“Grace, how’s it feel to know all the women in the world want to fuck your boyfriend?”
My face flaming, I kept my head down and followed Michael as he led us in the direction of Lane and my car. Oh my God, how were we going to drive away in this? My heart beat fast, and I was legitimately in over my head.
How had they known we were here?
Once near the car, Michael and Lane put Jack into the front seat, and I managed to get around to the other side. But I couldn’t drive. I was petrified. I pleaded with Michael with my eyes. I needed help. I didn’t want to speak. I didn’t want anything I had to say to be heard by these people. Luckily, Jack was quiet. But he had heard everything, and his eyes met mine. They looked dead.
Michael came around to my side after whispering something in Lane’s ear and taking my keys. Adam stood near the car—close enough to make sure he was in the shot, I noticed. Michael opened the driver’s side and ushered me into the backseat. The photographers were on my side now, so I made sure to keep my dress tucked around my legs, not wanting to flash anyone. Once inside, I looked back at the house and saw Lane walking up the sidewalk, making sure Adam came with him.
My instinct was to reach out for Jack, but that would make for a better story, so I sat back, low in the seat, my hands over my face as I was on the verge of tears.
As Michael got in and turned the ignition on, Jack spoke into the back of his hand. “I fucking hate this.”
Two hours later, and I mean two solid hours later, the three of us made it home. Jack sat in the backyard, slouched into the love seat under a thick cashmere blanket, coffee in hand. I kept sneaking a peek at him from the window off the kitchen. He hadn’t moved or spoken since we got home.
We called Bryan after we left, because we didn’t know where to go or what to do. I didn’t want to lead them back to the house, even though at this point I was pretty sure the press knew where we lived. Michael didn’t want to keep driving around up in the hills. The hairpin turns at night were sharp enough without a legion of tan sedans keeping pace. Finally, after speaking with Bryan, we arranged a switch. We drove to a parking garage over by the Beverly Center, where he was waiting with his Suburban, the dark-tinted windows making it difficult to see inside. The ride had sobered Jack somewhat, and we were hurried into the SUV and back on the road within moments, leaving my car behind to pick up the next day. We had managed to lose the photographers just long enough to get our cars switched. As we were pulling out I saw tan sedan after tan sedan drive in, looking for my car.
They were good.
Now Bryan had gone, Jack was bundled on the patio, and Michael and I were nursing cups of coffee, which had been nicely complemented by a heavy splash of Jameson. A very heavy splash—essentially it was Jameson with a shot of coffee and not the other way around. As the Irish whiskey hit my tummy, I warmed considerably, beginning to unwind a bit and let my body process everything that had just happened. My hands finally stopped shaking when it became almost impossible to get the cup to my mouth without spilling. My hands knew never to waste Irish whiskey, so they behaved.
I leaned against the counter, sipping and staring but not really seeing anything in front of me. All I could see were those flashbulbs, hear those terrible things they were shouting, and then Jack’s words as we pulled away.
“How’re you doing?” Michael asked, raising the bottle once more and adding another substantial splash to my cup and his own.
“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.” I sighed, holding my head in my hand.
This was Jack’s life, my life, and how we chose to deal with this now would dictate how we handled things in the future. It was so easy to think this kind of thing would be something you could easily get past, that the money we were making and the spoils this kind of industry provided made up for it. But no amount of money, no amount of special VIP treatment and swag-bag goodies justified the treatment we had just received. Jack had already been in one accident. So was I being dramatic when my brain went to the worse possible scenario? No.
I loved this life, however. I loved the work and the opportunity, the high that I got performing again. And the paycheck was nothing to sneeze at. Jack was right: we could take what he had already made and the money I had in savings, plus my new income, and we could disappear. Seychelles? Sure. East end of London? Of course. Farm in Iowa where I could grow my own salads and put up jars of jam and beans for us to survive the hard, lean winter?
Okay, you’re not Laura Ingalls . . .
