Star Crossed: A Hollywood Romance

by Reiss, CD

I thought I’d understood the significance of our night out until we stepped outside. I’d thought it was about us, about us being official on some level. About accepting that we would proceed, one and the other, to hell with all of it.

  But it was more than that.

  Two more bodyguards waited past the glass doors, and they had a big job in standing between us and a dog pack of paparazzi.

  I stopped. No, I didn’t stop. I froze, thinking about the head to toe, the heels to hairpins; my posture, my face, the shape of my persona against the perfection of Michael Greydon.

  “Hey,” he whispered, “I thought I’d have the car ride to prep you, but—”

  “Of course. Why would they bother with the opening? They’d have to fight the press there. Here, it’s all them. These will be all over the internet with edited copy before we even get to the theater.”

  “Will you be okay?”

  “Will you stay by me?”

  “Always,” he said softly, squeezing my hand.

  “Damn you, Greydon. My heart just expanded three sizes.”

  “Let’s have fun. Come on.” He pulled me to the door, smiling as if he were a two-year-old on the teacup ride, delighted, unencumbered, and fully in the moment.

  I tried to imitate his glee as we walked out, but I couldn’t. They called my name, because they knew it, and every click of a shutter was a point of attention away from him. He held my hand, and my hand felt safe. Then he stepped in front of me and looked back, locking me in frame. He put himself as the calm eye in the storm of my fear, which then disappeared like water on the sidewalk at noon.

  He pulled me to the limo. A man in a suit opened the door, and Michael let me in first. He got in across from me. The door closed, and everything disappeared.

  “How do you do that all the time?” I said.

  “It’s not that big a deal. Not when I expect it.”

  I leaned back. It was just us, and the car hadn’t moved yet. The paps were mostly gone. Having gotten their shot, they were either uploading, racing to our destination, or both.

  “God, I feel so crappy right now,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “My job. I feel… guilty.”

  The car moved, and Renaldo popped his shutter a few times as if he could sell a picture of a limo.

  “I hate this, this regret. I thought the attention made you all feel good, but it doesn’t feel good on this side. It feels ugly.”

  “Between us,” he said, leaning forward, “I want to tell you something you should believe unconditionally.”

  I didn’t answer because his hands covered my knees. They put a slight pressure on the insides of my legs, as if he was about to open them.

  “Don’t even believe it,” he said. “Know it. You, personally, have never made me uncomfortable. You, personally, have never been anywhere I didn’t expect you. And I always thought you had a beautiful body behind that camera.”

  My legs wanted to open. The insides of my thighs felt alive with desire, as if they were lit with Klieg lights, and when he ran his thumbs along the insides of my knees, the buzz increased.

  “I want you,” I said. “I don’t want to be unladylike in this dress, but I want you right now.”

  “I want every inch of you. Don’t get me wrong, I’d like to tell Gali to spin around the block a few hundred times so I can be alone with you. But I’m not a boy. First, we’re going onto the carpet. Let me lead. Then the lobby, which is just a movie theater lobby but full of people in the business, and they’ll talk too long about nothing. I want you to trust me. All I’ll be thinking about is spreading your legs and tasting you.”

  “How am I going to get through this movie?”

  He laughed softly. “No one watches the movie. My God, I’ve seen it seven times already.”

  “Are you any good in it?”

  “According to who?”

  “You?”

  He shook his head. “Not really. I think I overdid it in places and underdid it everywhere else. But everyone else is happy, so who am I to say? I just have to go into the theater with you and keep my hands off you for long enough to leave. Then it’s in my contract that I have to go to the after party. It’s three blocks away. We’ll drive so we don’t get mobbed. Then I’m taking you home, and I’m getting acquainted with every inch of you.”

  His eyes drifted down my body, as if imagining his acquaintance with those inches of skin, and I tingled. I wouldn’t tell him anything about my past tonight. Not a word. I wanted a clean night. Just us.

  There was a knock on the window soon after the car stopped.

  “You ready?”

