The Men of Laguna

by Kim Karr

  And with Makayla’s help, I found it—a vintage black sleeveless column dress with a fun cutout in the back.

  Accompanied with bold jewelry including a big cocktail ring, I look in the mirror and know I am rocking my look. Think Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s without the gloves…and the cigarette holder.

  That is me.

  I wish I had time to find a cigarette holder, just for the fun of it, but in Laguna, there was no chance of that.

  I kind of miss the big city. I’m not sure I could be happy in a town like this. I like the beach, but I love the hustle and bustle of the city more.

  With my hair up, sexy shoes on, and pearls hanging down my back, I feel like old Hollywood. Edit that. With no panties on, I feel like slutty old Hollywood, which I find appealing for some reason.

  Brooklyn and I haven’t seen each other since Wednesday. He had to help take care of his father. The thought of seeing him soon has butterfly wings fluttering in my stomach.

  Trying to ignore my nerves, I roll some lip gloss on and then spritz myself with perfume.

  Tonight is our last night together, and I want it to be perfect.

  The doorbell rings, and although normally Brooklyn just struts in, I know it’s him. Rushing to reach the door before Cam, suddenly this feels like prom all over again. And with my big brother watching over us, it will be until we leave. Crap, I won’t even be able to kiss Brooklyn unless I get there first and sneak one. Thank God we don’t have to exchange corsages. That was always the worst part of everyone staring.

  Much to my dismay, Cam gets to the door first. I stay in the shadows while he opens it, and right here in the hallway my knees go utterly weak. Suddenly, I’m glad it was Cam that arrived at the door before me.

  Remember John F. Kennedy Jr.?

  Just picture him in any of the dozens of black-tie affairs he’d been photographed at with his tuxedo and bow tie and hair slicked back. That’s exactly what Brooklyn looks like as he stands in the doorway.

  His hair appears darker because he’s had it cut shorter. It’s no longer wild and messy, but instead very tamed and very polished. He has traded his board shorts for a tuxedo that looks like a million dollars on him. And that bow tie, it’s delectable.

  I greedily take in the sight of the guy who normally dons the “I don’t give a fuck” attitude. Not tonight, though. Tonight he is conforming.

  Unable to stop myself, I allow my eyes to linger on him. And like an addict getting my last high, I fear it is going to be far too long until I can get my next fix.

  Trying not to be that fangirl type that he dislikes, I draw in a breath and turn the corner.

  “Amelia,” Brooklyn says in a low voice.

  Cam turns to look at me, and his eyes nearly bug out of his head. I ignore him. “Hi, Brooklyn.” I wave, and I feel like the schoolgirl I once was.

  Keen and Maggie didn’t come down this weekend. Maggie’s mother came to visit, and Makayla drove up to West Hollywood to meet them and do girl things. Which leaves Cam here, alone, to hover. Perhaps I could just stride past him, and right out the door? Ha, I guess not.

  “You look beautiful,” they both say at the same time.

  “Thank you,” I awkwardly reply to both of them, as I walk toward the still open door.

  The sun is bright and both men appear to have halos around their head. Angels they are not. The wedding is at sunset and I’m sure the air will be cool. With that in mind, I grab the wrap I bought and continue toward my brother and the man I’ve been sleeping with, the one who isn’t my boyfriend. The word lover seems more appropriate, and for some reason I hate that. I hate the way we’ve shaped this relationship into something secret, something dirty, because it is anything but.

  My brother’s low whistle jolts me out of my thoughts, and thank God, it has nothing to do with me. “Nice car,” he comments to Brooklyn.

  Outside is an old-fashioned shiny black Rolls-Royce limousine. Brooklyn shrugs like it is no big deal, but I know it is; I know he hired it for me, because he knows I’m obsessed with everything from the forties, fifties, and sixties.

  Cam and Brooklyn exchange insults, Cam accusing Brooklyn of looking to regain his movie-star status by wearing that monkey suit. And then Brooklyn hits Cam with how he’s just warming up to get ready for the day Cam gets that ball and chain attached. In the end, they smile at each other, and both call each other variations of the word fucker.

