“I can’t do this, Trevor.” Fighting to breathe, I pat my chest; as if perhaps I might discover some unexpected air somewhere inside my lungs.
“You can.”
“Take me home,” I wheeze, praying I won’t need my inhaler tonight. Thinking about my nerve pills, back on my dresser in my everyday purse.
“If that’s what you want, Rebecca, I’ll do it.” He eyes the back door through which we’re supposed to enter. There’s a bouncer-type guy—brawny and intimidating—watching us from the doorway. Perhaps he already recognizes me.
“I’ll make a fool out of myself here,” I rasp.
“No, darling, you won’t. You’re adored here. You’re fawned over.” He laughs, glancing around the parking lot jammed with cars and people filing into the hotel. “If you ever have a bad day, you need only log onto any fan site and vicariously worship yourself.”
“You make me sound like such an egomaniac.”
He winks at me. “A little self-adoration is often a good thing.”
Pulling down the visor, I stare into the makeup mirror—at who I truly am now, with the quivering smile and the perfectly flawed face. “They’re expecting someone else.”
“They’re expecting Rebecca O’Neill,” he counters. “And perhaps Mary Agnes Hill—who never even existed, so no worries there.”
“It’s Jake.” I shake my head. “I can’t stand the thought of his gloating.”
He corkscrews his eyebrows upward. “About bloody what?”
“My no-longer-existent love life.” I release a defeated little sigh.
“Ah, we can handle that.” He dismisses my concern with a wave of his hand, leaning across from the driver’s seat to kiss me. Our chariot is his vintage Porsche Roadster tonight, which trumps my Honda in a paper-rock-scissors contest any day of the week.
“You have your inhaler?” he asks me, handing me my hot-pink Coach bag. I nod, feeling much like a little girl as he carefully guides me out of the car and toward the party entrance.
“Don’t worry, Rebecca,” he whispers in my ear. “I’ll take good care of you tonight.”
Trevor’s calming hand never leaves the small of my back, as he steers me through the throngs of people, protecting me. I’d told the coordinator I would bring some kind of security guard—which I never really intended to do—but Trevor makes the perfect substitute. He so completely doesn’t look the part of a security guard that maybe any would-be stalker will think he’s the ultimate real deal—like a Secret Service guy. He directs me toward my table, never allowing anyone to hold onto or touch me for too long. Then next thing I know, I’m positioned in my assigned seat, a bevy of fans crushing close—but not frighteningly so because of the ease with which Trevor controls the scene. At the table I sign headshots and fan art until my hand grows numb; yet whenever the crowd makes me anxious, it seems Trevor simply snaps his fingers, and then I can breathe again.
He also manages to keep me positioned well apart from Jake—who in classic form was painfully late for this event. We knew Cat wouldn’t arrive until night’s end since she’s wrapping her Evan Beckman picture, but unemployed Jake has no excuse.
I’m starting to breathe easier, lost in the glow of fan appreciation, when from behind me I hear, “So they booked Blondie.” The same lazy manner of talking, the same cocky tone. The same belief that my whole world must be rocked by his attention. “Blondie looks hot too.”
I never even turn around. “I’m busy, Jake,” I say, taking a young girl’s hand, clasping it across the table. She fiddles with a photograph—never meeting my eyes—and tells me that she discovered the show in reruns. Behind me, I sense Jake still standing; feel it in the way the small hairs on the back of my neck bristle; sense heat coming off his body.
His hand brushes my shoulder. “Too busy for a drink, Rebecca?” he whispers against the back of my neck.
“Too busy for you,” I say dismissively, and continue signing pictures. As he brushes on past me, I hear him say under his breath, “You’ll come around, Rebecca. You always do.”
Shaking out a cramp in my hand, I steal a glance in his direction—long enough to see his profile. Unfortunately, even viewed from the side, he’s still heartstoppingly handsome.
It sure would be nice to prove him wrong about me—just for once.
***
Outside by the hotel pool, Trevor and I find a quiet sanctuary toward night’s end, sipping margaritas and kicking back on lounge chairs covered in a dewy sheen. He grabbed a towel and wiped my seat dry before I sat down, ever the perfect Gentleman Date.
