Imposter (9 page)

IT'S COOL AND CLOUDY OUTSIDE. FOR
a few moments I stand completely still, stuffing bills into the pockets of my stiff black jeans. It's got to be several hundred dollars—more than I earned for both my commercials.

As I look around for a taxi, I spot Maggie only a couple blocks away. She's walking slowly, shoulders rising and falling like she's crying. Since just about everyone drives in L.A., I figure she must be going somewhere nearby.

I follow her. Block by block, the buildings become smaller. There's less glitz and glamour, and more apartment buildings with tiny pools.

Maggie never looks back. Not a single glance at the building she's left behind and the people inside who trusted her. Why didn't she just lie? I never could've proved that she leaked the story.

She stops before glass double doors and places a key in one of the mailboxes that run in rows against the wall—bottom row, far left. She retrieves her mail without looking at it, and goes inside a four-story building with stucco walls.

I run to catch up, but the door has already closed. The mailboxes have apartment numbers on them—hers is 17. There's an
intercom beside the door for visitors, but what would I say to her? She did this for me. For herself too, I think. After Kris took cheap shots at us, it must have felt good to exact revenge so swiftly.

I turn away from the boxes. The street is quiet, empty except for a single car that idles along at walking pace. I'm distracted, so I don't recognize the vehicle until it pulls alongside me.

It's the forest-green Mazda.

I run toward it to get a look at the driver. When I'm a few yards away he floors the gas. Tires skid. I'm left stranded in the middle of the road.

Several seconds later, my phone chimes. There's another text message:
I'm still watching.

A car door opens as I approach the entrance to the hotel. A black Porsche, no less. “Get in,” a voice shouts.

I peer inside. Kris leans across the passenger seat. “We need to talk,” he says. “Or we can have a conversation like this. Your choice.”

I don't want to get in. But if he thinks it was me who leaked the information about him and Tamara, he's going to make my life miserable. At least this'll give me the chance to set the record straight.

As I slide onto the leather seat, a couple of women stop beside the car. “Oh my God,” one shouts. “It's Kris Ellis. Hi!”

Kris gives a tired wave. “Merry Christmas.” Then he whispers to me, “Close the door.”

I shut it, separating us from the women and the sounds of L.A. traffic.

“Damn.” Kris pulls onto Wilshire and hangs a left a couple blocks later. “That's annoying.”

“Having fans is annoying?”

“After this morning's news, yeah.” He regards me from the corner of his eye. “You heard, right?”

I nod.

“And now those
fans
are texting that they just saw me. It'll be on Twitter in seconds. Entertainment sites will catch my name moments after that. There'll be at least one photographer at the hotel within five minutes. By the time I drop you off, you'll find it hard to get in the door.” He speaks in a kind of low-energy drone, resigned but not frustrated.

He checks his rearview mirror several times as he cuts a jagged path through Beverly Hills. I don't recognize the street where he stops, but the sidewalk is almost empty, even though there's a coffee shop right next to us. Tourists clearly don't bother with this block.

“Did you go home with Sabrina last night?” he asks.

“No. You saw her leave the party alone, same as I did.”

“Sure. And I saw you leave right after her. Haven't seen her since, either.” He peers through the window as if he's looking for something. Then he turns the engine off and unclips his seat belt. “Come on. This place makes seriously good coffee.”

The shop is small and mostly empty, quiet except for soft jazz coming from a single speaker. Movie posters adorn every inch of wall space. Kris bumps fists with the barista, orders us lattes, and pays with a twenty. He doesn't wait for change.

We take a table at the back. Kris chooses a wicker chair that faces the entrance.

“Man, just look at us,” he says. “I swear Hollywood works in crazy ways. One day you're dressed in a chicken suit outside of El Pollo Loco, the next you're Brad Pitt, movie star. It's kind of like you and Annaleigh, actually. Seems impossible, what's happened to you. Doesn't it?”

He's chosen that word—
impossible
—deliberately. “What do you mean?”

“I'm not trying to be a jerk. Just being honest. Fact is, you're bumbling around, all I-can't-believe-I'm-in-Hollywood. And that's your choice. But Sabrina's way too vulnerable to be hanging out with someone as naive as you.”

“Says you.”

“Says me,” he agrees without a hint of embarrassment.

The coffees arrive. Kris wraps his large hands around the cup. “Look, you ever wondered why everyone knows so much more about Sabrina than they do about me? It's because I've had the same friends for the past ten years. I look after them, and I trust them to keep their mouths shut. Sabrina isn't like that. She isolates herself, then trusts anyone who's nice to her.”

