by CD Reiss
“What did you tell them?” I asked.
“Anything in the public record that would make you look sympathetic. Kissing a foster child as opposed to a slimeball, you know? It works, especially after the incident—”
“With Arnie? Arnie’s a moron. If murder were legal, he’d be dead already.”
“Can you make sure to not say things like that in public?” he asked.
“Can you never breathe her name again to anyone? Ever? I don’t care if it’s in the public record. She’s mine, and that means she’s my problem.”
“She can be your asset too.”
“Can it be normal? How about that?” I said. “Not an asset or a problem. Not a big deal. Just some girl that I may or may not be seen with again.”
Ken sighed as if I was a recalcitrant child he’d explained things to a hundred times. “No, Greydon, normal is not on the menu. Your career would die of boredom on a diet of normal.”
I shook my head. “Just leave her out of it, Ken. That, or you let me know what you’re doing before you do it. Can we agree on that?”
“Sure, kid. Sure.”
We said good-bye and ended it, but his assessment of my choices stuck in my mind. I craved normalcy, and I craved the tingle of life. Could they even coexist? I’d played normal, everyday guys living a life I’d never lived. I’d played them deadened and dull, because that was what I’d been told normal was.
I didn’t want normal.
I wanted real.
And my God, Laine was real.
Chapter 22
Laine
I didn’t hear from Tom. I slept like a dead thing and could have slept another ten hours. When the sun went down, I could have woken and gone out to the clubs to see who I could catch looking good doing something bad, but that didn’t happen.
Sometime in late morning, I was rudely awakened to my ceiling thumpity thumping techno music from the loft above. I wasn’t just annoyed, I was interrupted.
I gave it thirty minutes, pacing and showering to kill time until whoever was up there split. The space upstairs was unoccupied, so I hoped the cleaning crew was just in to prep it for showing. On the opposite side of my hope, I feared there was a new owner and he was an inconsiderate jerk.
I opened my door so I could stare up the stairwell, which could not have been a more ineffective way to deal with the problem. At my feet sat the LA Post Almanac section, without the rest of the paper. I picked it up. Of course the rooftop picture was on the corner of the front page, with Brenda Vinter’s byline.
When Celebrities and Paparazzi Share Space
Crap. I read the article, which tried to quickly disseminate whether or not paps and celebs were truly in bed together, how the media feeds on itself, and how the internet played a part in all of it. It said everything and nothing, failing to make its point because it sounded hurried and wanting for space. What they’d really wanted was to show the picture a day late rather than not at all.
But the nugget was in the last few paragraphs. I dialed Phoebe with shaking fingers, trying to shut out the blasting music.
“Did you see the thing in the LA Post?” I asked before she could say hello.
“Yeah.” She sounded contrite, and her glitter tossing for Michael was gone. “Just now. Where are you? A disco?”
“It says Michael and I were at Breakfront together.”
“Yep.”
“It says I was the foster child of Orry and Mildred Hatch,” I said.
“Yes, it does.”
Was that her lawyer voice? I hated her lawyer voice.
“That’s invasive. I am not a public figure. I’ve never hired an agent or publicist to get my name out there. That’s the prerequisite. Everyone knows it. That’s why I can do my job and they can’t touch me.”
“Did you talk to Michael’s publicist?” she asked.
“He called me. I just said… I don’t even remember.”
I can pay you.
“Did you know it was his publicist?”
“Yes.”
“Did the publicist know you knew?”
I know who you are.
“Yes… so?” I asked.
“Did you ask for his help in any way?”
“No, and I hate your lawyer voice.”
“Did he offer it?”
I don’t want to make any response at all.
I can help you with that as well.
“Shit,” I said.
“If the publicist is trustworthy, then you have a case against the Post, but if he told them he was working with you, you’re now a public figure.”
“That’s crap. I haven’t even met with him. I could sue him.”
“The toothpaste is out of the tube.”
“Michael Greydon is poison. If I ever forget that, remind me,” I shouted over the thumping beat vibrating through my house.
When a thop THUP thop accompanied the throbbing music, I lost my complete and utter shit.
“I have to go,” I said.
“Be good,” she said.
Maybe she wanted to say something more, but I hung up the phone and jammed it in my pocket. I slung my camera over my shoulder and stormed out the door without locking it. I stomped up the concrete-and-iron steps in my boots and pounded on the upstairs door with the side of my fist.
I was about to kick it when the door swung open. The music got louder, and my breath was stolen right out of me.
“Laine.” He smiled his million-dollar smile.
“Michael. What the hell are you doing?”
“I was trying to see if this was a good place to practice. You inspired me the other night.” He looked down the hall. “What are you doing here?”
I crossed my arms. “Save it for your audience.”
He stepped away from the doorway, and I noticed the racquet in his hand. “Come in then.” He looked at my body in a way that was discreet in its speed and warming in its intensity, as if he was trying not to but couldn’t help himself, so he decided to do it quick.
