“Computer guy, huh?” I wonder vaguely if this ‘huh’ counts towards Graham’s tally.
He isn’t here to rule on it, so I rule no
.
“Among other things.” A wistful smile crosses her face.
“Such as?”
“Now, Emma. You know I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Right,” I say. “But you can ask me about kissing Reid Alexander.”
As if on cue, Reid walks around the corner, stops and puts his hands on the back of the chair next to me. “What was that?” He smiles, and I know he overheard me.
“Um, we’re just, uh…”
“Going over lines,” MiShaun says, straightening the sheets and placing them between us. “What are you doing here, Mr. Alexander? This afternoon is a Lizbeth/Charlotte scene. And as much as the producers would like your pretty face in every shot they can squeeze you into, you are not in it.”
“I had to discuss something with Richter. Also, there’s a concert tonight. It’s an LA band; I know the lead singer. He says we can come in the back way, separate from the crowd, and have our own cordoned-off area so the bodyguards can do their thing. You guys up for it?”
I nod at MiShaun, and she says, “Sure, we’re in.”
“Cool. We’re meeting in the lobby at eight to go get food, and the band goes on around ten.” He drums the top of the chair, blue eyes twinkling. “I’ll let you get back to… whatever you were discussing.”
Chapter 21
REID
“Party of seven for Alexander.” The hostess glances up, her expression morphing into the wide-eyed look I’m used to outside of LA or NYC. You’d think celebrities are imaginary beings, the way people react when they see us in public. Like aliens have landed, or Jesus has risen. My presence alone would have been enough for her, but the addition of whoever else she recognizes in the group renders her incapable of unstuttered speech. Brooke, MiShaun, Quinton, Tadd, Jenna and Emma are along for the ride. Graham, apparently, went home to New York last night, and I’m just
so
bummed about that. Not.
I’m careful that there’s no overt touching between Emma and me, just grazes here and there—my hand at the small of her back from the car to the door of the restaurant, and again walking to the table. My arm across the back of her chair. Our shoulders and thighs pressing against each other intermittently while we’re all talking and interacting during dinner. If things go as planned, she won’t have to wait for the movie release to be famous, because everyone wants to know who I’m hooking up with. Paparazzi. Gossip rags and Internet sites. She’s going to have to get used to this—the way that people know who I am, and because of that, they think they know me. Fame is people screaming your name, loving you, hating you, all on a whim.
When we arrive at the club, we use the band entrance Walt offered, rather than walk through the crowd. The hallways in the back are a cramped, dim maze, and I take Emma’s hand as we’re led through by the manager. We follow him to a restricted area, just off-stage, where we can sit and watch without being recognized or pestered. Bob and Jeff hover nearby.
I love my fans, but I wish they’d fade off occasionally and let me live my life. I escort Emma to the front spot near the wall. The way the chairs are arranged, there’s no one behind us and no one in front of us of us—it’s private as possible. Quinton is next to me, and Brooke, of course, is as far from me as she can get. My arm is propped across the back of Emma’s chair as the warm-up band winds up their last set.
The music is deafening, so there’s not a lot of talking. In between sets, Emma asks if I know any of the other band members. “I met the guitarist when I was hanging out with Walt in LA. The other guys, no.”
“Cool,” she says.
The music is hella good, and Walt is damned incredible. Girls gathered in front of the stage jostle for position in front of him, but he’s not staying in one place. He plays the whole audience, and everyone’s into it. The floor pulses with bass notes, sending waves of vibration up through my legs. I glance at Emma and she smiles, leans closer and says, “He’s amazing.”
“I know, right?” My hand moves to her shoulder, kneading the muscles absently. She relaxes under my touch as my fingers slide through her hair at the base of her neck and the moment says
now
,
now
,
now
. When I lean in, twisting the brim of my Lakers cap to the back, she doesn’t pull away. Cradling her head against my shoulder, with the beat pounding through us and the weird sense of privacy provided by the smoky darkness and a few hundred people all focused elsewhere, I kiss her. There’s no script, no film crew, and this is unlike anything we’ve done on camera, where I have to do the leading man thing, choreographed for shadows and camera angles and a hundred other aspects of filming a scene. I slide my tongue across hers and deepen the kiss until I can taste her hesitation melting. When I pull away, her eyes open slowly, staring into mine.
