Bad Apple

by Elle Kennedy

“Oooh, like Colin Farrell!”

  “Who?”

  “Your ignorance about sexy actors amazes me, Mags.”

  “This guy wasn’t an actor. I mean, he did look vaguely familiar, or at least he does the more I picture him in my head, but I think he was just a normal dude trying to get some sleep—until I showed up and practically mauled him.”

  “Did he like it?”

  I think about the erection I stroked, and fight back a shiver. “Oh yeah.”

  “Then no harm done.” She shrugs. “He’ll probably wake up tomorrow and think it was all a dream. He doesn’t even know your name, unless you left your driver’s license on the nightstand or something.”

  I tuck a stray hair behind my ear and feel a warm flush spread over my face. “As a matter of fact, I did leave something behind.”

  Summer furrows her eyebrows. “What?”

  A wail slips out of my mouth before I can stop it. “My underwear.”

  After a moment of silence, she releases a high-pitched laugh that has me flinching. “Priceless!” she cries. “That is absolutely priceless!”

  My roommate’s laughter brings back the wave of embarrassment I’ve been trying to suppress. All I wanted to do tonight was, well, Tony. Instead, I made an idiot of myself in front of a complete stranger, and now I have to live with the knowledge that I stripped naked, hopped into bed with a guy I didn’t know and stuck my tongue down his throat.

  On the bright side, at least I never have to see him again.

  6

  Ben

  I stride down East 45th Street with a cup of coffee in my hand, breathing in the early morning air. I grimace when I inhale a gust of car exhaust. I fucking hate New York. Too damn crowded, and it stinks here. Literally.

  As I pause in front of a jewelry store to take a sip of my coffee, I can’t help but glance at my reflection in the large window.

  What I see is an unshaved jaw, circles under my eyes and a bloodshot expression, all of which confirm what I already knew—I look like shit.

  It was another sleepless night for me, only this time it had nothing to do with photographers lurking outside my house and everything to do with the redheaded tornado who swirled into my room.

  The more I replayed her stuttering explanation in my head, the less I believed my midnight visitor was one of the vultures. I believed it even less when I grabbed the morning paper at the kiosk across the street from the Lester and didn’t see my picture on any of the tabloids on the rack.

  If Red was a reporter, the story of her seduction would’ve at least made the Tattler, a rag known for keeping page space open for last-minute “scoops.”

  Since it hadn’t, I suspected she’d been telling the truth, that she’d ended up in the wrong room, in bed with the wrong guy.

  And just like Cinderella, Red left her prince a sweet little parting gift: a pair of pink lace panties.

  And an offer of a free drink.

  Under normal circumstances, I would’ve tossed the panties and passed on the booze, but last night had been anything but normal.

  Sure, the make-out session had been hot, but what turned me on most about her was that she genuinely didn’t seem to know who I was.

  Everything I do is highly publicized, from my appearances at the Oscars and the Golden Globes to my hookups with a fair share of models and actresses. Whether I want them to or not, women know who I am. They gawk at me when I pass them on the street. They send me thousands of tweets, dirty DMs, and unsolicited nudes. I’ve been called a heartthrob and a hunk, a devil and an angel, and the last time I appeared on Jimmy Fallon I got mobbed outside the studio.

  So how in fiery hell didn’t she know about me?

  I’ve spent enough years working in the film industry to know when somebody is bullshitting me, and I honestly don’t think I was lied to last night. Red had been oblivious to my celebrity status, and considering she hadn’t salivated at the mere sight of me, I suspect she’d be unimpressed about it anyway.

  Damn but that’s a huge turn-on.

  I quicken my pace, my gaze darting around in search of the lot where I parked my car. I remember it was near that theater where I performed in Hamlet last year, and there might’ve been a Starbucks around too, and a—

  Strip club.

  I stop so abruptly I nearly fall over backwards. Oh man, oh man. All I wanted was to get the paparazzi off my back. In retrospect, I really should’ve studied my surroundings before ditching my car. I parked in front of a fucking strip club.

  So much for avoiding scandals.