Regardless, Iowa had its own appeal, and there’s no question Jack would look fantastic in overalls with a pitchfork.
But realistically we wouldn’t do any of those things. Because I had fought to get back here, and I wasn’t letting some slimeball with a telephoto lens run me out of anywhere. So we would deal. But how?
“I was not prepared for that. Next time I will be,” I muttered, looking past Michael’s concerned eyes to my bundle on the patio, who still hadn’t moved.
Michael called a cab and left a little while later, promising to check in tomorrow. I didn’t ask him about what might or might not be going on with Holly. I would let her squirm for a bit before I put on the real pressure. It was rare I had something juicy like this that I could press out of her, and I was going to enjoy getting her to tell me.
For now, I headed outside and poked Jack with my toe. He was still wrapped up. Wordlessly, he unfolded his arms and let me sit on his lap, sharing his blanket with me. He held me tight, cradling me into his chest and letting our breathing sync. In. Out. In. Out.
We sat in the quiet night, interrupted only occasionally by a coyote howl. Laurel Canyon was magical, especially at night. I could understand why so many musicians and artists set up shop here so many years ago. It was inspiring at every turn.
He sighed heavily, his arms tightening, bringing me as close as he could. I let him, his entire body was craving contact, and I wanted to be that for him, his contact. I threaded my hand through his, breathing in his scent, which was concentrated thickly at my favorite spot on his neck, just below his ear. Every limb intertwined, the blanket covering us from the world, I sat with my sweet boy, listening to his heartbeat.
“Can we talk about this tomorrow?” he asked quietly, his body tense.
“Yes, but we will talk about it,” I replied, squeezing his hand.
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
“Not bloody likely.”
Every time I closed my eyes I saw those damn flashbulbs.
nine
Time heartthrob Jack Hamilton and rumored girlfriend Grace Sheridan were partying hard in the Hollywood Hills last night! The couple was photographed leaving the party, with Jack intoxicated to the point of being held up by his girlfriend and another party guest. Sources from inside the party last night tell us, “He was drinking a lot, spending most of his time at the bar with Adam Kasen.”
Jack Hamilton skipped the fender and went right for the bender, getting so drunk last night at a party hosted by his manager, Holly Newman, he had to be helped out to a waiting car! Grace Sheridan, older actress, and Michael O’Connell, writer and creator of Grace’s new show on Venue, held up the Sexy Scientist Guy as they left the party last night. Sources inside the party confirm that while Jack and Grace refuse to confirm their relationship, the two got very chummy there. “She was totally sitting on his lap. They were kissing and ignoring everyone else they were sitting with. She knew there were people watching too, and she made sure everyone saw she was with him.” The actress hid in the backseat as they sped away; Jack appeared to be passed out cold in the front seat.
In the hills of Beverly last night, photographers caught Jack Hamilton sneaking out of a party hosted by his manager, so drunk he was barely able to walk to his car! By his side was rumored girlfriend Grace Sheridan, nine years his senior and star of the upcoming show on Venue, Mabel’s Unstable? The pair struggled to their car, helped by fellow actors Lane Robbins and Ada
m Kasen, Hollywood bad boy. Kasen, a castmate of Jack’s in the still-in-production soldier flick Soldier Boy, has been spotted out on the town with Jack. The two actors have been seen partying at various nightclubs and bars in Los Angeles lately. Sources close to the unconfirmed couple say that Grace is “furious at Jack for spending so much time out at night.” Grace sat in the backseat of the car last night as the couple sped away from photographers, both trying to hide their faces from cameras. Dr. Richard Pearson, psychiatrist and expert on substance abuse, speculates on Jack’s condition. “He’s displayed the classic signs of someone who is having difficulty dealing with the pressure this industry can place on young stars. He is in real trouble. He’s clearly not handling the fame well.”