I stepped in, arms still twisted over my chest, and he closed the door. He crossed the room to the stereo and turned it off. Other than the musical equipment, the loft was empty but for a table, two chairs, and a gorgeous man I met in high school. His feet were bare, and his sweater was pure white. He might as well have been wearing lingerie with the way the sleeves held his biceps and his ass was cupped in the jeans.
“What do you think?” Michael asked, thwacking a ball against the back wall.
“This is stalking.”
“It’s stalking if you tell me to go away and I don’t.” He hit the ball again. He had such control. I would have broken a window already. “Are you telling me to go away?”
“You’re an entitled, spoiled brat. What are you doing here?”
He caught the ball in his bare hand with the grace and accuracy of a gymnast. Or a dancer. Or someone hyper-aware of their body at all times. As if he was an actor who worked his ass off to understand his craft.
“I’m afraid to tell you,” he said, flicking his tongue over his teeth. His eyes were dirty thoughts, and his lips curved into a breach of etiquette.
“Let me see your hands.”
“What?”
He motioned for them, and I stuck them out. He dropped the ball and tucked his racquet under his arm before flipping my hands top-up.
“Before I tell you, I want to see if your nails are long enough to claw my eyes out.”
“I can do far worse than that if you don’t tell me.”
“You’re in the Post. And they know about where we met.”
“Your eyes are safe.” I squeezed his hands, and he held them. I didn’t know why I allowed it, except for the fact that they felt good. “I saw the paper this morning.”
“I’m sorry about that. It wasn’t me,” he said.
“It was your publicist. I should slap you for paying him to do it.”
“That’s not why I pay him. But I’m sorry it’s too late. Let me make it up
to you.”
“I want nothing to do with you.” With my hands resting on his and the space between us shaped like a fault line, I couldn’t have spoken a fouler lie.
“I’ve made you lunch,” he said. “You don’t owe it to me to sit and eat it, but you should.”
“Always so respectful. Is this the same guy who smashed the trophy case at Breakfront?”
“His nice guy twin.”
“I’ll sit with you on one condition.” I let my hands slide away from his, and the loss was deeper than I expected. It might be the last time I had an excuse to touch him. “That night at NV?” He stiffened, but I wasn’t deterred. “You flipped out and smashed my camera, which was… not like you, I guess. Tell me what happened.”
A hundred magazines would pay for the story I’d just asked for, even without a picture. He’d never answer it. By the length of his pause and the coolness of his stare, I’d alienated him, and my disappointment was almost physical. Sure, I might avoid drinking the poison that was Michael Greydon, but I didn’t expect to feel as if I’d die of thirst.
“Do you like eggs?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“Better sit down then. It’s all I know how to cook.”
Was he going to tell me? Would he make up something? He held the chair out for me and slid it in when I sat. To my right, the huge windows looked over the blue-grey fog of the city from six stories up. Everything was better higher.
“You think I should buy the place?” Michael said from the kitchen island, where he scraped a spatula over a frying pan.
“Are you trying to get me to move?”
His attention stayed glued to his pan. “Salt?” He held up the shaker.
He was messing with me. He knew I didn’t give a damn about whether or not he salted the eggs. I stood, clopped over to the island, and leaned back on it, next to him.
“Your dad didn’t want you to act,” I said. “I remember that. And your mom pushed you to do it. You didn’t know who to obey. Personally, I don’t know if I could reject your mother either.”
“Ah.” He shut off the stove. “Brooke Chambers’s biggest fan. I think I keep forgetting on purpose.” The eggs stood in a nicely gelled yellow pile.
“She seemed so perfect. Perfect actress. Perfect mother. What was she like? I’m sorry, I feel like a dork asking, but I can’t help it.”
“Same as anyone’s mother. Demanding, controlling, and occasionally smothering.” He handed me the plate. “But she took it on like she was conquering territory. I have to give her points for ambition.”
“Do I get toast?”
“Ah, crap.” He reached behind him for a loaf of bread, turned right then left, locating the toaster, which still had Styrofoam flakes on it from the packaging.
“Did your dad see that you were a natural?” I asked. “I mean, in high school, I couldn’t tell, but now, I’d like to see you do something you weren’t hyper aware about.”
He flipped up the loaf, letting it spin in the air, then caught it. “Maybe just bread?”
“That’s fine.”
“You don’t go anywhere without your instrument,” he said, laying the eggs and bread on the table. “Your camera. I mean, you brought it to yell at the guy upstairs?”
I swallowed. I’d had a reason or two to bring it, mostly “just in case” and the classic “you never know if…” but the real reason was simple. I didn’t feel right without it. “I see better through it.”
He pulled the chair out for me again. “I can’t leave my instrument home.” He smirked, making a blue joke about his instrument without saying a single dirty thing. He was pure sex with a side of fun. And he was warming up. Maybe I hadn’t pushed him away with my question. Maybe he’d sate this thirst. I swallowed hard, pushing down my throat the thought of him on top of me, eyes half closed and lost in pleasure. God, was I blushing?
He slid half the eggs onto my plate, his face turned toward me. I wanted to put my flushed skin under a bag. I felt naked, as if he could see my dirty thoughts.