  I’m startled when I notice a crowd beginning to gather at the curb. I move closer, growing more and more uneasy as I spot an army of police officers and yards of yellow crime-scene tape.

  Surrounding my shiny silver Beemer.

  What the fuck?

  Taking a step back, I try to blend into the crowd. The BMW, I notice when I peek over a woman’s head, is stripped completely. The doors are gone. The engine too, from the looks of it. It’s like a pack of hyenas pounced on it sometime during the night and picked its carcass clean. That doesn’t surprise me. What does is the presence of New York City’s finest.

  Why do the cops care about my car?

  I find out soon enough, as the woman in front of me leans over and whispers something to her friend.

  “It’s Ben Barrett’s car,” she hisses.

  Her friend, a chubby brunette, lets out a gasp. “The actor?”

  “Yep. I heard one of the officers mention it.” The woman lowers her voice to a breathy whisper. “They think he’s been abducted.”

  What?

  It takes every ounce of willpower to keep my jaw off the dirty sidewalk.

  Head spinning, I edge away from the murmuring crowd and walk as casually as my legs will allow. I glance around, notice the coffee shop at the corner, and make a beeline for it.

  I need to call my agent and clear up this whole ridiculous mess, a plan that becomes vital the second I enter the café and hear my name blaring from the television screen over the counter.

  “Bad-boy action star Ben Barrett is believed to have been abducted,” a nasal-voiced reporter is saying into her microphone. “His car was found stripped and abandoned in front of a local New York City club, and police fear the worst.”

  Shoving the rim of my cap as low as it will go, I pause in front of the long chrome counter and glance at the screen. I instantly swallow a groan when I notice that the female reporter is reciting her broadcast from directly in front of the Lester Hotel.

  I bite back a curse when the skinny desk clerk enters the frame.

  “I’m now talking to Joe Dorsey, an employee of the hotel where Ben Barrett was last seen. Derek, what can you tell us about your encounter with Barrett?”

  I curl my hands into fists.

  “Well, he looked very agitated,” the kid says, his eyes darting from the microphone to the camera trained on him. “He looked nervous.”

  “What do you mean by nervous?”

  “I think he was on drugs.”

  The reporter feigns shock.

  “And he wasn’t alone,” the kid adds, then waves at the camera and mouths, “Hi, Mom.”

  “Are you saying Ben Barrett met someone here last night?”

  “Not someone. A woman. She came in an hour after he did.” Dorsey grins, which causes his bony face to jut out awkwardly. “I think they were engaging in sexual relations, Katie.”

  The blood rushing to my head prevents me from hearing the end of the interview. Fists clenched, I stalk toward the deserted corridor by the restrooms.

  I fish my phone out of my back pocket and call my agent.

  “Ben, are you okay?” Stu Steinberg’s voice booms after we’ve been connected.

  “I’m fine,” I say with a sigh. I rub the stubble dotting my chin. “What the hell is going on?”

  “You’re asking me?” Stu shoots out a string of four-letter words. “Why was your car found gutted in front of a strip joint?”
r />   “I was trying to lose the press. Then I checked into a hotel to get some sleep.” Even to my own ears the answer sounds stupid at best and pathetic at worst.

  “And who’s this hooker you were with last night?”

  My features harden. “I wasn’t with a hooker. You know that’s not my style.”

  My agent’s voice mocks me from the other end of the line. “You want to know what I do know about you, Ben? You’re a fucking idiot. You just inherited twenty million bucks from a woman you had no business sleeping with—”

  “Gretchen and I never—”

  “So I told you to lay low, but did you listen? Oh no, you went out and caused a media storm. Do you realize how many calls I’ve gotten from the press this morning? Not to mention the police.”

  “Stu—”

  “They think you were abducted by a crazed whore, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Stu—”

  “Here’s what we’re going to do, Ben. I’ll call Mary and have her fly to New York. She’ll sit down with you and figure out a way to spin this so that you don’t look like a complete jerk. But first we need to call off the cops and tell them Mr. Movie Star is alive and well. Capiche?”