When we get back to the hotel, I deliver her to her room, kissing her once more, short and sweet—nothing like the kiss during the show—despite the pleasantly evil ideas of everything I’d like to do to her pounding through my head.
My friend John will be in town tomorrow—he says he’s always wanted to visit Texas and he’s bored as hell in LA. That’s John. Too much money, too much time, no celebrity on his own. I think going out with me is like a drug for him—it’s like he’s famous, too, and he loves it. Guess he needs another hit.
Tadd and I talked earlier today about going south for a couple of days to go tubing on the Guadalupe river. Disappearing for a couple of days would be a good idea, because this is how girls like Emma operate: they need just enough attention to let them know they’re on your mind. A text or two per day, just on edge of naughty, and she’ll be ready to go by Saturday.
I think I might like this going slower thing.
*** *** ***
Emma
All morning, I keep blushing for no apparent reason—every time I think of the fact that I’ve kissed two insanely hot guys in the last two
days
. I still haven’t heard from Graham. Reid sent me a text this morning wishing me good luck with filming today.
His fans know where we’re filming, and they showed up early to stand just outside the barricades surrounding the house. But
he
isn’t filming today, so all but the most tenacious of them eventually trickled away. Chloe and my father are visiting the set this afternoon, and when their taxi arrives, there’s renewed excitement among the dozen or so fans until they exit. Chloe’s outfit today consists of skintight lowrise jeans, wedge heels, and a low-hanging peasant blouse that would look more appropriate on someone in high school. And I don’t mean someone who
teaches
high school.
When I go outside to authorize them through set security, a couple of the fans holler, “Emma!” I turn and wave, surprised they know who I am.
The afternoon’s schedule consists mainly of a scene including Tim Warner and Leslie Neale as Lizbeth’s parents, a fact that sends Chloe into insufferable enthusiasm overdrive. As Tim and Leslie are discussing the interaction they’ll be filming first, Chloe interrupts to tell them how she’s been a huge fan since she was a little girl. Tim stops talking, flabbergasted, and Leslie stares at Chloe for a moment before saying, “Thank you dear, and who are you?”
“Oh! I’m Emma’s mother!” I cringe at both this semi-fabrication and the appalling fact that she’s legitimately connected to me at all.
As I dream of trap doors and the benefits of quicksand, Leslie and Tim turn towards me, and I try to make myself think
screw everyone else
even though the last thing I want is for these two distinguished actors to have a poor opinion of me, even if MiShaun is right and it isn’t fair for them to judge me based on Chloe.
Leslie recovers first. “Well, I’m sure you’re proud of her. She’s so talented. At the moment, though, we’ve got to get this scene set up. If you’d just make yourself comfortable and enjoy watching Emma work…” She leads Chloe to a chair off-set and motions to an assistant to the PA, asking her to get Mrs. Pierce something to drink. As she turns from a stunned and silent Chloe, Leslie winks at me.
I think I love her.
***
At the end of the day, I’m exhausted and running on five or six non-consecutive hours of sleep, but Chloe insists on going out to dinner since they’re leaving early in the morning. I want nothing more than room service, a conversation with Emily about all the kissing going on, and some sleep.
“We’ll make it an early night,” my father says. “I haven’t gotten the chance to tell you how great you were today.” Unable to help myself, I warm under his words, leaning my head on his shoulder as he pats my knee.
Over dinner at a local barbeque place, Chloe talks about how awesome Leslie was for an hour and a half straight while my father squeezes in a sentence or two praising
my
performance. In the taxi, I dig my phone from my bag to text Emily. There are two missed calls and two texts from her; the restaurant was so loud that I didn’t hear the phone alerts. The first text says: CALL ME. That’s scary, considering the all caps, but the second, sent half an hour ago, is way more frightening: GOOGLE YOURSELF AND THEN CALL ME.
Once in my room, I boot up my laptop and type my name into the search box. And there, spread across the Internet, in multiple locations including every Reid Alexander fanpage, are indistinct photos and rampant speculation about Reid Alexander and his current costar, Emma Pierce, who were kissing, offscreen, at a club in Austin.