“I have to say,” I said to fill the space, “I get it. I get you. But I want to say…” I stopped myself. I’d said that twice, which meant I was hedging. “About that night. On the roof.”
He folded his hands in front of him, elbows on each side of his plate, while I pushed my eggs around.
“The instrument thing. I know how it goes. I’ve known so many actors. And I just…”
“Say it. Whatever it is.” My God. How did he make it seem so reasonable and safe to just speak my mind?
“I don’t trust you,” I blurted. “The other night I kissed you, and it was the kiss of my life, don’t get me wrong. Your instrument works fine. And I wake up to my whole history in the damn newspaper. I didn’t sign on for that, no matter what Ken Braque says. And I’m not saying this means anything, what’s happening here with the eggs and squatting in the penthouse, because you probably just want to seduce me for lack of anything better to do. And okay, I think that’s all right, but I’m going to be as honest as I can be. I liked you in high school. I was probably as in love with a person as I could be without having it returned. And I know you had Lucy and everything, but here it is, on the line. I don’t want you to hurt me. Because you’ll walk away and be fine, and I’ll lose everything.” I pushed my plate away then leaned against the side of the table and slid out my chair.
Lightning fast, he reached across the table and grabbed my wrists. I took a breath involuntarily and held it without thinking. His hands were on mine again, holding me there, but that wasn’t why I was still. His eyes, those clear jade fires, held me in their connection to mine.
“That was brave,” he said. “And foolish. And real.”
“That’s me. Okay?”
“In a nutshell. Yes, that is you.”
I didn’t want him to let me go, but he looked at me so intently, I needed to leave. I pulled away, and he resisted.
“My father played every movie tough guy like he meant it,” Michael said. “He believes that’s who he is. That’s why he won’t get help for the drinking. Because he’s too tough. He missed days and flew into drunken rages on set. His career went into the toilet because he was too big a risk to hire. Bullets Over Sunset is getting made because it’s his last chance and because I could make it happen for him. But he has to stop drinking to do it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t say that while he lives.”
“I mean I’m sorry you have to go through this.” I whispered.
He lightened his grip with a smile. “When we were on that balcony together, and I’d just heard Britt was going to delay shooting, I knew he wouldn’t make it through. I just… I was on the edge, and I didn’t know what to do. That camera, seeing how confused I was, and you, Laine. You. There were reasons I didn’t say hello before. I cared about you, and I didn’t know what to say to you. When I saw it all fall apart with Britt, I just went over the edge. I apologize for freaking out.”
“I get it,” I said, even though I didn’t get it completely. I only saw his pain, even if I couldn’t wrap my head about the motivation.
He let go and leaned back in his chair. “I’m kind of sorry I told you. You’re not trained to manage the media. You could be a leak in a watertight drum. But I agreed so you’d stay. It was the deal. And you haven’t even eaten your eggs.”
I sat back down. I didn’t know how to feel. I’d never had a parent I cared about. Irving would be the closest thing, but not a single adult in my life had consistently taken responsibility for raising me into a woman. How could I empathize with the need to save that person?
“And yeah,” he said, popping a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth, “I’m trying to seduce you.”
“You’ve gotten really lazy then. You should have catered. I mean, no juice even?”
“I can make a joke about my ability to serve after my injury.” He pointed at an elbow as if he did it every time he used the word injury.
“You wouldn’t dare make a pun.”
He smiled that half smile, and the light hit him just right, with a burned yellow tint and a soft halo.
I picked up my camera. “If I ask to take your picture before I do it, am I still a sleazy pap?”
“Are you asking?”
“The light’s really good. I won’t sell them.”
He leaned over and looked at my old rig. The light through the windows was textbook, soft on his cheeks and highlighting the ends of his hair.
“I have your new camera in the car,” he said.
“I want to see how this old horse works.”
“Is there actual film in there?”
“Yes. It’s a terrible pap camera, but for a perfect guy sitting still in perfect light, it’s perfect.”
“By all means then.”
I was reluctant to crouch in front of him and put the camera in front of my face, but once I did, he went into actor mode. I’d never seen someone come through the lens like that. Some people had that thing, that aura, that frame-crowding presence, but until I got him in a shot he wanted to be in, instead of running away, I hadn’t understood it.
“You always take so few?” he asked, fingers in his hair, head tilted like a sexy movie star god.
“I take fewer than most. Turn a little toward the window.”
“Are you wondering how I found you?” he asked between shots.
“I figure you’re rich, so you have rich person superpowers.” I meant it. The wealthy could always just get things done in a way the rest of us couldn’t. It was an assumption, and a foolish one. It gave him abilities he couldn’t possibly have. It set him up to fail me.
“Your name is on your mortgage, and your mortgage is a matter of public record.”
I didn’t lower the camera, but I stopped taking pictures. Michael leaned down toward me, filling the frame.
“Everything Ken found out is on the public record, and he knew stuff the Post didn’t publish. Stuff he held back.”
I clicked the shutter because my hand got so tight. But the camera? That stayed in front of my face. I couldn’t look at him. I felt too vulnerable for that.