  “You’re not Italian,” I mutter.

  “Capiche?” he repeats, sterner now.

  “Whatever, sure. That sounds good. As for Mary, tell her to stay in LA. There’s nothing to spin here.”

  “Are you insane?”

  I grip the phone so tightly I fear it might shatter into a million little pieces. “I’m not insane. I’m just tired. I’m tired of being hounded and harassed and I haven’t slept in a week, Stu. So go ahead and tell the police to call off their investigation, but don’t expect me to make a solitary public appearance to explain this ridiculous story the press has yet again concocted.”

  “So, what, you’re just going to fuel the fire by disappearing off the face of the earth?” Stu demands, sounding angrier than ever.

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to disappear. You wanted me to lay low? Fine, I’ll lay low. I’m not answering any calls, I’m not meeting with Mary or anyone from the PR firm. In fact, I’m not doing a fucking thing.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means Ben Barrett is officially out of the limelight. For how long, I don’t know. But I’m done, Stu. If I don’t get some peace and quiet I’ll end up in a nuthouse, so placate the cops, say whatever you want to the reporters and leave me the hell alone. Capiche?”

  7

  Maggie

  “Bye, Maggie!”

  I smile at the two little girls in the doorway before signing out at the community center where I volunteer. I wave at the counselor who doubles as a receptionist, give each of the giggling girls by the door a big hug good-bye and step outside.

  Finally alone, I let out the weary sigh that’s been lodged in my chest all afternoon.

  Considering I got a grand total of three hours sleep last night, I probably should’ve skipped my shift and stayed in bed, but as usual, my irritating sense of responsibility prevented me from being lazy.

  My work at the Joshua Broger Youth Center is more than just field placement for my degree. It’s important to me, and I know the kids are disappointed when I don’t show up—which is rare. Most of the children who come to the center live in foster homes, and having been a part of the foster system for thirteen years of my life, I only wish I’d had a place like the Broger Center to visit. Somewhere to get help with my homework, or talk to a counselor, or just spend some time with other children my age.

  Volunteering, I feel like I’m making a difference. And I am. I know that.

  But I wish I could make a difference and get paid for it at the same time.

  The bottom line—I’m tired. Exhausted. So past exhausted I feel like an extra from a zombie movie.

  It certainly doesn’t help that instead of getting my quick Tony fix, I just ended up more frustrated than I’d been to begin with. And instead of banishing the embarrassing memories from my mind, I stayed up half the night thinking about my mysterious bad boy. If I were a braver woman, I might have stuck around and suggested we enjoy a few rounds of anonymous sex. At least then I wouldn’t have spent the night lying in bed, aggravated and aching for release.

  Sighing again, I approach the curb and focus on flagging down a taxi. I find one fairly quickly, though the drive back to Manhattan isn’t as quick. I’m two minutes late when the driver maneuvers out of lane-to-lane Saturday evening traffic and finally creeps to a stop in front of the Olive. I hand the man a couple of bills, then hurry inside and make my way across the bar toward the employees’ lounge.

  “Hey, Trish,” I call to the counter.

  The second she sees me, Trisha drops the receipts in her hands and dashes over. “Walk faster,” she hisses.

  As she grabs my arm and practically drags me through the back corridor, I look at her with wide eyes. “What’s the matter?”

  “Just move.”

  Trisha pushes open the door to the lounge, staying on my heels as I head for the small bank of lockers at the far end of the room. I open my locker and shoot my co-worker a sideways glance.

  “Well?”

  She shifts from one foot to the other, her dark eyes dancing. “I think Ben Barrett is here.”

  I slip out of my jeans and change into the denim skirt the waitresses have to wear. “Who?”

  “Who? Who? I can’t believe you just asked me that. Heart of a Hero? McLeod’s Revenge? The Warrior?”

  I blink. “What, he writes romance novels or something?”

  Trisha lets out a shriek. “No, you idiot. Those are movies he’s starred in. You’re honestly telling me you don’t know who Ben Barrett is?”

