The Hollywood Project: Shuttergirl Part 7

"This delay cannot happen." I was shouting down an alley. More than twenty-four hours had pa.s.sed, and the delay was happening.

"What's the problem, Mike?" Steven put out his arms, the ice clinking in his whiskey sour. "Gareth looks like s.h.i.t on a cracker. He needs the time off if you ask me."

I leaned a little closer, my eye contact transmitting seriousness and secrecy. "Look, have you talked to him?"

"Yes?"

"He's holding himself together with spit and chewing gum."

"He's not on the bottle. I'd know," Steven said.

He wasn't. Not yet. But he had a failing liver and an addiction that would only be slowed by work.

"He's not," I said, "but I know the patterns. He needs this movie. He needs for it to happen, and he needs to get treatment or fall off the wagon. Soon."

The director thought he was just dealing with a Britt nightmare. I'd promised him my father would stay sober for production. That was the deal.

I glanced over Steven's shoulder to break eye contact. Through the layers of guests milling and mingling, I saw Laine, neck craned to catch my eye, carrying an aura all her own.

I hadn't felt more than curiosity when we met all those years ago, and though the curiosity had a mile-wide s.e.xual streak, I wasn't ready for it. But this woman, right now? I was ready, and she looked delicious, soaked with the sweet, tart sticky juice of the forbidden. It must have been all over my face, because Steven looked around in the middle of a sentence.

"Do I know her?" he said.

"Do you?"

"I feel like I do, but I can't place her."

I hadn't foreseen a problem when I put her on the guest list and paid for her ticket, but that had been stupid and naive. The room between us was full of people she'd shot, whose images she'd sold for an amount commensurate with their invasiveness. There was too much room between us. I saw Theo muscle through the crowd toward her then Janice, who'd had a s.e.x tape foible only weeks before.

"Steven," I said, wanting to close the conversation before I got sucked into her sphere, "we talked about this. The cirrhosis will kill him."

"Let me ask you something," Steven said pointedly, even as I wanted to break away and head for Laine. "Let's say Britt didn't break something. What were you going to do after we were done shooting? He's going to drink again."

"I don't know," I said. "I figured if I could show him thirty days wouldn't kill him, he'd get treatment."

Steven patted my shoulder as if comforting me and encouraging me at the same time. There was something slightly patronizing in it, but I didn't care. Laine needed me.

I painted on a smile and walked to her. With her little clutch in front of her, chin up, she walked straight for the bar, where we triangulated and met.

"Glad you could make it," I said, putting my hand on her arm to let everyone know she was with me and thus safe from harm.

"Just came for the camera."

"You're wearing a dress. You look stunning."

"Some rigs are worth dressing up for. What's your excuse?" She smiled, looking me up and down.

I touched my tie. Which one had I worn? I forgot. "Occupational hazard. I don't get to dress down."

"It's working for you."

"Can I get you something to drink?"

A gla.s.s of white wine appeared at her elbow.

"Thanks, Robert," she said to the bartender.

I ordered something for myself while a waitress came around with a silver tray of stuffed endive leaves. Laine pressed her lips together in refusal, and the waitress left.

"Do you ever get this feeling," she said, eyes darting around the room, "that people are looking at you?" She laughed almost immediately. "Never mind."

She cleared her throat and picked up her head, straightening her shoulders as if she'd always told herself she'd act a certain way when she was in my shoes, and this was the way. In attempting to look comfortable, she looked incredibly uncomfortable.

My inner delight darkened when I saw two men in navy suits walk in and scan the guests. Oh, no. Laine was there because I wanted her there, and if they took her out, I didn't know if I'd see her again. The compulsion to stand between them and fight to the death was physical, as if I'd be losing more than nice chatter at a party. I put my hand on her arm to keep her by me.

Chapter 12.

Laine Some of them recognized me. That, I knew. The question was, what would they do about it? I was on their bad girl list, but when Michael touched my arm, that list stopped mattering. I had to hold my head high. I belonged there as much as anyone else, even if I was only there to pick up a replacement camera. The string quartet, the dark wood, the wool rugs, and the three-ton lead crystal chandeliers-all of it was my birthright as much as theirs.

Only Lewis, the caterer, had stopped me in the kitchen amid the shouts of the staff and the bang and clatter of pots and plates. The fluorescents seemed brighter than the human eye could bear.

"Laine?"

"Hey, Lew." I hadn't even slowed, but he'd grabbed my arm.

"What are you doing?"

"I need to get in. I'm on the list, I just..." I just have to sneak through the kitchen. "I don't have a camera." I held up my bag, which couldn't fit more than a raisin and a rolled up dollar bill.

"Laine, come on," he said as if he would pry something from me with his sarcasm.

"Have I ever lied?"

"You've never needed to lie," Lewis said.

"I'm a guest, whether you believe me or not. If you don't get out of my way, everyone's going to know you have me on speed dial."

He'd surrendered, but I felt in the depths of my belly that that hadn't been the last of it. When Michael smiled after looking across the room, I knew that this was going to go terribly wrong. He was stunning, and irresistible, and a one-way ticket to nowheresville. But the stunning and irresistible parts were not to be ignored. He stood straighter when he saw me, as if I was the only woman in the room, and I shuddered.