  My eyes are on Brooklyn, though, and not the gestures he is making or what he is saying, but rather on his mouth.

  That mouth.

  And God, that smile.

  That slow, lazy smile that promises hours of pleasure. I can’t even imagine how many legs that smile has spread because I want to spread mine the minute we get in the car.

  Keeping things casual between us in front of my brother, Brooklyn says, “You ready to go to this circus?”

  His tone is so casual, in fact, I swear if my hair wasn’t up, he might rub his hand over the top of my head like I was a kid going to a ball game.

  Finding it hard to pretend, I laugh anyway. I need to get away from this sham, though, and fast, so I kiss my brother on the cheek and say, “Goodbye,” and then take a step out the door.

  Cam watches from the doorway. “Have fun.”

  “As much as we can at a circus,” Brooklyn comments over his shoulder, and follows in step beside me.

  I look over at him. “Will there be monkeys and elephants?”

  With a laugh, he looks over at me through the fringe of his lashes, smiling. Devastating. Charming. “Paparazzi and press, so yeah, I guess there will be.”

  “As long as there aren’t any clowns. I hate clowns,” I say.

  “You hate clowns?” he asks, surprised.

  “Yes, they’re just creepy.”

  His gaze slides lazily over me, making me feel like he’s stripping me naked. “I guess they can be,” he responds, his eyes now simmering as he meets mine. “That’s a really nice dress.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him, and stop just before getting to the car door that the driver has already opened for me.

  “I got this,” Brooklyn tells the driver, and the driver promptly resumes his place behind the wheel.

  Not exactly alone, but close enough, I look up at him. “I bought it with you in mind,” I remark as I tuck my body into the plush leather and allow the thigh-high slit to reveal itself.

  The move is casual. Cam, who is still in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, would never know the slit is an invitation to sneak under my dress, but Brooklyn does.

  With his back to Cam, his teeth graze over his bottom lip and then his tongue sneaks out as if he just wants a taste. And oh, how I really want to give him one.

  “Naughty girl,” he murmurs, just before he closes my door to strut around the car to the other side.

  The chilly night air might not have presented itself yet, but goose bumps are already humping my flesh.

  The other door opens and Brooklyn slides in. With the partition already up, there is no need to watch what we say, yet Brooklyn remains quiet until well after the car turns off their street.

  For the longest of moments he simply stares at me from across the backseat, and I wonder if he really is going to make this evening platonic.

  But then he reaches across the seat and slides me into his strong hold.

  I look at him. “I missed you.” Words I shouldn’t say, I know, but words that are true and need to be said.

  “It was only three days.” Casual words. True words. Words that still sting. Words that aren’t “I missed you, too.”

  Before I can respond, and ask him to please not put a wall up on our last night together, he crashes his mouth over mine, hard, heated, demanding.

  God, I love this about him. The way his need for me is so great, it overpowers everything else.

  His tongue pushes into my mouth. Hot and sensual, it glides over mine as he licks playfully at the roof of my mouth. Teasin
g me. Taunting me.

  Enveloped in his heat, I can smell him, his cologne that is as tantalizing as his own natural scent, and I swirl my tongue around his to get a little taste of his deliciousness.

  After a few moments of fighting for control, I relinquish it and allow myself to melt into his embrace.

  Our kisses are rarely simply kisses, and this one definitely is not. And I want more. More of him. More of his heat. More of his touch. More of his sinful mouth. I want to tell him he can write anywhere. I want to ask him to come to New York City with me. I want to tell him he’s everything my fantasies were ever made of. That I want him—forever.

  The realization paralyzes me.

  Is Mr. Oh-So-Wrong my Mr. Right?

  As his teeth graze over my bottom lip, he nips at it, and I ponder my thoughts. But then he gentles his assault on my mouth, lapping his tongue over the spot that he nipped, and then he pulls away. His eyes are dark, filled with heavy lust, but his words are darker. “Thank fuck tonight is the last night we’re doing this, because I honestly can’t handle the lying to your brother anymore.”