“Even a stranger?”

“Especially a stranger. And right now, that stranger is you. She probably likes that you're naive, actually—it's a luxury she's never had. Trouble is, Sabrina doesn't always know what's best for her.”

I've heard other guys spout stuff like this, but I'm surprised to hear it from Kris. He seems too savvy for that. “The way I see it, Sabrina's got things figured out better than anyone.”

A smile envelops his face. “Don't tell me—she shared her Gilda theory with you, right?” He mimics her. “The secret is the
separation of self into three equally valid yet distinct personas.”

It's a crappy impersonation, and I wouldn't laugh anyway. I can't tell whether he's ridiculing Sabrina, or me for listening to her.

“Look,” he says, growing serious again, “that right there is proof, she's messed up. You really think she can keep that shit straight in her head?” He takes a sip and puts the cup back down again quickly, like he doesn't want to lose momentum. “She doesn't know who she is half the time, let alone who she's meant to be. That's why she does crazy stuff like leaking the story about Tamara and me.”

I try to stay calm. “Why would she do that?”

“To get back at me. Probably feels like I humiliated her last night. She was kind of out of it, running her mouth, saying a bunch of stupid crap to anyone who'd listen. I was trying to get her to leave when you showed up.”

“And she'd ruin you over something like that?”

“She hasn't
ruined
me. This'll disappear soon enough. Compared to some guys, I'm a saint.”

We both focus on our coffee. He's telling the truth about the “crap” Sabrina was saying—Annaleigh heard it firsthand—but I'm still not sure he's being up-front about his own feelings for her. Or why they broke up in the first place. All I know is that one moment Sabrina was sharing the red carpet with her boyfriend, and the next he was gone from her life.

Come to think of it, so was her best friend.

“Were you and Genevieve Barron ever together?” I ask.

He snorts into his coffee. “Hell no!” He wipes foam from his
lips with the back of his hand. “Anyway, Gen was Sabrina's best friend.”

“Exactly.
Was
. Now they're not talking.”

“Come on. You know how girls are: One moment they're inseparable, the next they're not speaking. Gen changed when she got out of acting. She was always kind of needy, but got real preachy too. Pissed Sabrina off.”

Silence. I figure Kris will have more questions, but he seems to be done. Was this really just about putting me on my guard? If so, I could've saved him the trouble. Maggie and my anonymous stalker have already done that.

“That stupid crap Sabrina was saying last night. Was any of it about me?” I ask.

“She said a lot of stuff about a lot of people.”

“Including me?”

He stares at his coffee. Taps his index finger against the ceramic mug like he's playing for time. “She mentioned you, yeah. But it was only good stuff, you know?”

It's obvious that he's lying. But if he heard Sabrina insulting me, why not seize the opportunity to drive us even further apart?

“Look, can you do me a couple favors?” he asks.

“Like what?”

“Give me your number, and I'll give you mine. I want to stay in touch.”

I can't think of a good reason to say no, so we exchange phones and enter our numbers. “What else?”

“That woman you were with last night—apologize for me, okay? I was pissed at Sabrina, and angry that you interrupted us.
But it was totally uncool, what I said.” He gives a wan smile. “I guess Sabrina's not the only one who runs her mouth in public, you know?”

The expression may be practiced, but the way he reddens isn't. I give a halfhearted nod, the best I can offer under the circumstances.

It's strange, but his lie about what Sabrina said makes me take his other words more seriously. And as we leave the coffee shop, I realize I have no idea who Kris Ellis really is.

KRIS WAS RIGHT—PHOTOGRAPHERS HOVER AT
the
hotel entrance, two rows deep. He drives right past and drops me a hundred yards down the road. By the time the paparazzi catch up to us, he's pulling away.

The photographers snap pictures, murmuring his name. Sabrina's too. Finally they turn their attention to me, because any photo is better than no photo at all.

I run inside and take the elevator. In front of my door, legs pulled up, chin resting on her knees, is Sabrina.

She doesn't look like the same girl I kissed at the party last night. She looks worn down, as if she hasn't slept. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused.

“Hi,” she says.

I unlock the door and she follows me inside. There's only one reason for her visit: to hear me promise that I had nothing to do with outing Kris and Tamara. From the way I'm avoiding eye contact, she has probably already worked out the truth.