  “We’re going public, aren’t we?”

  “Right now.” He took my hand.

  I was shocked at how dry my palm was, and I knew it was because I was with him. He knocked on the window. Outside, everything was as I expected, as if set for a movie. Red carpet. Reporters. Fans holding little booklets and pens. The white facets of the Cinerama Dome were drowned in the lights.

  “We’re going in the front?” I asked. “No one goes in the front. What are we? Tourists?”

  He kissed me through my smile. “We just run through this. It’ll be fun. Just stay out of the camera’s range.”

  The car door opened, and everything changed. I knew I’d never see my life, my job, or my city the same again.

  Michael got out first and put his hand out to me. Behind him, the pathway to the ArcLight’s courtyard was draped in red carpet and bordered by fans.

  “Don’t let go,” I said before my feet hit the curb.

  “Never.”

  The floods were blinding and too blue if you asked me, catching me in a tunnel of light that had voices at the end. Some had words, and some didn’t. Some were simply long vowels. Some were his name. Some were spoken in a falsetto of excitement. They took my name and turned it onto a blade, opening me up.

  A moment with Sunshine and Rover when I’d feel like this. On the beach. Late at night with all their friends in a drum circle. I jump in the middle and dance, and they clap in unison for me. All of them, eyes on me with approval.

  “Hello, my name is Deanna.”

  I only saw her in silhouette. She had a clipboard and sensible shoes.

  “Mister Greydon, you have DMZ first, to the left.”

  “Thank you,” he said, putting my hand around his forearm.

  “Miss Cartwright,” Deanna said, “you can get off camera if you want by taking a step to the right.”

  “Thank you,” I said, grateful for the instructions on getting out of the way. Nothing would make me happier than moving out of DMZ’s line of sight. I didn’t want them taking my picture or anything else.

  “Michael Greydon!” Rob Bearston shouted both at Michael and into his microphone.

  And Mister Yi, checking the linking on a sideseam with a magnifying glass that strapped around his head. Nodding. A warm glow that was mine.

  I panicked. Instinctively, I thought they were stealing my memories. I knew it wasn’t true, but I tried to stop remembering, which made it worse.

  “Rob, nice to see you.”

  I think Michael said that. I was watching the photographers. They weren’t my people. They were hired guns from the studio’s publicity department, and I was in the frame. I took half a step to the right, and Rob pushed me back as if he was saving me from falling past the velvet rope.

  “Miss Cartwright, not real often we see you on this side of the rope.”

  I am ten. Tom sits on the couch with me, watching Nickelodeon. We talk in a secret language about how we’ll sneak out of the house and run the streets because we can, and the bio sister watches us as if she knows.

  “You mean never? Right, Rob?” I said.

  “Are you going to continue to shoot celebrities?” He put the mic just below my chin. “We’d hate to lose you. Everyone at DMZ wants you to keep up the good work.”

  Jake grabs me when I get home from school, sticking his hand up my shirt and pinching
my nipple as if he’s trying to unscrew it. I am only fourteen, but I get him off me, and he looks at me as if he knows it aroused me.

  “You do pay awfully well,” I said, “but I’ll charge more if you don’t get that mic out of my face.”

  Rob smirked. Michael laughed and put his hand over mine. I bit my lip, wishing I’d been able to take that half step to the right.

  “Any questions about the movie, Rob?” Michael asked. “Because she’ll cut you. Cut you bad.”

  “Oh, over at DMZ, we know that already. Good luck, Mister Greydon.” Rob winked into the camera. “Good luck.”

  He couldn’t see me. He didn’t know me. None of them knew me. I kept repeating that to myself. They only knew what I showed them, and I had to show them nothing. It was the only way I could breathe.

  Deanna appeared as if summoned. “Petra French from the Entertainment Channel is just this way.” She led us across the carpet.

  “You’re cutting off my circulation,” Michael said through a smile.

  “Sorry.” I loosened my grip on his forearm.

  “You did great.”

  “They’re going to play that quote on a loop for three days.”