  Stunned that he is glad we are ending, I suddenly feel wrecked. With my legs wobbly and my voice shaky, all I can do is put my fingers to my tingling lips.

  Brooklyn rubs his palms down his thighs. “We should probably avoid any kind of PDA at the wedding. Gigi has given the press open access, so there will be a lot of photographers and the photos will be plastered all over every news publication.”

  I swallow. Hard. And nod. “Yes, that is probably a good idea.”

  And then, as if combating some inner turmoil, his jaw goes tight and he turns to look out the window.

  As the car speeds toward our destination, my mind becomes a flurry of upheaval. The past two weeks play over and over like the loop of a movie.

  Why is he shutting me out?

  But I know why. Because this really is the end. And we said this wouldn’t end messy. I’m the one who had insisted on it, after all. And wouldn’t me bringing up his hot-and-cold behavior do just that?

  Before I can even gather my thoughts, the car comes to a stop at a small helicopter-pad landing in Newport Beach.

  I look out the window. Beautiful, leggy women and tall, handsome men are being ushered into waiting helicopters to be brought to Catalina Island.

  Paparazzi are, just as Brooklyn had said, off in the distance, snapping picture after picture. There is also press parked right beside the helicopter pads, happily snapping away. I think all of young Hollywood has come to watch what is being touted as the wedding of the decade. Gigi Bennett made sure of it, posting endless photos on social media of the wedding preparations over the past two weeks. Pictures ranging from the typical cake testing and dress shopping to more private things like her undergarment selections and their honeymoon destination.

  If Brooklyn called this a circus, it’s because Gigi has turned it into one. There isn’t a person in the entire United States, I bet, who doesn’t know who is invited to this event and where it is taking place. So much for secrecy. And because Gigi accidently let the cat out of the bag during an interview, she has altered a couple of things. One being reducing the number of press allowed. The other being nixing the wedding party from participating in the ceremony. She announced she wants to walk down the aisle alone, and gave no reason. There are rumors that her bridezilla tantrums caused discord between the wedding party and fueled this decision. Brooklyn has no clue. All he knows is the former attendants are still to come, just that they will be seated in the audience.

  The door opens and Brooklyn offers me his hand. I hadn’t even noticed that he’d gotten out of the car; my mind was whirling so much from all of this craziness.

  The sun is blinding and I shade my eyes as I look around at all the sunglassed faces, which I’m sure I could name if their shades were removed. Some I can name anyway. Luckily, I don’t get stars in my eyes very easily. Being a New Yorker, I’m used to running into celebrities.

  Brooklyn ushers me toward the crowd, and I suddenly feel exhilarated and wish I had my camera. I might not have stars in my eyes, but this is Hollywood’s elite, and I wouldn’t mind capturing the moment.

  A woman wearing big Chanel sunglasses is staring at us. She’s standing next to a man in a black three-piece suit and straw hat. I think the man is Tommy Riggins, star of last year’s hit movie Dreamworld. The plot was straightforward, though the movie anything but. The setting was on a remote island and Tommy was the owner, who opened his home to his guests and ensured all of their dirtiest dreams would come true. I read the other day that the sequel, Eroticworld, is currently in production.

  The woman removes her sunglasses and waves to Brooklyn. That’s when I recognize her. She’s Sasha Gomez and like Chase Parker, starred on the MTV network with him. Although I’ve never asked Brooklyn about her, I know that they have been an on-again, off-again item for years.

  Because Sasha is still in the limelight, they’ve appeared photographed together many times. Carter is the one who is always keeping up with those things, and I really wish I had now.

  Brooklyn gives her a smile, a real smile. I’m not jealous, or I don’t want to be; it’s just I thought he’d give her that classic badass nod of his and walk right past her. Instead, he smiles at her, and he hardly ever smiles at anyone.

  Moving past her, he shakes a few hands, kisses a few cheeks, introduces me to many television stars whose shows I have never seen, and many that I have, and I let it go.

