The Hollywood Project: Shuttergirl Part 15

"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.

"s.h.i.+t," 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 c.r.a.p. 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 s.h.i.+t.

"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 h.e.l.l 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 a.s.s 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 ent.i.tled, 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 a.s.s 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 s.p.a.ce 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 sc.r.a.ped 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 d.a.m.n 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, c.r.a.p." 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 cla.s.sic "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 s.e.x 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, pus.h.i.+ng down my throat the thought of him on top of me, eyes half closed and lost in pleasure. G.o.d, was I blus.h.i.+ng?

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 s.p.a.ce, "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 G.o.d. 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 d.a.m.n 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 nutsh.e.l.l. 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 h.e.l.lo 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?"