  I shrug, then pull my T-shirt over my head and exchange it for a V-neck black tank. “The name sounds familiar, but I can’t attach a face to it.” Kicking off my sneakers, I strap a pair of black heels on my feet and turn back to the enraged brunette.

  “His latest action movie is in theaters right now!” she balks.

  “Trish, the last time I went to the movies, I was ten. My foster parents took all the kids to see a Disney movie.” I poke my tongue in my cheek. “Come to think of it, that’s the only time I’ve gone to the movies.”

  “What about television?” she asks with a frustrated tilt of her chin. “You’ve got to watch TV.”

  “Not really.” I pause. “If I’m not too tired, I’ll watch sappy dramas with Summer. But lately we’ve been watching cooking shows. She’s trying to learn about Jamaican cuisine so she can cook for Tygue. The first time she tried we all got food poisoning, so—”

  “Forget it,” Trisha cuts in, not looking amused. “All I’m going to say is I think a movie star is sitting in the booth near the pool table.”

  I don’t really care, but I feel I owe it to my friend to ask, “What makes you think that?”

  “Well, he came in about an hour ago, walked up to the bar and ordered a glass of sparkling water. He gave Matt a hundred-dollar bill and said he wanted to be left alone.”

  “Gee, then it must be him.”

  Trisha ignores me. “He’s wearing a baseball cap and hiding behind a newspaper, but he looks sooo familiar. I walked past him a few times and I swear it’s him. And there’s more.”

  “I can’t wait to hear it.”

  “I saw on the news earlier that the police found Ben Barrett’s car abandoned a few blocks from here.”

  “Maybe he couldn’t find parking out front.”

  “Then,” she continues, still ignoring me, “the cops gave a statement saying that Ben Barrett is alive and well, and he was just a victim of some good ol’ NYC vandalism. But I think the whole thing was a scam, and he ditched his car because he’s on the run.”

  My head begins to spin. “Why do you think I’m interested in any of this, Trish?”

  “Because I need you to find out if it’s him or not!” she wails.

  “How wo
uld I know? I have no clue what the guy looks like, remember?”

  “Well, I can’t do it. I’ve already walked by his booth too many times. If I do it again it’ll raise his suspicions and he’ll take off.”

  I roll my eyes. I know Trisha is bored shitless with her boyfriend, and that sometimes her predicament causes her to poke her nose into other people’s business. But this is just ridiculous.

  As we leave the lounge, Trisha keeps pushing. “So will you find out if it’s him?”

  “Nope. Ask Matt.”

  “I did. He told me to leave the poor man alone.”

  “I second that notion.” I stop at the counter and reach over it to retrieve an apron. Then I grin at the bartender. “Booth Five slipped you a hundred, huh?”

  “Yep. And I suppose Trish told you she thinks he’s a big star in disguise?” Matthew shoots her an annoyed look before growing serious. “Look, he said he doesn’t want to be bothered, which is why I’ve been keeping this one”—Matt hooks a thumb at Trisha—“away from the poor guy.”

  Trisha glowers at him. “If you’d just let me go over there, I promise not to bug him.”

  “Yeah right,” he hoots.

  Lynda, our manager, walks up with a frown, and the good-natured bantering comes to a halt. Lynda isn’t strict by any means, but her conservative nature and lack of humor turn off most of the staff.

  No matter how grumpy she can be, I still like the older woman and greet her with a smile. “Hey, Lynda.”

  She ignores the greeting. “Guys, I’ve been here for an hour and not once has someone gone over to Booth Five to refill the customer’s drink.”

  Looking sheepish, Matt opens his mouth to reply but Lynda silences him by holding up her hand. “You know I have no problem with the casual atmosphere we’ve created here, but we’re going to need to change a few habits and start acting in a more professional manner. Jeremy is flying in next week to check on his investment, so it’s time to shape up, all right?”

  Jeremy Henderson is the owner of the Olive, but as far as I know, he’s only stepped foot in this place half a dozen times since the grand opening. He leaves the day-to-day running of the bar to managers like Lynda, and the only sign that Henderson actually owns the Olive is his autograph on my paychecks.