I closed my laptop and thought of Jack, still in bed and sound asleep. Sawing logs but still gloriously cute. I made coffee and didn’t think about it. I sliced peaches and nectarines for a fruit salad and didn’t think about it. I perched on the end of my kitchen island, the granite cool underneath me as I hyperventilated, not thinking about it.
Why was it necessary that every time they referred to me, they made sure to comment on the nine-year age difference? I knew it; he knew it; anyone could see it, but really? Every time?
I snot-sobbed, letting everything out in a way I hadn’t for a long time. Everything that had happened lately, everything we were going through would once have ended up in the Drawer, where all bad things went. In the past, when I couldn’t deal with something, I literally didn’t deal with it. Instead, I walled all things unpleasant into a tight little box, which eventually exploded. And landed on everyone around me. This had happened spectacularly at Jack’s Time premiere the previous year.
Now I vowed to deal with things as they happened, in the moment and in the present. This resulted in a lot more tears but a much less confused head. And now I needed to talk to Jack. Armed with a breakfast tray loaded down with treats, I headed into our bedroom. Sprawled across his side with one hand on my pillow, searching out missing boobies more than likely, was the Sexiest Man Alive. Still snoring, he wore the sheets low on his hips, revealing that happy trail that made me more than happy. I set down the tray and curled into his side, pressing kisses across his shoulder and chest as he stirred. Green sleepy eyes opened to mine, and a sweet smile crept across his face.
“Hey.”
“Hey, yourself,” I whispered, dipping down to kiss on that sweet smile. His hands tangled into my hair, and he tried to pull me down to him, coaxing me with promises of what he’d do to me if I let him.
I almost let him. It would be a wonderful way to get lost and avoid what had happened, even if just for the morning. But I had nectarines. And a Brit to take to the woodshed, although in a kinder way than I’d originally thought I’d be taking him.
“No, no, Sweet Nuts, I made breakfast. Come on, let’s eat.”
“Oh, I’ll eat all right.”
“That’s crass, love.”
“Never heard any complaints,” he sassed, licking his lips and beginning to flip me over. I knew I had to take control. Once he was south of my belly button he would own me, and I wouldn’t even be able to spell “woodshed.”
It’s an easy word to spell. Come on, let him do it.
“I have nectarines,” I protested.
“So do I,” he responded immediately, leading my hand south on his body as well. I copped a quick feel—I wasn’t made of steel—then wisely sat up, removing his hands from my body before I could get too distracted. I scooted away from him on the bed, pouring some coffee as he protested.
“Killing me, Grace.” He sighed as he sank back onto his pillow, draping his arm across his eyes and adjusting himself with his other hand.
I forced my eyes back to the breakfast and away from the accidental erotica that was playing out on the other side of the bed. I brought over the tray, sitting cross-legged opposite him, keeping the tray between us. I knew him. If I were next to him, the tray would go flying.
He sat up, running his hands through his hair as though he still had it and grimacing as he did so. Tongue thick, he gestured for the bottle of water I had brought. I handed it to him. He drained it. I sugared his coffee and passed it to him. He accepted it gratefully. His eyes were bright green this morning, made even more striking by the redness and circles underneath. He looked young and old at the same time, and as I ate my fruit, I contemplated how to proceed.
“You’re pissed again,” he offered, making my decision for me.
“I’m pissed again,” I admitted, nibbling on a muffin.
He was sticking to coffee, turning his nose up at any food, actually paling a little when I offered him some bacon. He was hungover. Good. He needed to feel this.
“Grace, I didn’t know there were photographers out there. How could I have known that?”
“Oh, I’m not pissed about that. I’m pissed about the fact that you were so drunk off your ass that now that’s the story on every gossip site this morning: your inability to deal with your fame in any other way than drinking.”
“Oh, now I’m an alcoholic?”
“I didn’t say that, but the press isn’t that far off from it.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m not an alcoholic.”
“No shit. What you are is partying way too much and making an ass of yourself. And how shocking, Adam Kasen is there every time this happens.”
“You think he’s behind this?”