Sabrina spreads her fingers across the patio door. “Did you have a nice walk? Ryder said you left a couple hours ago.”

I try to detect suspicion in her voice, but she sounds like
she's just making conversation. “What do you want, Sabrina?”

“To make sure we're still friends.”

Last night she kissed me. Today she wants to be friends. Does she do this with every male costar? Which of her three personas does she draw on for that particular role? Which persona is she drawing on now?

How pathetic am I for wishing that I knew?

“Last night, at the bar, did you really call me a . . . mess?” I ask.

She bumps her head against the glass. “Probably. I wasn't exactly myself.”

“What does that mean?” I wait for her to answer, but she doesn't. “What about the other times we've been together? Were you yourself
then
?”

“On the beach, yeah.”

“Not the first time we met, though. Not at that party.”

“It's complicated.”

Actually, it doesn't seem complicated at all. Any time she flirts, she's not herself. “It's fine,” I tell her.

She makes a little sound at the back of her throat like she's annoyed. “Don't be that way—all macho, like nothing can touch you. I remember sitting beside you on the sand. The way you listened.”

For a few moments I feel myself being dragged back into her orbit. But then I remember: She ditched me for Kris. Ripped me in front of her entourage. I can't separate myself into different personas like she does. For me, failing as an actor is still failing.

“Look, I was angry at you, okay?” she growls. “For questioning me about getting Kris to sign on. And then you went after that guy.”

“That
guy
was the one who tailed us the other night. He left in a green Mazda. And he's been sending me texts.”

“How did he get your number?”

“You tell me!”

She's silent for a moment. “This is what I warned you about. You're always being watched. That's why you need a public persona. The moment you step outside—”

“It's not that easy for me.”

“Or me. I've just had more practice.” She runs a finger across the glass like she's tracing letters in air. “I'm sorry I said that stuff about you, though. It was mean. I get that way sometimes. Give me an audience, and I can't help running my mouth.”

“Yeah, Kris told me.”

Her finger stops moving. “So that's why it took you so long to get here, huh?” She flares her nostrils. “Well, screw you.”

It was a mistake to mention Kris, but even so . . . “We were just talking.”

“Oh, really? So what else did he tell you?”

“Nothing.”

“I'm not going to let you gang up on me.”

“We're not ganging up. I think he cares, is all.”

“Yeah. He's all heart. You too. How lucky can one girl get?”

She pushes off and strides across the room. As she passes me, I touch her arm gently, but she swipes my hand away.

“Get the hell off me!” she yells.

I stagger back. Here's yet another new version of Sabrina—incandescent with rage—and it's not inspiring or alluring at all. Right now, she's just scary.

“Where did you go last night, Sabrina?”

She stops at the door. “Is that your question, or his?”

“Both, I guess.”

“You're worried for me, huh?” She wears the glimmer of a smile, but it's humorless and cold. “Well, don't be. I'm just fine.”

She slams the door behind her.

As I stand in the large, silent suite, a voice at the back of my head reminds me that I ought to be relieved. Sabrina doesn't have me pegged as the source of the leaked story. I can focus on the movie now, and put all the other stuff behind me.

But there's another voice too, louder and more insistent, that demands to know what the hell just happened. In what parallel universe does Sabrina Layton kiss me one day and ditch me the next?

I head out after her. Take the elevator downstairs as the first voice warns me that I might be doing exactly what she wants. That she's playing me like a chess piece—me and Kris and Ryder and the Hollywood press and pretty much the whole freaking world, all hanging on her every word and whim.

But even Annaleigh admitted that there was only one true star in this movie. If Sabrina pulls out, will there be a movie at all?

I hustle through the lobby, past large vases of fresh-cut flowers and loitering Christmas Eve couples. Outside, Sabrina is climbing into a taxi. She's only ten yards away from me, but an impenetrable wall of paparazzi separates us. They jostle her, stubborn as bloodhounds in the hunt.

“Sabrina,” I shout.

Faces turn toward me, including Sabrina's. Cameras flash at
me as well as her now, and she hesitates. Is she pleased that I'm distracting them, or angry that I'm stealing the spotlight?

“Seth?” A familiar voice distracts me. I turn to find two figures standing beside a just-arrived taxi. They carry mismatched duffel bags and wear identical puzzled expressions, like they're not sure they belong.

Me, I'm certain they don't belong. Not here. Not now.

As Sabrina's taxi pulls away, Dad and Gant wave.