Chapter 15
Laine
When I’d gotten to my car the previous night, I had two choices: see if I had any tips on my phone or sit there and cry. Crying wasn’t an option. I didn’t cry over anything, especially not some guy and a pack of stinking paps, so I checked my texts.
I’d had messages from all over the city. The last one came in seconds earlier and was close enough to the loft that I could grab my spare rig. So I did that without thinking about a thing. I went to the Starlight, put the camera to my face, and realized I’d only checked the camera for battery power.
There was a reason it was a spare: it was busted. The shutter was broken.
I’d stood there in my evening dress and pumps, ignoring the jibes from my peers as I tried to get the shutter to snap. I’d chased like a dog but missed the shot of Thomasina Wente leaving the club with a broken heel. I went back home and fell into bed, still feeling the press of Michael’s lips on mine and the ache of longing between my legs. It was a living thing, buzzing for attention, taking blood flow and fluid. When I slipped my hands beneath my underwear, I was soaked and my clit was hardened to a furious stone.
So I did what millions of women had done and would do—I rubbed myself to orgasm thinking of Michael Greydon. Finding that wasn’t enough, I did it again, until I stiffened from toes to throat, thinking of nothing, feeling everything, lost in him. I fell asleep cursing his name and breathing deeply of his cinnamon scent on my hair.
I woke up to the phone ringing and his spicy scent still in my nose. I’d wash my hair, for sure. Just as soon as I answered the phone. Or maybe tomorrow.
“Hello,” I mumbled without looking at the caller. I’d left the blinds open, and the morning sun punched me in the face. I rolled over.
Tom said, “What the heck, Laine?”
“It’s nine in the morning. What the heck is right.”
“Michael? Michael Greydon? Really?”
I groaned. The pictures must have gone up. I had no idea what Tom was doing up so early, but the first thing any pap did in the morning was look at the gossip sites to see what marks were doing, who’d gotten the shots, and what were trending subjects. Tom, as much as he denied being a pap, did it every day.
“We happened to be at a party together.”
Why was I lying? Not to protect myself but to protect Michael. Stupid and pointless.
“Laine, it’s all over the feeds.”
I jumped out of bed, flipping back the covers. I scuttled to my desk, still in my fancy black underwear. I knew what Tom had seen. I knew exactly what those pictures looked like, but I couldn’t go another second without seeing them.
“It’s not a big deal,” I said, sitting down.
“If you say so.” His tone said he didn't believe the words or the woman who uttered them.
I found the pictures immediately. They were exactly what I thought they’d be, from the angle to the strength of the flash. Rows of consecutive frames of us kissing on the roof, and me turning so my face was toward the cameras. I couldn’t deny it. I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t me. And of course, no one could pretend it wasn’t Michael, because the public had memorized his face long ago. I felt an odd ownership of it, as if they were sharing something of mine without my permission. It was an ugly, jealous feeling.
“Shit,” I grumbled.
“He’s got his hand on your ass.”
I scrolled down. They’d all sold it. From Raoul with his blown-out strobe to Terry who couldn’t frame to save his life, and each photo made my thighs quiver with the memory of how every nerve ending from my waist to my knees had been on fire. That kiss, hand on ass or no, had been worth recording. I couldn’t stop staring at the angle of his chin against mine, and his fingertips pressing into my biceps as if he wanted to crawl into me. My hand inside his jacket, feeling for the hardness of his body.
My phone buzzed in my ear.
“I have to go.” I clicked off with Tom and checked my called ID. “Pheebs, don’t get on my case.”
“Michael Greydon? Michael freaking Greydon? The most gorgeous—”
“Really? Pheeb? Really?” If Phoebe’s clients heard the way she spoke about celebrities, they’d never guess she was a lawyer.
“—unattainable—”
“Stop.”
“—talented—”
“It’s not that big a deal.”
“—charming—”
“I’m going to hang up.” I scrolled down my computer screen. DMZ had drawn hearts and camera flashes all over us.
“Gorgeous. Okay, that’s the last thing I’m saying.”
“Here’s what I’m saying, and I quote, ‘Michael Greydon, the prince of the Hollywood system, caught kissing the lady frog and known paparazzi, Laine Cartwright, on a rooftop at the Breakfront School. Who will photograph the wedding? And with paparazzi on the invite list, how much of Hollywood royalty will attend?’” I read.
“What was it like? Kissing him?”
I leaned back in my chair and put my bare foot on the desk. “Like kissing any guy.” I flexed and released my knee so I rocked in the desk chair. “Kissing any guy who’s the best kisser in the world.”
“Oh, God.” Phoebe was swooning. I knew the swoon. She swooned like that over a cycle of ten actors, some dropping out so a new one could replace him. “How did it happen? Tell me everything.”
My phone vibrated again. I looked at the screen quickly and put it back to my ear. “I can’t. I have another call. Two, actually.”
“Call me later!”
I had Irving and an unknown number. I picked up the unknown number. Maybe it was a tip, and I’d have an excuse to run out the door without brushing my hair. “This is Laine.”
“Hello, Laine, this is Brenda Vinter from the LA Post Almanac section. How are you today?”
How was I? I’d been fine, very fine, excellent even, until a reporter called. I’d worked with the Post often enough but only with editorial acquisitions. Never reporting.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Vinter?”
“Well, as you know, we’re an old-fashioned paper, so though we can’t catch stories as quickly as you can, we have the ability to put together meatier pieces, so—”
“You’re comparing what you do with what I do?”
Was I being hostile? Yes, I was being hostile. I didn’t even know what I thought that would get me, but I was watching my life get pulled away from me. Being hostile seemed like the only way to get it back.
“Do you have time for a few questions about these pictures on the roof last night?”
“The Almanac section is industry news. How is who Michael kisses industry news?” I asked.
“He’s kissing the industry. You’re a star in your own right.”
No, I wasn’t. I was a frog, and she was stroking my slick green hide to get me to jump.
“Thank you for calling,” I said. “I have no comment.”
I hung up as if the phone were on fire, and in a sense, it was. I was in way over my depth, and a buzzing sense of disorientation deafened me to any other thoughts. The only way to quiet it was to pace my loft, saying what I always said when I felt unsure, but I felt like a liar for the first time.
I own this city.
I own this city.
I own this city.