Oh. Shit.
I’d texted with Emily about the kiss the previous night, but there’s a vast difference in getting the unadorned facts via text, and seeing it in grainy color on a 17-inch monitor, accompanied by assorted enhanced close-ups of the action.
“I had no idea anyone could even see us. Oh, God.”
“No reason to panic. Let’s be logical. Okay,
Reid Alexander kissed you
, for real, not lights-camera-action. And like what practically ninety-nine percent of girls would do if faced with Reid Alexander’s lips, you went for it.”
“Yeah.”
“So what’s the problem, exactly, besides the whole thing getting outed to the world? You said he was an amazing kisser.”
“He is… but… there’s this, uh, complication I was going to talk to you about tonight, before I knew all of this. Remember the guy I’ve been running with?”
“Graham, right?”
“Yeah. Well, he kissed me. Monday night.”
“Okay, back up.
What?
” I visualize her waving her hands around. Emily can be on the phone and
driving
, and she’ll wave both hands around. She says it helps her think. “Is this the same Graham you said was ‘just a friend’ or some
other
Graham?”
“Oh, God.”
“Sorry, Em. You know sarcasm is my coping mechanism. Go on. Spill it.”
I curl on my side in the middle of my bed, exactly where Graham and I were. “I’ve felt this… building attraction to him, and we spent all Saturday evening talking, and then we were watching a movie, and I fell asleep and when I woke up he was gone.”
“So. Talking
in bed
on Saturday. Interesting. And then Monday, what?”
“I couldn’t sleep, and I knocked on his door, thinking we could talk, or something…”
“Emma,” Emily says, calling bullshit on me.
“Okay, well, he didn’t answer...” I gulp, anticipating how she’ll react to the next part. “So I was walking back to my room… and he came out of Brooke’s room.”
“Hold on. Brooke
Cameron
, aka Kristen Wells—evil incarnate?”
“Emily, you know she’s not as horrible in real life as her character on
Life’s a Beach
.”
“Yet she’s got this Graham guy in her room. Why?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” Wow, that sounds even worse out loud than it did in my head.
“Emma,
what
?” She sighs, and I know she’d shake me if she wasn’t several hundred miles away. “This kiss took place after he emerged
sans explanation
from Brooke Cameron’s
hotel room
?”
I take a deep breath and leave out the humiliation of him seeing me run back to my room like a frightened rabbit scurrying for a hole in the fence. “He came to my room, and we were talking, and then playing around, and somehow we ended up kissing.”
“Somehow you ended up kissing.” I see her dubious expression in my mind’s eye—mouth in a grim line, one eyebrow raised just so.
“I know. It sounds ridiculous...”
Emily is quiet, except for the sound of her tapping a pencil against her front teeth, which drives her mom insane. “Well, which of these two guys are you interested in?”
I think about Graham pushing a strand of hair behind my ear when we’d ducked out of the rainstorm, the feel of his fingers sliding over my skin, how he listened when I talked about losing Mom. I think about the hunger in Reid’s beautiful eyes, the heated difference in his off-screen kiss, and the way he teases me. “I like them both. They’re just… different.”
“Well that complicates matters. What happens after this film? Do you see either of them being in your life after it’s over? Do you want that?”
“
Oh my God
. I kissed two guys within 24 hours of each other—one in my hotel room and one out in public, and now it’s all over the Internet. What am I gonna
do
?” I don’t really expect an answer. I’m thinking about running away to join the Peace Corps, which seems more appealing every minute.
“Emma. Besides looking a wee bit slutty, and let’s face it, most of Hollywood is a little slutty, what are you
really
worried about?”
My answer surprises me. “I guess I’m worried that Reid will think we’re a thing… and I’m worried that Graham will think that, too.”
“So you don’t want Graham to think you and Reid are hooking up...”
“I think I’d feel the same if it was the other way around,” I say, while my brain goes
you sure about that?
and I think
YES
a little too forcefully and Emily would say
methinks thou doth protest too much
to if she heard me having this conversation with myself.