paying off tonight. I waited until Smoky was done, crushing the butt beneath her two-inch heels and disappearing back into the club, before standing up and stamping some feeling back into my right foot. I was just working out the pins and needles before descending the stairs, when I heard the back door swing open again. I was about to chalk it up to another smoke
break, when a familiar head of golden blond hair emerged.
Trace.
My breath caught in my throat, and I did a mental “in your face” to the Entertainment Daily boys. I silently lifted my camera lens to my eye. I popped off three shots of Trace walking into the alleyway and stretching his arms above his head. He leaned leaning against the side of the building, his usually perfect posture slouching. He tilted his head back against the stuccoed wall and closed his eyes.
Despite my journalist instincts telling me that a full body shot was what readers wanted to see, I zoomed in close on his face. I could see faint lines surrounding his eyes – evidence of fatigue that was usually carefully airbrushed away. His jaw was slack in the dark, his features blissfully unaware of being watched. A rarity. For a brief moment, he wasn’t a movie star, just some guy trying to get a moment’s peace in the whirlwind life of his own creation.
His long lashes made dark shadows on his cheeks, giving him a boyish look that made me wonder what Trace had been like before he became “the Trace Brody.” Rumor had it he’d grown up in a small town in the Midwest somewhere. I wondered if he didn’t secretly miss small-town life once in a while.
A sound down the alleyway broke into his respite, and his eyes popped open, his posture suddenly stiffening into a pose again.
I followed his gaze to the delivery truck parked at the mouth of the alleyway. Two guys emerged, both in nondescript gray coveralls. They were both about average height, one with jet black hair slicked back from his forehead, the other wearing a crew cut. Crew Cut was beefier looking, like he’d spent a fair amount of time either in a boxing ring. Or prison gym, if the litany of tattoos on his arms were any indication. The other guy reminded me a ferret, all slim and slinky in a way that would make me wary of touching him.
Ferret stuck his hands in his pockets, coming around the front of the truck and looking over both shoulders as if scanning the alleyway for other inhabitants. The cat stuck his head out from behind the Dumpster, but luckily, I had this invisible thing down to a science. Ferret looked convinced they were alone.
Hollywood Scandals Page 25
