The Hollywood Project: Shuttergirl Part 8

"Really? I'm surprised you didn't hunt me down in every strip club in Vernon."

"How do you know we didn't?" She smiled curtly. "You'd better get going." She walked back toward the ballroom.

"Lucy?" I said.

She turned slightly, waiting.

"Thank you."

Chapter 13.

Michael The air went out of the room as soon as she left. As if someone had taken the knot out of the bottom of a balloon, everything flattened.

She was nothing to me, and chasing after her was irresponsible. But I had a camera in my car with her name on it, and as I made small talk about the industry, the school, and the city, I wanted to give it to her whether she wanted it or not. Me. Hand to hand. Not my a.s.sistant or my agent or my publicist. I'd invited her to the gala to get something done, and it was getting done.

I texted her but heard nothing back. Ten minutes later, in the middle of talking up Bullets, I realized I hadn't approved her number for incoming. Suddenly, the room felt stifling hot as the air pressed in on me. I didn't want stupid small talk, and I didn't want to be me for another minute. So I smiled and excused myself.

It was cold outside, but I felt better.

The smart thing to do would have been to go home and rest. Taking weeks off for Britt's foibles might screw my life, but I didn't have to help it along, did I? I didn't have to ignore everything I was told by people who knew better.

"Michael?"

It was Lucy, striding out alone in her low heels.

"Hey. I was just thinking about going home," I said.

"You should." She took my elbow in a way that was too familiar. She'd never touch me like that if people were watching. "You look tired."

"Thanks for helping out with Laine."

"I never knew what happened to Little Miss Guttersnipe."

"Don't call her that."

"Laine, then."

"She's very successful at what she does."

"I'm not surprised. She was quite industrious."

"You treated her like s.h.i.+t."

She shrugged. "What do you want from me? I was sixteen, and she was after my man. She's lucky she didn't make it to prom. It would have been my mission to send her home crying." She brushed a fleck of something off my jacket. "What's been happening with you lately, Mister Greydon? You're distracted. I can't get a smile out of you. Is Gareth on your case?"

She had grey eyes that never looked warm or inviting, and it was only her voice that told me she was truly concerned. I didn't want to lie to her, but the truth wasn't an option.

"I like pretending n.o.body's watching," I said. "New hobby. You should try it."

"Sorry, no. Do you want to slip out and get a bowl of soup?"

She smiled at me. Our first date had been outside a soup truck, during the short window between the dark tunnel of p.u.b.erty and the oncoming train of my public life.

"I'll take a rain check. I'm going to go home and go to bed."

I walked her to the door and let her go back to the party by herself.

Even as I decided to make an early night of it, I walked west across the campus with my hands in my pockets. The valet was east, and I'd left my coat in the coat check, but I had no desire to brave the company to retrieve it. No. I wanted to do something else entirely. I walked on autopilot through Humanities Quad, and up the short jump of steps into the small tennis stadium. The lights were down, and the crickets' mating calls were the only accompaniment to the traffic on San Vicente.

As if she'd heard my thoughts, Laine waited in her old seat, sitting cross-legged with her arms over the backs of the chairs on either side, face up to the sky. She was so inappropriate in her fancy dress and relaxed posture, sitting on the hard plastic seat as if it were a couch.

"h.e.l.lo," I said.

"I had a feeling you'd come." She spoke without opening her eyes.

"You should have let me fight for you."

She opened her eyes and turned to watch me come down the steps. "I don't want you to fight for me."

I sat next to her. "You robbed me of the opportunity to tell everyone to kiss my a.s.s."

She showed me her palms. "Wait, wait, wait. Hold on there, big guy. If you want to tell everyone to pucker up, you have exactly the platform to do it without me, okay?"

"You think it's that easy?"

"I do. You call a press conference and everyone-"

"My agent has to and-"

"So Gene Douchearossa does it. What's the diff-"

"He asks me first what it's about-"

"And you just make something-"

"Everyone will know I lied and then-"

"So you want to tell people to kiss your a.s.s, but you don't want them to think you're a liar?" she said with finality.

"I'm not a liar."

"Even when you lie?"

I didn't know what came over me. The way her eyes glinted in the moonlight. The mischief in her voice. The boldness of her argument. The dress. Those particular bleacher seats. The bleat of a car alarm from the parking lot.

But something definitely came over me.

Chapter 14.