  “After a while, you just stop watching television.”

  We stood in front of another camera, another host, but my half step to the right was allowed. I was in the safe zone. She asked Michael questions that seemed complex in the disorienting buzz, but I knew they would come off as simplistic on a screen.

  Each stop was different, with a different expectation of me. I stood on my feet and said words thanks to his hand on my back. The pressure of his palm was a grounding wire to my physical balance and verbal skills.

  Were you shooting him when you met?

  Have you ever sold a picture of your date?

  How did you two meet?

  Do you have a camera?

  Are you excited to be on the other side of the rope?

  Can you tell us how Mister Greydon got that black eye?

  I answered the yes and no questions, but Michael managed to steal the complex ones with a joke and a smile. He was home, but I felt as though I was at his parents’ house at Christmas, tested with every question and slice of turkey, as he gently protected me from myself.

  Deanna walked in front of us, pressing her earpiece. “Mister Greydon is entering the lobby.”

  Then we passed through the glass doors, and it was over.

  His hand on my shoulder, my arm around his waist, he spoke close to my ear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect that. They usually ignore the dates.”

  “I understand the rush,” I said.

  “That goes away, trust me. It’s nothing compared to kissing you.”

  “Oh, shut up.” I think that, despite my words, I flushed. He was wearing me down, layer by layer, like a heat gun peeling off coats of paint and toxic lead whitewash to the bare wood.

  The lobby of the theater was nicely done but purely functional. The snack counter was open, but no cash registers were ringing. Everyone was busy talking in their evening dresses and snappy suits, voices and laughter echoing off the high ceilings and marble floors. I spotted three photographers in black by following their flashes. More hired guns shooting for crap pay.

  I didn’t have another second to take in the scene and see what was different about it, because Michael was approached with congratulations and handshakes. I knew most of them by name and face, but they didn’t recognize me, or they pretended not to. Studio execs, talent agents, managers, hangers-on. Sometimes Michael introduced me; sometimes the exchange was so short, he didn’t. I was courteous but said little, laughed when I was supposed to, and held on to Michael for dear life.

  The word bandied about most was “Congratulations.” The consensus I gathered was that this was more than a movie for Michael but something groundbreaking.

  During a spare second, when he pulled me away from one glowing couple, I leaned into him and whispered, “This must have been the performance of a lifetime.”

  “They’re all just working hard to not mention my eye.” He looked at me as if memorizing the details of my face.

  “What?” I asked, tingling red in the cheeks.

  “Can’t wait until later, that’s all.”

  Brad walked sideways through the crowd to get to us. He was wearing plaid shorts and a suit jacket and tie. His sunglasses were transparent enough to make his eyes visible. As soon as he saw me, he put up his middle fingers.

  “Hey, how did those come out?” he said to me as he shook hands with Michael and slapped him on the back.

  “I’ll send them to you.”

  “You’re all right, Laine. I don’t care what my agent says.” He said it with a laugh, as if I was in on the joke.

  Gene Testarossa, like a fly hovering over a plate of raw meat, came up behind Michael. “Can I talk to you?”

  He didn’t acknowledge Brad or me. Even when Britt, with a glittery sling on her left arm, tapped Brad’s shoulder, and they hugged, Gene kept his focus on Michael.

  “Hey.” Michael poked Brad in the chest and gestured toward me. “Watch her.”

  “What do you think I’m going to do?” I said.

  “You? Nothing. You’re perfect.” He pointed at Brad with two fingers and put the two fingers to his own eyes then back toward Brad. “Eyes.”

  “You got it, bro.”

  Gene pulled Michael away.

  Britt made it a point to press her lips together until Michael was out of range, then she grabbed my shoulder. “I think I’m in love with you.”

  Brad cackled.

  “I’m sorry?” I said.

  “You are exactly what he needs.”

  “Oh, I—”

  She slapped Brad in the chest. “Yes or no? Was he not the most boring little shit in the world?”

  “You never met my parents,” Brad said.

