by Lexi Whitlow
“Who is the girl?” he asks.
“Just a girl,” I lie. It kills me to speak those words, but protecting Winter is my top priority, even if it means my job and my shot at a film career.
Addison nods, pursing his lips. “I’m sure that Sam Fox and your attorney have reiterated to you how important it is that you keep to the terms of the contract you’ve signed.”
I nod. “They have,” I say. Sam ripped me a new one, and my lawyer explained that if Addison decides to find me in breach and wins, I could owe him a lot more than just a return of the five hundred grand I’ve been paid so far. The production company can sue for damages, and Addison has done that more than a few times.
“Listen,” Addison says. “We both know what’s at stake here. You’re new to this, and I realize it comes with certain temptations that a young, good-looking guy like you has a great deal of difficulty resisting.”
This is not a melt-down.
Addison produces a card from the other breast pocket of his jacket. He leans forward, handing it to me.
“I don’t expect you to be a saint,” he says. “I do expect absolute discretion. I work with people who deal in discretion.”
I look down at the card. There’s no name or address, just a phone number and one simple line” “Discrete Connections at Your Command. No Strings.”
“You like red heads?” he says, not asking. “They have red heads. And blonde Swedes, and Asian women who will do things that’ll make you lose your mind. You want something more exotic? Or maybe mix it up with some pretty boys. If you can imagine it, they’ll procure it. They also provide privacy and absolute discretion, with no paparazzi lurking around. I’m not at liberty to say what else they offer, but believe me when I say it’s anything you want. ”
“That’s not really…” I start. But I don’t continue. Holy shit. This is crazier than I thought it would be.
Addison stands, gazing down on me. “Do we understand one another?” he asks.
Oh yeah.
I nod. “Yes sir,” I say, feeling my jaw clench tight.
“Good. Now, I expect after all this blows over, you and Dylan will have a social media recommitment of sorts, with you doing whatever is necessary to win the hearts of her fans, humbling yourself in the process. She’s a beautiful girl. Don’t humiliate her again.”
I nod once more, tasting the bite of bile on my tongue. My heart pounds in my chest.
Bill Addison has the whole world conned. Everyone thinks he’s some born-again, paragon of family values and decency. His image, his entire career, is built on a foundation of moral superiority— and he just handed me a card for a high-end escort service whose products, he promises, can make me lose my mind.
What a fucking piece of trash.
* * *
“What did Bill do to you?” Dylan asks in a whisper as we take our places, waiting for the cameras to frame us and the director to get his shit together.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I say, shaking my head. “He’s a real interesting piece of work.”
“What do you mean?”
I scowl. I can’t tell her. I can’t tell anyone.
“Listen,” I say. “I’m sorry about all this. I put you in an awful position—”
Dylan’s lovely brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”
“Addison said I humiliated you. I’m sorry about—”
“What!?” she laughs, interrupting. “Good lord. He takes this shit way too seriously. I’m not humiliated. If a bunch of over-invested fans with too much time on their hands want to be humiliated on my behalf, let them.” She shrugs, smiling at me like I’m a misguided puppy. “Gates, there’s no such thing as bad press. If they’re talking about us, whatever they’re saying, that’s better than being ignored.”
This girl has a surprisingly healthy grasp of things. I wish I could be so sanguine.
A moment later, Doug Witherspoon appears before us, giving us instruction on motivations, where to put our hands, where to look as the cameras move around us.
We nail the scene in just two takes, with Doug calling, “Cut and print!”
I relax, taking a breath, I look around and wonder where Winter is. She’s often on set by mid-day, checking in, lurking. I haven’t seen her, and no one has mentioned her. I don’t dare ask, given how recently I was seen sneaking around with a red head, but I can’t help but wonder where she is and how she’s dealing with all this drama.
I also can’t help but wonder if Bill Addison recognized his daughter in those photographs. It seems impossible to believe he didn’t, but if he did, I doubt I’d still be working here.
Chapter 13
Winter
Heading home on the I-5 from Gates apartment after Laguna, Margot called me with news. My father called her, asking about me. He called me twice while we were on our way back from Laguna. I just let the phone ring.
“I told him you were hiking the Stone Canyon Reservoir trail with a few other folks from our weekend party,” she says. “He said to let you know, he’s coming home early from his golf thing. He said something had come up and he needed to speak with you about it as soon as possible.”
“Shit!” I say. “When was this?”
“Just a little while ago. He said he’ll be back in LA this afternoon, and he wants you home.”
“Okay,” I tell her, breathless, feeling my anxiety peaking. “Thanks for covering for me.”
“Have you seen the TMZ pix of you and Gates?”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “This morning. I’m back in LA. We cut the weekend short. My father is going to put my head on a pike.”