Laine I couldn't go to my car. Yes, I wanted to protect him from me. Yes, I cared about everything I'd built, and he was a walking, talking career bulldozer. But I couldn't walk out. I kept imagining his body under his clothes, the way it moved, his hands on me, his lips, those lips.

Some base instinct told me he'd show up, and an even baser one wanted to see him so badly, I felt the blood flowing through my veins when I thought about it.

And he did. I thought I'd explode from the unexpected relief in my chest. But something came over him, as if a mask he was wearing came off. I didn't know what it was about. At first I thought he was angry that I'd called him a liar, which technically, I hadn't. I'd only meant to say that you either care what people think or you tell them to kiss off. There was no in between. I was ready to explain all that, but he put his finger up to shush me.

"Work with me," he said, taking my wrist and pulling me up.

"Where are we going?"

He pulled me down the stairs, my skirt flying and my skill in heels more useful than ever.

"You watched me practice every day for six months," he called over his shoulder.

"Partly true."

He stopped when my feet hit the court and turned to me. "Your point?"

"For the last two, you kept me from studying with your yack yack yack."

"I offered to teach you to play, and you didn't want to."

"I'm not an athlete."

"I disagree."

He took my hand and pulled me again, lacing his fingers through mine. He walked toward the clubhouse, and I followed, so distracted by his touch I almost tripped over my own legs. The small building had a tunnel through it, an underpa.s.s with trophy cases of memorabilia and a water fountain.

"All that time," he said, his voice echoing in the small s.p.a.ce, "I wanted to volley with you. Just talk without talking, and you wouldn't."

He got to the equipment closet door with a little keypad with ten b.u.t.tons above the doork.n.o.b. He let go of my hand to push a combination while his other hand pressed the lever.

Nothing happened but a soft beep and a little red light.

"Michael, seriously? You think they didn't change the combination in all these years?"

"You don't know this school very well." He tried it again with the same result.

"I should be going. It's late," I said, even though I didn't want to go. Not at all. But I didn't feel aggressive or demanding, and I felt as though Michael needed a little s.p.a.ce.

He approached the trophy case and put his phone up to it. The blue light fell on racquets and b.a.l.l.s used to win meaningless champions.h.i.+ps and pictures of kids who later became famous as players or magnates. Some were winners, and some only qualified for a mention because of what they did later in life.

"Here," he said, motioning me over.

He put his hand on my back and directed his phone light to a black-and-white photo of his younger self with a champions.h.i.+p trophy, next to another photo of his gorgeous body stretched in the air for a mother-of-a-wh.o.r.e serve. The line of hair between his navel and his waistband distracted me from the grimace on his face. I wanted to trace it to its logical end as much now as I had when I was fifteen. The black graphite racquet and yellow ball he'd been using when he won leaned on the side wall behind the tempered gla.s.s.

"Are we reliving past glories today?" I said, feeling as though that was too harsh only when it was halfway out of my mouth.

But if he was offended, he gave no indication. He just scanned the underpa.s.s by the light of his phone. When he found a garbage can, he removed the lid by grabbing the edge of the center hole. "Back up, Laine."

"What are you...?

He swung the heavy lid at the case and shattered it. Gla.s.s tinkled to the concrete.

"Jesus! Michael!"

"It's my racquet." He took it out of the case, shaking shards off it.

"But-"

He plucked up the ball. "I'll put it back." He bounced the ball once, twice, then smacked it into a vibrating ma.s.s using the racquet. "The strings need tightening, and the ball is only half dead. Come on."

He pulled me again. No alarms went off, and no security guards came running. It was just us grinding broken gla.s.s under our feet.

He went out to the court, and I followed.

"So, not for anything?" I said, "But what's gotten into you?"

He pointed the racquet at me, handle first. "You're a lefty, right?"

I couldn't believe he remembered. My hand went to the work leather handle as if guided by an invisible force.

He smacked the ball to the ground and snapped it into his fist on the way up. "I wanted to do this when you and I were talking up there in the bleachers. Talking was nice, don't get me wrong, but this is too. Just try to get it over the net."

He bounced the ball to me. I swung and missed.

"It's gonna be a long night," I said as he retrieved the ball.

"You'll be a pro in fifteen minutes." He smiled from ear to ear. "Just swing, don't swat. Like, who do you hate the most in your life?"

"Right now?"

"Sure."