Twirling the paper umbrella in my drink, the world feels fuzzy—and I feel free out here beneath the moon, away from the stifling crowd back inside the hotel. Only a few people mingle here; presumably the fans are inside the hotel itself, semi-stalking the other actors and writers. When the Beach Boys come on, “God Only Knows”
playing over the poolside speakers, Trevor stands gallantly, offering me his hand.
“Come dance.” He tugs me unsteadily to my feet.
“Whoa!” I laugh, catching his arm.
“I’ve got you,” he assures me softly, clasping me with both hands. He’s not an overly tall man, but even with my strappy slides, he’s a good six or seven inches taller than me. We fall into a slow dance together, oddly hushed.
After a time of us quiet together in one another’s arms, he says, “You really should talk to him, you know.”
“Jake?” I look up into his warm eyes. “No way.”
“No, darling,” he answers softly. “
Michael
.”
I stiffen in his arms. “I’m surprised to hear you say that.”
“You love him, and I worry that perhaps I put you off him, with some of my silly warnings and all that.”
“They weren’t silly,” I say, pulling away. “You were right.”
But he holds me fast, steadying me close to him. His black eyes never leave me. “When I saved your life, Rebecca, it wasn’t for
this
. For constantly protecting yourself, perpetually running, never taking a chance,” he continues in a rush, his accent growing thick and more difficult to decipher. “I was wrong about Michael, but I thought you’d have known it for yourself by now.”
I pry his hands from around me, pulling away.
“Don’t run from me,” he cautions sharply. “Save that maneuver for Michael Warner.” And for the first time in several years, my best friend sounds genuinely angry with me.
I turn back, planting a hand on my hip. “You warned me to be careful about his bisexuality. About his
kind
!” I say in an irate tone. “Those were your very words!”
“Before I knew what kind of man he is.”
I shake my head with a snort, backing away from him. “What kind of man is he, Trevor?”
“I’m getting back with Julian,” he blurts, closing the distance that separates us. “You should know that. He’s coming in next month, before our story meeting. We’re going to give it a go together.”
“I see.” I set my jaw.
“Yes well, love, that’s it. I’ve realized that as much as he’s hurt me, I do love him. I never stopped loving him.”
“Good for you.”
“He has changed. People are capable of it, you know,” he insists. “He’s spent the past year in counseling. He’s been sober for eight months now. He’s a different person.” His voice grows quiet. “All the best is there, and the worst seems finally gone, now that he’s off the booze.”
I nod, keeping my voice even. “Okay.”
“Is that all you’re going to give me?” he cries sharply. “
I see
?
Okay
? Bloody hell, Rebecca, when did you become so frosty and controlled?”
“When I was stabbed nine times in the chest, face and abdomen,” I cry back at him. “When you got the stupid paramedics to come and bring me back.” I shake my head, stepping closer. “When I realized Michael Warner still loved someone else…”
The tears begin then, spilling hot across my cheeks, and for once Trevor doesn’t rush to make it better. I stand there by the pool, feeling a distance settle between my best friend and me.
“Michael Warner loves you,” he insists. “You’re only too scared to see it.”
I wipe at my eyes. “I don’t want Julian to hurt you.”
“And I don’t want you to let Michael get away.”
I close my eyes and try to blot out the white-hot pain that shoots through me at his words. Because what I realize—and Trevor doesn’t—is that I think I’ve already made that decisive mistake.
Perhaps it’s my weakened emotional state after my confrontation with Trevor, but somehow when I see Jake inside the hotel lobby—truly see him—for the first time all night, I capitulate on the drinks invitation. He sidles up next to me by the hotel bar, wearing a goatee and an expensive T-shirt, a pulsating crowd of blonde girls circling him.
Tonight he’s cultivating a kind of grunge-Hollywood fashion statement, and while it should make him look like the cokehead he clearly still is, he manages to affect me. He is a sexy man, always has been—from his steel-gray eyes to his sinewy body—and under the murky-fingered influence of my margaritas it occurs to me that I could sleep with him tonight.
“Rebecca. Hey.” He tosses his shaggy, longish brown hair out of his eyes, giving me that familiar bad-boy smile. Staring back, I think of all the times I made love gazing right into those same stormy eyes.
“Hi, Jake.”
His gaze roves the length of me, hesitating significantly on my hips, next, my chest; finally my face.