“Maybe not,” Margot says. “He didn’t sound angry. Not at you anyway. Maybe just…. concerned?”
I make it to Palos Verde by two and am relieved to see my father’s Mercedes isn’t in the garage. I’ve beat him home. Now all I have to do is act like I’ve been back for hours when he arrives, pretending like I know nothing of what’s going on. He’s going to interrogate me mercilessly, accusing me of trying to humiliate him, ruin his movie, and interfere with his new project, Gates.
I decide to play the dumb, bored brat, situating myself by the pool with a book, as relaxed as a cat when he arrives.
He strides out onto the tile deck of the poolside, hands on his hips, regarding me with circumspection. I push my sunglasses down my nose, gazing up at him with curious eyes.
“Margot said you were coming home early. What’s up?” I ask.
“Where were you yesterday?” he asks pointedly.
“Bel Aire,” I reply nonchalantly. “And West Hollywood for dinner. Why?”
“Who were you with?”
I sit up from my chaise lounge, closing my book. “With Margot and some girls she went to school with. I told you. What’s going on?”
He takes a breath, letting it out. He shakes his head, smiling oddly. His expression softens slightly.
“Nothing really,” he says. “I worry about you. That’s all.”
He walks forward, taking a seat nearby, crossing his legs, regarding me cautiously.
“It occurred to me flying home today that in an overabundance of concern for your well-being, I’ve kept you on too short a tether. I’m wondering if maybe I should give you a little more lead, and some bigger projects to occupy your curiosity and talents.”
What in the hell is he talking about?
“I’ve got a new project I’m working on,” he states. “A cross-over possibility between music and films that has the potential to make many millions if developed correctly. We’re just at the beginning though, with lots of work to do.”
He goes on, telling me about this teenaged boy-band of brothers, performing in Branson, Missouri. There are five of them, ranging in age from ten to fifteen. My father is certain that one of them—not sure which one yet—has the potential to be the biggest thing since Michael Jackson, with the film and television potential of child actors turned adult stars, Drew Barrymore or Jodi Fos
ter.
He wants a project he can acquire young and raise up like his very own pet.
“I want you to go spend a week or two shadowing these kids. Photograph them, film them,” my father says. “Take careful notes on personality types. Strengths and weaknesses. When you come back, we’ll make some decisions on which one of them to build a film series around. I’ve got a couple options on books that require an adolescent boy as the lead. Three books each, so three films. The kid grows up in the series. Sort of the Harry Potter thing without all the Satanism and black magic. The projects have almost as much box office potential, but I need to find a child actor who can sustain through the entire series, who can also produce between film releases.”
My father is going to pit brother against brother in his epic quest to further enrich himself, and now he wants me to help him. I skip explaining to him that Harry Potter didn’t have any Satanism, and wasn’t about black magic, because that would be pointless.
Instead, I just get the details and book my flight; anything to keep him from sniffing out the trail leading straight to Gates and me on a beach in Laguna.
* * *
Gates: I miss you.
I look down at the text. It makes me smile and it makes me sad. I miss him too, so bad it hurts.
Winter: I miss you more.
Gates: Not possible. Where are you?
Winter: Dallas. Waiting for my connection. Hoping it’s on time. You?
Gates: Sitting in my trailer between takes, wishing I was with you.
Winter: Will you be home tonight?
Gates: Late. We’re on set until ten (at least). Call me?
Winter: I will.
We haven’t spoken since I left his apartment, as it’s just too dangerous in case my father is suspicious. I figure getting out of town for a while is the best way to put my father’s concerns on ice, protecting Gates from exposure.
That said, the backlash against him on social media is escalating. Dylan’s fans—and there are many—are determined to hate Gates. They call him terrible names, from cheating bastard to arrogant pig. If they knew him, they’d feel differently.
As I’m waiting for my flight to be called, I pop onto Dylan’s Instagram account. She’s posted an image from today’s filming, a close-up of her and Gates, arm-in-arm, with the following caption: “This is the sweetest guy on the face of God’s green Earth, and my dearest friend in this town. Ya’ll need to get a grip! #StopTheHating #LoveGatesVaughn”
At least she’s not a complete moron.
* * *
Branson, Missouri is like Vegas, minus all the interesting stuff. There’s more blinking neon than Times Square, more billboards than Sunset Strip, but everyone is fully clothed. There’s a glass and steel, brightly lit church every half mile, and a brand name choir performing three shows daily, at every other theatre in town.
I’m here to see The Osmonds, Generation III, at The Plan Playhouse on the main drag of Branson. The billboards and posters outside advertising this act don’t prepare me for the mayhem I find, unwinding inside the theater.