  As the crowd thins, and another helicopter lands, he bends down to whisper something in my ear, but I can’t really hear him.

  The thwump-thwump of the helicopter’s rotors is way too loud.

  Rather than shout, I just nod and smile at him, and then I take a moment to admire him. How calm and cool he is in this environment. How amazing he looks with his trousers perfectly creased, his white shirt crisply pressed, and his cuff links gleaming in the sunlight.

  How he looks like he’s right where he belongs…in Hollywood.

  A true Hollywood Prince.

  32

  Reality Bites

  Brooklyn

  I wish I could tell you this place is crass.

  That it is Hollywood overkill like everything I’ve ever known Hollywood to be, but I can’t.

  I wish I could say this is the circus I thought it would be, but in fact, it is anything but. And it makes me wonder if my perception has been off all these years—if I haven’t been blinded by the lights of my parents, and somehow unable to see past them.

  Sure, there are tents at the bottom of the acres and acres of green-sloped grass, but there are no elephants or peanuts anywhere, just a white sand beach and pristine surroundings that make this the event it has been touted to be.

  The wind blows cool over us.

  And as I glance at my phone and read the text on it, I close my eyes and sniff the salty air because it is ripe with possibility.

  Feeling on top of the world, I look over at Amelia sitting beside me. And even though I know in a matter of hours we said we would be over, I can’t help but take her hand and squeeze it.

  I want to ask her to stay.

  In fact, I’m going to ask her to stay as soon as we leave.

  Don’t look at me like that.

  We’ll talk to Cam together; he’ll understand.

  I hope.

  I’ll explain to him that I’m a changed man.

  I’m going to quit my job as a lifeguard, and finally be what I want to be. Finally put one foot in front of the other, and jump.

  In fact, I’d say that today is the beginning of the new me. And she’s the first person I want to share my news with. I want to tell her Mr. Gerhardt loved my manuscript. And that Blake Johnson, who is Mr. Gerhardt’s nephew, and one of the biggest indie movie backers in Hollywood, wants to talk to me tomorrow about the possibility of moving forward to production.

  I want to thank her for not doubting me.

  Tell her that I wish I hadn�
��t doubted myself.

  That being born into Hollywood royalty and growing up in the shadows of famous Hollywood parents wasn’t easy.

  That it took me this long to realize I can be my own person.

  And that even though my father is washed up now, there was a time he was all anyone wanted to talk about. And even though my mother is behind the camera now, there was a time people went out of their way to snap her picture and sell it to the highest bidder.

  It was a time in my life when I was either Brooklyn James, Todd James’s son, or Brooklyn James, Emma Fairchild’s son.

  That was even the case when I starred in Chasing the Sun.

  But, I can honestly say right now, that time is gone.

  As I breathe in the cool air and feel the heat lamps on my skin, I know it to be true. This generation of Hollywood knows me—Brooklyn James, the guy writing a screenplay they can’t wait for me to share.

  And it feels so fucking good.

  Just as the traditional wedding march starts to play, I move our hands to her leg and slip my fingers under the slit of her dress to feel her silky, smooth skin.

  I’ve been an asshole to her, and I intend to make it up to her.

  Reluctantly tugging my gaze away from her to Chase, who is standing up front in a white tux, black tie, and white pocket square, I can’t help but envy him.

  Always the guy the girls called heartbreaker, he found the right one and decided to settle down like it is the most natural thing in the world.

  We all turn our heads to catch a glimpse of the bride, but the archway remains vacant.

  “What’s going on?” Amelia whispers in my ear.

  With her body so close to mine, it’s easy for my fingers to inch a little higher inside the slit of her dress. “Probably just a timing issue,” I whisper.

  She looks over at me, and then down. Her lips twist in scorn and her eyes narrow.

  I don’t like it that she’s upset with me.

  She looks like a pissed-off kitten whose claws want to come out. And yeah, my dick gets a little hard at the thought of her scratching my back.