  “Then when I found out he broke a window at the Fall Gala thing? I swear I applauded. Hug me. Hug me now.” She held out her good arm and enfolded me in half an embrace. A flash went off.

  Britt turned toward the girl with the cumbersome camera and kissed my cheek. Brad, as attuned to a lens as a shark to blood, got in the shot. Me in the middle of two badly behaving stars and Michael nowhere to be seen. I was seen inside the unit, caught at the edge of the vortex and sucked down the drain. I forced a smile.

  Maryetta muscled through the crowd to take her lover’s arm. “Who is this?”

  “This is the paparazzi I was telling you about,” Britt said.

  I shook Maryetta’s hand, and we exchanged greetings. It wasn’t until that moment that the surrealism of the situation hit me. Maryetta directed experimental theater, and she was the least famous of all those people, yet I’d photographed and sold even her image.

  What the hell was I doing there? Where was Michael? I wasn’t supposed to be there. I belonged on the other side of the rope, in the dark corners. Where was my camera? How was I supposed to do my job without it?

  “I’m going to the ladies’ room,” I said. “Excuse me.”

  “Hey, no way,” Brad said. “I gotta watch you.”

  “I have her.” Britt took my elbow and led me away.

  Maryetta walked close on my other side, but I wanted Michael.

  In the twenty steps to the bathroom, Britt was pulled away to laugh and talk about stuff I didn’t understand. Maryetta joined her, and I was alone.

  I owned the city. Nothing intimidated me. Nothing, really, except being in a room full of people I’d self-righteously annoyed, or bothered, or hurt even. I never imagined I’d be in such a room, never understood that my high heels and camera bag had been a costume, my camera a weapon, and the night a shield. I had none of my gear, and I was in a room full of targets with eyes that stared, mouths that pursed in judgment, laughter that cut.

  I was back at Breakfront. I was a reviled outsider clothed as a member but painted, tarred, and feathered in my wrongness.

  The door out and the
door to the bathroom were equidistant from me. If I went out, I’d be seen by the few photographers and reporters who were left, but I could get a cab home, where I’d cry. If I went into the bathroom, I could get myself together and reemerge to face the room.

  The door out seemed most appealing. I wanted to be alone more than anything, but Michael would wonder what had happened to me. He’d chosen me to be with him tonight. It was important to him, not as an actor but as a man. If I split, I would make the event about me, and it was about him.

  So I took a deep breath and went to the bathroom.

  I’d been to the ArcLight before. Most of Los Angeles had, but that night, the bathroom looked different. It was lit with scented candles and soft lights that set off the glass vases of flowers. It looked less institutional and more luxurious.

  Ute Thurnam and Gabrielle Sanchez chatted in the powder room. Garden Jones sat on a damask chair and chatted on her cell phone. The SVP of marketing from Overland Studios leaned kiss-close to the mirror and picked a false eyelash off her cheek. And Lucy Betancourt strode away from a sink, right toward me.

  “Laine,” she said gently, “how are you?”

  “Fine.” I swallowed.

  “I saw you come in with Michael.”

  “So?” I said, unable to stop my venom. “You going to put a fiver in my bra?” If I’d realized how close to the edge I was, I would have left immediately, but it snuck up on me.

  “No, Laine—” She glanced around the room.

  Everyone was working hard to look at anything else but us.

  “I’m not going away,” I growled. “I won’t be chased off.”

  She sat on a couch and twisted sideways, so she faced the space next to her. She smiled curtly and patted the seat, indicating I should sit by her.

  When we were in school together, she was the queen bee, and as cruel as she’d been to me, I’d craved her attention.

  Nothing had changed. Nothing ever changed. I’d shed my Breakfront persona years ago, yet in her presence, I shrugged back into the broken-glass-lined coat as if I needed to get cut.

  I sat, but I didn’t face her. I faced front, my one act of childish rebellion. I felt pathetic doing it, but I couldn’t look at her.

  “You look like a deer in headlights,” she said.