Hollywood Lies (11 page)

“Impressive,” she says. “Pretty heady stuff.”

“You should’ve seen what I was reading last month. Nothing but booby magazines and Danielle Steel novels.”

Cole raises an eyebrow. “Did you just say ‘booby’?”

I can feel the heat burning my cheeks as I blush. “Yeah.”

“I love it!” She turns to the little sofa and sits down. “And don’t knock Danielle Steel’s work. She sure knows how to get people to pick up her books.”

“Oh, I wasn’t knocking her,” I’m quick to say, but Cole’s smile lets me know I don’t need to explain.

The way she sits with her legs drawn up to one side and her elbow on the arm of the sofa, gives me a little peek down her V-neck shirt. I don’t mean to look, but just the slight hint of her breast stops me. The skin is paler than her other exposed flesh. No freckles.

She looks soft, and her tits look like they would give a little when squeezed. My hands itch, and I shift my stance when the blood starts to flow to my groin. I don’t know if she catches me looking, but I quickly avert my eyes.

“Can I check out your guitars?”

It’s when we’re ten minutes into an all out jam—just playing off each other’s vibes and flow—that it strikes me how surreal this all is.

“What?” she asks at my chuckle; her hand still on the strings.

“It’s just . . .” I pause, allowing myself another chuckle. “A couple of months ago, I was eating noodles out of a Styrofoam container with a plastic spork, and now I’m playing guitar with my Hollywood hero.”

“Hero?”

I blush again.
Did I really just say that?
“Uh. I mean, yeah. That day I met you in the rain, something changed in me, and after that I watched everything you’ve ever made. I even found a bootlegged copy of your performance at Carnegie.”

“You did not.”

“I did.” My smile widens at her obvious interest.

“I was seven.”

I look her straight in the eyes. “You were brilliant.”

She bows her head a bit. Maybe I said something wrong. When she looks up, she asks, “So did you research all the tabloid crap before
From Here to There
?”

By tabloid crap, I know she means her very public drug use and wild behavior. “You can’t search Collette Stroud on the Internet without something about it coming up.”

As I begin to wonder what in the reports is true and what is an exaggeration, Cole nods, then starts playing “
Fear Itself
,” one of my very favorite songs, by this singer who goes by the name, Highland. The artist is somewhat of an enigma and is music’s best kept secret as she never plays concerts, releases music videos, or goes to award ceremonies. Cole begins to sing in a soft voice with a Scottish accent.

My jaw drops. “Holy shit. That’s you? You’re Highland?”

She doesn’t answer, just smiles, and continues playing. She doesn’t speak with an accent, so I never would have guessed her to be the elusive singer.

“Does anyone ever tell you how amazing you are?” I ask.

The music stops. “People say shit like that to me all the time.”

“But you don’t believe them?”

“Not typically. Usually they want something from me.”

That’s a sad life to have if what she says is true. “Maybe they don’t.” What I want to say is that
I
don’t.
 

She sets the guitar down next to her. “You’re very naive, aren’t you?”

I immediately say, “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. I like it. It’s refreshing. Do you know how hard it is to find people who aren’t jaded, or have an overinflated ego?”

“So I’ll stay naive.”

Cole stands and says, “Impossible. As soon as this movie wraps and we start promotion, you’ll never be able to go back.”

I move next to her, the question apparent in my expression.

“You’ll see very soon how commodity driven our line of work is. But the commodity our industry sells isn’t corn or apples. It’s us. Everything we are, everything we do. We sell an image twenty-four hours a day, and
everything
is about what you can get out of another person and what they can do for you.”

“Well, I don’t want anything from you.” I admit my tone is defensive, but I refuse to believe that just because it’s Hollywood, no one can interact like regular humans.
 

Cole walks to the door, and tosses me a smile over her shoulder. “Sure you do, but there’s a difference when it’s reciprocated.”

What does that mean?
I remain silent, but before I can ask anything, she seems over the subject.
 

Cole stands next to her big security guards and asks, “Would you like to hang out again tomorrow night? We can get some food and play around on the guitars again.”

“Discuss some music?” I suggest.

“Yes. And books. Maybe you could come up around six-thirty tomorrow night?

“Up? As in your suite?”

She looks away for a second, then back at me. “It’s a bit bigger, and I have the entire floor.” She points to the men behind her as she says their names. “Oscar, Michael, and X won’t have to just stand around in a hallway.”

“Sounds good.” After she leaves and I put my guitar away, I power up my laptop. It’s not the first time I’ve searched for news or stories on her, but this time all I have to do is glance through the articles. Most of the world knows her history, but since I’ll be spending more time with her tomorrow, I want to brush up on it.

The number of items talking about her movies is astounding, the number of pictures overwhelming, but what I’m most interested in are the online magazine and newspaper articles about what happened to her ten years ago. I read police report summaries and watch videos of reporters ambushing her on the street. They asked her incredibly personal questions about what that man–Rodney Douglas–did to her during the nearly twenty-four hours he held her captive inside her own apartment.