"You do look nice," I said. "That's why people look at you."

"It's not my talent?" He didn't seem offended, just playing.

"Try letting your beard go mountain man and running around in sweats. See who wants to look at you then."

I didn't mean it as an insult, and he didn't seem to take it as one, but he did get serious all of a sudden. It was only a slight shift in att.i.tude.

He leaned toward me just a little. "Would you rather be known for what you do, or who you are?"

I leaned in a little as well and whispered. "I'd rather not be known."

"Okay, well," he leaned in closer, whispering, and my eyes fluttered closed from how close his lips were to me. "You're about to be known as the pap who got escorted out of the Breakfront Gala. And I'm about to be known as the guy who didn't let that happen."

I looked behind me. The security guys weren't wearing cheap uniforms with patches on the shoulders, but I knew them by their heavy gait and the authority on their backs. They were across the room, looking for someone. Me.

I put down my wine. "This was a bad idea. I'll just go."

He put his hand over my wrist with confident authority, as if he had a right to touch me. "No, you won't."

"I'm not going to embarra.s.s you."

He looked at me, nothing but warmth in his eyes, and a little of the anxiety that had followed me into the room melted away. He tightened his grip on my wrist. He could have led me anywhere, and I would have followed.

"You're the most interesting person in this room right now," he said. "And they want me to stay more than they want to get rid of you."

"I doubt that."

"Let's find out."

I didn't know Michael Greydon much better than the millions who didn't know him at all, but I knew a few basic truths. He drove sober, got in at a decent hour when he was shooting, always smiled, didn't sleep around, and hammed for any lens pointed at him. But what I saw in his face then was something I'd seen on a few of the men in my life and more than my share of friends and fake family. It was the look I was told I got before I did something rash.

He looked as though he wanted to get into trouble. Any normal woman, recognizing that, would have tried to steer him to safety, but my neck burned hot with the thought. I didn't know if it was from the idea of trouble or the s.e.xual streak in his recklessness.

"Michael Greydon?" I said. "What is on your mind?"

"I have no idea." The words rolled around his tongue as if he loved having no idea.

I should have been excited. Thrilled. I should have jumped into his arms and suggested something reckless that sat at the very edge of legality. But I didn't, because unlike most of the people I'd climbed fences and broken things with, he had something to lose. A lot to lose. If I created a scene with him, I'd lose something as well. My anonymity, which was already compromised by my gender, would be non-existent.

So though temptation twisted me in knots, I pulled my hand away.

That was when Lucy Betancourt showed up. The story of their breakup a year after he entered Yale was well known, but from her bitter expression, knowledge of the torch she carried for him was less common.

"Laine?" she said. "Laine Cartwright?"

"Laine, this is Lucy-"

"h.e.l.lo, Lucy. It's nice to see you again," I lied. The last time I saw her, she'd been slipping a Cosmo article ent.i.tled "How to f.e.l.l.a.t.e Him Like a p.o.r.n Star" into my jacket pocket.

"Well, it's nice to see you!" She tucked a perfectly blown-out blond lock behind her ear. Her suit was a conservative Chanel two-piece, and her pearls were triple-looped around her neck. "We all wondered what happened to you."

"I left."

"Well, we knew that! Of course, but no word on why? We worried terribly."

"Things happened."

"We all knew the Hatches got divorced, but we didn't think-"

"I bet."

Michael spit out a laugh then looked over my shoulder. Lucy followed his gaze to the security guys then touched his arm. I wanted to bite off her hand.

"I'll take her," she said softly to him.

I nodded and stepped toward her. I didn't trust her as far as I could throw her one-handed, but I needed to save Michael and myself the grief of a fight.

"No, you won't," Michael said. "I have this."

"No. I'm putting my foot down. I. Want. To. Go." I stared him down, chipping at the resolve in his jade eyes. He might have been an actor, but I was a pretender and good at it. I was going to protect him from me, even if it meant giving up any hope of feeling his touch again.

"Come," Lucy said.

I hesitated. My gut roiled, but I wasn't sure whether it was because of Lucy, the guys coming to escort me out, or the idea of coming so close to Michael and losing him.

"The camera's in my car," Michael said. "Don't go too far away." He brushed by me to intercept the security guys, and I grabbed his arm.

"Forget the camera." I was one hundred percent sure I never wanted to see him again, even if I knew I'd change my mind as soon as walls were between us.

I let Lucy pull me through the crowd. Did anyone notice me? I recognized a couple of faces, mostly people who dined or hung out with the characters I chased. I made eye contact when they did, and they looked away every time. I was the center of attention. I wished to G.o.d they'd all stare outright.

But they didn't. I'd never been so uncomfortable in my life. When I followed Lucy to a small side foyer that didn't have any guests looking-not-looking at me, I felt like a drowning woman yanked to the surface for her first gulp of air.

"You all right?" she asked.

"I'm fine."

"The security guys here don't care," she said. "They'll escort you out in front of everybody. I thought I'd save you from that. But if you want to go back-"

"No, I'm fine. Really."

"I have to go in. Do you remember the way?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"If you're seen, they'll escort you to your car. Just don't make a big deal about it, and it'll be fine."

"I was thinking of going all limp and letting them carry me."

She paused, warmed, and said something it looked as if she had to think about first. "We did worry about you."