“Looking good, Rebecca.” Something warm catches fire in me at his praise, burning like whiskey. We always did have chemistry.
“Thanks, Jake.”
“So, hey. Rebecca? Out for drinks after?” He nods toward the exit door. “Skip this scene in a few?”
I give him a guarded smile. “Sure, Jake.”
Jake sits in the corner of Mia Mia, a stylish bar on Sunset, wearing sunglasses even though it’s almost midnight. He’s all about cluing everyone in to his celebrity status. He’s my bad drug, the one I’ve always returned to. Especially at emotionally broken moments like this one, he’s my recurring obsession, ready to trip me up.
I slide into the seat opposite him; my defenses are up even though I did agree to come out with him. I glance around us. “I’m not really sure why I came.”
Jake makes me feel more vulnerable, more exposed simply because I’m more recognizable paired up with him out in public like this. Even though I felt triumphant at the gathering, this is different: this is a trendy hotspot in West Hollywood, where the see-and-be-seen quotient is high.
I loved that about being with Michael: I felt normal everywhere we went together.
“No kiss? I’m hurt, Rebecca.”
I toy with the menu. “We’ll see how you behave.”
He laughs easily. “You know I’m
always
good.”
I laugh along with him, trying to think of something clever, and that’s when I glance toward the door. Entering the bar I spy Cat, who looks like she’s searching for someone in particular.
“You told Cat we were going to be here?” I ask, disappointed despite myself that we won’t be alone for this mini-reunion.
“Mentioned it, yeah.” He glances in her direction. “Oh, holy shit, man. That’s Evan Beckman with her! She brought Evan Beckman.” Quickly Jake runs a hand over his hair, smoothing it out.
“Oh, God,” I groan quietly because Cat is glancing all around Mia Mia like she’s looking for
me
. Her hand shoots upward when she sees me, and she gives a dramatically cheerful wave. I give a subdued one in response.
Don’t get me wrong: I am totally into meeting Evan Beckman. And I am totally into the possibility that he’s interested in me for a part. What I’m not totally into is having his path and Jake’s collide at this precise moment in my personal history.
They weave their way through the late night crowd, finally reaching our table. We stand, and introductions are made, with Jake salivating way too much over Evan for any of us to feel comfortable.
“Evan and I were coming out for a drink,” Cat explains. “Jake told me you’d be here later, so I thought I could bring him by. So you two could meet.”
“Hi, Rebecca,” Evan says, grinning at me in that trademark boyish way of his. The one
People
magazine and
Entertainment Weekly
capture so regularly. He has wide-set, earnest brown eyes that seem to be forever smiling, always a hint of amusement around the edges, as if he’s working hard to suppress a good chuckle.
We settle back at the table, and then Jake, in a flurry of overdone excitement, excuses himself. I know exactly where he’s going: to the bathroom to snort a few lines. Like all people with addiction problems, Jake tends to think that if he gets high, then the moment will be even
more
spectacular. I guess the idea of cocaine and Evan Beckman at the same experiential moment is magnificent enough to warrant his quick retreat.
“Evan is casting his next film,” Cat begins, and I can tell she’s thankful for Jake’s vanishing act. For a moment, I even wonder if she paid Jake to leave.
Evan continues, leaning closer across the table so I can hear him over the din of noise. “Rebecca, there’s a part I’ve been thinking could be just right for you.”
Evan is known for picking people who’ve been a little down on their game and reviving them. Tonight at the gathering Cat told me, “He wants to Tarantino you.” When I gave her a semi-confused look, she explained impatiently, “He wants to resurrect your career, girlfriend.”
“What kind of part is it?” I ask, and then rather pointedly toss my hair over my shoulder. Evan needs to see the damage close-up to realize exactly what he’d be dealing with. Still, even as I confront him with the truth, my heart begins to beat with expectation. I feel wanted.
Evan gives me a gentle smile. “I don’t mind the way you look, Rebecca,” he tells me honestly.
“Why not?”
He leans back and takes a thoughtful sip of his wine. “I guess you could say you have the right…appearance. For this part.”
“I see,” I answer evenly. Nagging doubt begins to penetrate my thoughts. Evan studies me carefully, taking off his baseball cap to reveal a large bald spot I wasn’t quite expecting. You never see him without a hat of some kind, and now I know why. “So,” I say, “this character is scarred.”