“I don’t really care who’s behind this. I don’t care who made sure the press knew exactly where we were last night. I don’t care who’s quoted as a source in every article online right now. What I care about is you and how you’re handling yourself in public.”
“Oh, great. Now I’ve got another woman telling me what to do. Between you and Holly managing every single aspect of my career, I’ve about had it,” he snapped, stepping out of the bed and onto the floor, remembering afterward that he was naked.
He stood there, his anger dissipating in the cool air, along with anything else that might have been worked up.
“I’m not wearing any pants.”
“I can see that.”
“Where are my pants?”
“In the bathroom on the floor, where you left them last night after you threw up.”
“I threw up?”
“You don’t remember that?”
“No. I remember being out back with you, and then . . . bollocks, that’s the last thing I remember.” He sighed, hands on his hips as he surveyed the room.
“I’m still naked,” he said after a moment.
“I’m aware of this,” I replied, trying to keep my stern face on. He knew me better, however.
“If I apologize naked, will that hold any more weight than a clothed apology?”
“I don’t want you to apologize, Jack. I just want you to think next time, think about what you’re doing.”
“So then a naked apology would be wasted?” He bumped his hips back and forth a bit as I struggled not to laugh.
“I’d rather the apology be wasted than my boyfriend.”
“That was pretty good, Crazy.”
“Still not kidding.”
“Still not wearing pants,” he said, now turning himself toward the bathroom. “Did you say they were this way?” He pointed in a rather unconventional way.
He had recovered quickly. I was going to lose control of this conversation very soon. I could tell where this was headed. I crawled across the bed to him, sitting on my knees in front of him, bringing him close and hugging him. Pressing my face into his tummy, I kissed him quickly then turned my face up to his, which I found gazing down at me. He pushed a curl behind my ear, then brought his hand to my mouth, where I kissed his knuckles.
“I know I’ve been saying this a lot lately, but it’s not sinking in. Just be careful, okay?”
“I will, Grace. I will. Now, about sinking in?” He pressed his body against me in a way that could not be misinterpreted.
“Would you quit
being so charming? I’m still pissed at you,” I warned as he pushed me back against the bed and had me out of my yoga pants in two seconds flat.
“I know,” he answered, pressing into my body exquisitely.
Turns out I was able to orbit the earth a few times and still be pissed off.
“Put him on the phone.”
“Holly, I told you. He’s in the shower.”
“Get him out.”
“No. But I promise he’ll call you as soon as he’s done.”
“Bring the phone into the bathroom. You can tell him everything I’m saying.”
“Do you have this kind of access to everyone you represent or just the ones fucking your best friend?”
“Cute, asshead. Real cute.”
She chuckled, and I could tell she was backing down a bit. I breathed out. This being in between the two of them was beginning to wear a bit thin. I curled my legs underneath me, settling into the comfy sofa with another cup of coffee. After making sure I wasn’t too pissed to come—repeatedly because he’s thorough like that—Jack had disappeared into the shower to clear his head, and I finished breakfast. It was a rare day lately that we were both at home with nowhere to go and nowhere we needed to be, so I was planning on circling the wagons a bit and spending a quiet day with my boy.
“I assume you’ve already seen the pictures?” Holly asked.
“I have. Did you notice no deer-in-headlights this time?”
“Yep, you’re learning. Few more of those and you’ll be a pro.”
I bit my tongue. She called me out on my silence.
“I know you’re not quiet over there because you’re surprised by this, are you?”
“I just didn’t expect it last night is all. How did they know we were there?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Adam?”
“Adam,” she replied.
“You’re sure?”
“Not completely, but it makes the most sense. Although honestly, it could have been anyone. There’s no real rhyme or reason. You two could go parade down Sunset in front of Grauman’s Chinese right now and no one would notice, but you buy one box of condoms at the grocery store, and it’ll be front-page news. Don’t buy your own condoms, by the way. I’ll get someone to get you some when you need them.”