For starters, it’s deafening, and not from the music. The crowd of a few thousand people consists of mostly very young girls, some as young as six. Every single one of them are hysterical, screaming—eardrum bursting, piercing, high-pitched shrieks—so loud they nearly drown out the sound of five little boys singing in hyper-amplified, pitch-perfect harmony. It’s astonishing to me that those boys can hear themselves think, much less hear well enough to maintain timing and pitch.
Backstage, after the show, it’s a little saner, but only a little.
I meet the boy’s grandfather, Jim Osmond, who greets me with a firm handshake, wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a big silver belt buckle. According to the notes my dad gave me, he’s the man who single-handedly, invented Branson, Missouri. He and his brothers were a million-record selling boy-band act in the 1970’s, and their children had a slightly less popular act in the late 1980’s. The whole family wound up in Vegas, but the vibe of Vegas didn’t suit the Osmond’s sense of family values; they’re devout Mormons.
Jim Osmond decided to create a new place like Vegas, without the strip clubs, hookers, bars, and gambling. Branson was born and has been booming ever since, thanks to astute marketing and advertising, and the sweeping rise of evangelical conservatism.
“Let’s introduce you to the boys,” he says, leading me down a corridor packed with people, from choreographers and musicians, to general stagehands. We make our way to the dressing rooms area. Mr. Osmond taps on the door, then opens it. The kids are horsing around, but when they see their grandfather they stop in their tracks, snap to attention, rearrange themselves in line from smallest to tallest, facing us with square shoulders and straight backs. They don’t look at me. They look at him.
“Boys, this is Miss Addison, the lady I told you was coming to shadow you for a week or so to take photos and videos for the film studio we’re talking to,” he says. “I expect you to be on your very best behavior. I also expect you to show her what Osmonds are made of. Do you understand me?”
“Yes Sir!” they all chirp in unison.
“Good,” he says. He turns to me, smiling proudly. “They go on again at seven sharp. You have them ‘til then. If you’d like to have dinner with us tonight after the show, we’d be pleased to have you. We try to leave the theater by nine-thirty, so we can have the boys in bed by midnight.”
I saw on the show schedule outside the theater their first performance begins at one in the afternoon. They do three performances a day, six days a week. That’s a grueling schedule for anyone, much less a child of ten.
“Sure,” I say. “That would be great.”
Osmond leaves me with the kids, who do not abandon their rigid, at-attention pose. I’m not used to kids, and for a minute I’m frozen, uncertain what to do. Sensing this, the oldest one steps forward.
“My name is Clark, I’m fifteen years-old and I sing, play bass guitar, piano, and fiddle.”
He steps back into place. The one to his right steps forward. “I’m Grayson, and I sing, play lead guitar, piano, banjo, and drums.”
They go down the line like this. I’m introduced to Jeffrey, Jay, and finally Jude, the youngest, who sings, and who claims to play at least seven instruments, including the saxophone.
The boys are stair-step reproductions of one another, with thick, dark hair, pale blue eyes, and big, well-practiced smiles. When they’re done with their introductions I decide to lighten the atmosphere.
“My name’s Winter, and all I can do is take photos. I got nothing else. So, chill out boys. What happens between us, stays between us. Your grandfather scares the crap out of me too.”
Jay is the first one to break form. He starts giggling. Clark glares at him, but then little Jude cracks open, peeling with laughter, throwing his adorable head back, relishing in the freedom to do it. In a moment they’re all boys again, shoulders slumped, fucking around. It’s more a joy to see them playing video games, and generally behaving like boys do anywhere when they’re bored and trapped.
Our first conversations are a little awkward, but I’m confident in time they’ll warm up. In the meantime I’m pleased to find these kids are accustomed to having their photographs taken. They don’t ham it up. They ignore me, which makes for some stellar shots in just my first few hours with them.
As the boys prepare for the seven o’clock show, changing into matching outfits and getting their hair and make-up touched up. The stage manager fetches me, taking me to the pit in front of the stage. The auditorium is already at capacity, filled with young girls and their parents waiting anxiously for the curtain to come up and their hearts to explode at the first sight of The Osmonds, Generation III.
Half an hour later, with the boys doing their tightly choreographed act in front of me, I feel almost like Annie Liebowitz in front of the Rolling Stones at Wembley Stadium. The air is that electric, with a mad crowd screaming behind me, and a stage of seasoned
professional performers ahead. Just when I think it can’t get any stranger, the youngest one, little Jude, steps forward with a miniature saxophone, beginning a solo in high soprano notes that would make Stan Getz stand up and pay attention.
The kids blow me away.
Dinner, after the show, is just as bizarre. I hoped it would provide an opportunity to see the kids being real again, just acting like boys in their natural habitat, but the family dinner, as it turns out, is approached more like a post-mortem critique of the kid’s performance.