It disgusts me to even watch it. It’s so clear how wounded she was, yet journalists and paparazzi ask her about the bath tub filled with ice, the black duffle bag of an assortment of sexual items, and the physical scars he left her with.

“Go read the fucking police report, you piece of shit.” Cole practically spits venom at the guy who took the video I’m watching now.

In the next one, she flicks off the camera. I can tell this one is after she started using narcotics. There is a void in her eyes. The one after that shows how she was nearly swallowed up by overeager spectators and reporters. I wonder where the hell her security team was then.

When I can’t watch or read any more, I shut the computer down and spend the rest of the night thinking about how something like that would shape a person, and how it happening so publically would change them.

I wonder how Cole managed to survive and put such a big event behind her.

“Jules, stop.” I grab her wrists and pull her hands away. I had stayed up so late last night researching Cole’s past that I’m too tired to deal with even the suggestion of sex right now. I don’t have enough energy to even consider it, much less engage in it.
 

“You can’t be tired. You don’t even have a scene today. We have
all
day to—”

“How’s Mr. Tattoo?” I fail to keep my voice even.

“What? Who?”

“You know, the tattooed dude from last night.”

Julie looks away.

Now I know all I need to. “You fucked him?”

She licks her lips, then retrains her icy eyes on me. “Well, you weren’t around.”

I put some distance between us.
 

“What the hell, Devon? We’re not dating. I never said I wouldn’t screw anyone else.”

The way she says it makes me pause; both my feet and my mind stop as I mull it over. Although I know my relationship with her will never go anywhere, it’s still a blow to my ego. “So is that what we’re doing? Just screwing?”

Her laugh cuts me, but I try not to let it show. This is the moment I have to decide whether to continue with this bullshit. It’s an easy answer, but I’ve never told anyone it’s over before, so I walk out of my room and simply say, “Whatever.”

When I come back ten minutes later from going up and down the hotel stairs for no other reason than to give Julie time to leave my room and get a little extra cardio in, she’s gone. I wish the smell of her perfume was gone, too. For the rest of the day, I’m alone reading and sleeping, and every once in a while glancing at the clock so I don’t lose track of time. At six-thirty on the nose, I’m in the elevator on Cole’s floor.
 

Two huge guards—not the ones who usually follow her around—greet me with outstretched hands, telling me to stop. “Get back into the elevator, sir.”

Like I need more nerves right now. I wouldn’t say I’ve ever been an overly confident person, but the fact Cole has invited me up here should boost my self-esteem, but it seems to do a bit of the opposite. It’s not every day a Hollywood heavyweight takes an interest in me. I manage to formulate an answer to this man. “But I’m Devon. Devon Maddox. Cole invited me.”

The first guard looks me up and down.
 

I chew on the inside of my lips.
 

“Right. Why don’t you go back down to the lobby and she’ll—”

“Matthew, are you being rude to my guest?”

The guard turns around, and backs up.

When Cole appears, I smile in relief.
 

“No ma’am. I just didn’t—”

She puts a hand on his arm and smiles up at the massive man. “It’s okay. I’m having dinner with him. Let him through.”

I step out of the elevator.

The second guard asks, “Shouldn’t we search him?”

Collette shakes her head. “Not necessary. He’s fine.”

It’s not until we’re behind the closed door of her suite that I say, “Man, they’re really on it.”

“You’d be surprised how many people try to get up here. They’re all that stands between me and . . .”

“Another Rodney Douglas?”

Collette visibly tenses, and I immediately wish I hadn’t said the name.
Way to go, Devon. Start the whole night off on the wrong foot
.

“Exactly.” She leads me to the sofa.

I sit and look around. “You’re right, this is much nicer than mine.”

“Not for long.”

“What do you mean?”

“The studio already has big plans for you and Liliana. You’re going to be the
it
actors after this. They’ve hired a heavy hitting PR company to handle the release and the actors. Before we wrap, there will be some more classes for you to attend on how to be a movie star.”

“Can’t you just tell me?”

Cole chuckles. “I’m not the best movie star out there. I don’t love the limelight as much as I’m supposed to. To make the big bucks for the films you’re in, you need to act the part, and it’s increasingly difficult for me to do that.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about, so I just look around her space, then ask, “How’d shooting go today?”

“Good. I think we got some good footage. You should watch the dailies tomorrow morning. Liliana has some really great performances.”

The conversation dies because I can think of nothing to contribute. There is an awkwardness that comes from sitting in a room with someone you think is so awesome. I don’t know if she feels it in reverse or not, but I’m not sure why the hell we decided to hang out.

“So what are you hungry for, Devon?”

“There’s a little Italian place up the road a bit, we can—”

“Italian’s awesome, but if you don’t mind, we’ll have someone pick it up. It’s ridiculously hard not to get noticed when I go out and—”

“I should’ve thought about that,” I say, chewing the inside of my cheek again. Perhaps being naive isn’t as wonderful as she makes it sound.

“Do you know their menu?” She gets up and grabs her tablet. “Here it is.” She sits down right next to me.
 

I can feel the heat of her body, and there is something about it that gives me chills. Cole notices and turns her head to me. Her face is close to mine. I can smell the peppermint of her breath.