Chapter 8
Laine
Tom slid in next to Irv with his tray of tacos and horchatas. Randee waited at the head of the table for a second before slipping in next to me. She gathered up a greasy waxed bag of fries and a packet of ketchup.
Tom doled out the food. “Kill wanted to know how I got into the Emerald Room.”
“How did you get into the Emerald Room?” Irving asked.
“Laine got us in.”
“Please tell me you won’t make that public,” I growled.
“No,” Tom said, smearing green salsa all over his burrito. “I told them I went in as a civilian. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.”
“You might get sued,” I said as I noticed Randee drawing a perfect red line of ketchup across a single fry.
“Or Kill could get sued,” Irving said. “They go after the deep pockets.”
The color drained from Tom’s face, if there had been any there to begin with. “I didn’t realize.”
“I’m not saying I told you so.” I pointed my straw at him. “But I want to. I’m saying, if you act docile, they’ll drop it.”
“How do you do it?” he asked. “How do you chase so hard and never get into trouble?”
“I know where the lines are.” I said it self-righteously even though I shouldn’t have. I kept in the career lines, but I hadn’t gone into the Emerald Room so my brother could meet a girl. My ass had been on fire to see Michael again, to talk to him, and I had been looking for an excuse to make it happen. Why did I only realize my motivations after the fact? I shook my head. “I wouldn’t worry about it. America’s Boyfriend won’t rock the boat hard enough to get in on the lawsuit, and everyone will be bored of it in a week. In the meantime, lay low.”
“What am I supposed to do for money?” He pushed his food away. “I made a good take on this, but a couple of weeks?”
Randee spoke up. “We’ll get you some work with the band. It’ll be fun!”
Tom shrugged as if that was nothing, but I saw the tension melt off him. For the next half an hour, we talked about anything else: what movies were being made where, the best spots to shoot, what kind of camera Tom should get me.
“Seven grand?” he said, his face puckered.
“At least. Unless you can get a discount from Merv. I’m sorry, but I’m not letting you off the hook for this.”
My phone rang with a number I didn’t recognize. Usually that meant a good tip, and usually I’d get a shot of adrenaline and reach for my rig before I even answered. But this time, I wondered for a split second if it was someone corroborating whether or not I had been on the balcony with Michael.
I knew right then that I wouldn’t lie for Tom. “Hello?”
“I’m sorry, I just realized it’s the middle of the night.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Is this Laine Cartwright?”
“Is that who you dialed?”
There was the pause that usually came after an aggressive reply to a request for immediate self-identification.
“I hope so, or I’m going to have to apologize to a complete stranger.”
I didn’t recognize his voice until he was in the middle of that sentence, and my knees turned viscous.
“I know it’s irregular, but my assistant got your number,” Michael said. “I hope you’re not upset with me.”
I glanced at Irv then Tom. If they could see the quivering in my gut, they gave no sign.
“How did she get it?” I said, stalling.
“I can ask her in the morning. I don’t want to wake her again.”
“Can you hold on a second?” I slipped off the bench. It was rude to talk on the phone at the table, but more importantly, I needed to hear what he had to say without Irving watching me and Randee listening like a boom mic. I tried to keep my head as I crouched on the curb of the parking lot. It was relatively quiet, and the smell from the dumpster wasn’t so bad.
“I’m sorry I left like that,” he said.
“Don’t be. Tom should be apologizing. He crossed a line. And me too. I didn’t mean to take a picture on the balcony. It was an app fail.”
“I’ll get your brother a new camera.”
“It was mine,” I said, “so don’t worry about it. I have a good spare.”
“I want to replace it.”
I smiled a little. “You were always so decent. But no. He wasn’t supposed to bring it into the club, so he’s got to shell out the cash.”
“My father would be disappointed if I didn’t take responsibility for my actions.”
“It was a nice rig.” I leaned against the cinderblock wall and rolled a half-empty beer bottle with my heel. “I don’t want to put you out.”
“I’ll borrow money from my parents if I have to.”
I smiled. I couldn’t help it. The fact that he’d thrown my camera from a balcony clamored for my attention and told me I should be mad. I was mad. I was boiling mad. But then again, I wasn’t.
“I can’t come to your office to pick it up. People will talk.” I kicked the empty beer bottle until it rolled a few feet and clattered. I hoped he couldn’t hear it, or he’d know I was in a filthy parking lot.
“I’ll bring it to you.”
“That works both ways. If I’m seen with you, it’s bad. No one wants to tip a pap who’s friends with A-listers. You can just call Merv’s Photo and have them leave it for me.”
That was the most obvious solution. His assistant or whomever would make a call, I’d walk into the photo store, see a hundred people I knew, pick up a camera, and get away clean. It was the best and only way to manage this, but I didn’t want that. I wanted to suggest it, but at the thought of seeing him again, I felt heady and excited. I prayed just a little that there was a reason that wouldn’t work.
“Is that how you think of me?” he said. “An A-lister?”
How I thought of him? I hadn’t stopped thinking about him since we’d crossed paths. I thought about how he would taste, how he would sound low in his throat, how he’d touch me.
“I gotta make a living.” I didn’t think about my auto-answer until after I said it. Then I had to backpedal. “But it was nice to meet the guy with the bad serve again.”
“I had a great serve. I just couldn’t hit the inside corner.”
“You should have listened to your coach,” I whispered, snickering. God, what was happening to me? Was I giggling?
A busboy came out of the back of the restaurant with a bucket of onion leavings. His apron dripped with raw chicken gunk, and his gloves were caked with who-even-knew.
“How about this?” he said. “I have an event at the Breakfront School tomorrow night. They’re great at locking the joint down. I’ll get you in, and I can give it to you there.”
“You’ll get me in?” I said, assuming he could hear my sarcasm.
“Why? Did you have an invitation?”
“Oh, screw you, superstar.”
Of course I hadn’t been invited. I’d been a student there for fifteen minutes and made nothing of myself that anyone thought was important. Even the people who bought my pictures did it in the shadows. No one invited me to a party unless there was a velvet rope for me to stand behind.
But Michael and his parents went every year. That had always been a temptation for me.
“Are your parents going this year?” I kicked myself before the last word was out of my mouth.
“Oh, I remember now…you have a Brooke thing.”
He called his parents by their first names, of course. So Hollywood. It was almost charming on him.
“It’s not a big deal. I’m sorry. Forget I asked.”
“I was going to introduce you to her when we were in school, but you never let me.”
Because I’d die, obviously. I wasn’t a fan of anyone. I wasn’t a follower of the stars unless following them could make me money. I didn’t care one way or the other what happened to any of them. Except Brooke Chambers. I’d seen Michael’s mother in Love in Between when I was eleven, and I’d never been the same. Her dewy goodness, generosity, and kindness broke my heart. I didn’t want to be her. I wanted to be near her in a way I couldn’t explain. I saw every movie she was in, and when I met Michael, I spent an hour explaining her virtues as an actress.
“Well, if your mother’s not going,” I said, “I’m not going.”
“See you there, Shuttergirl.”
I hung up without saying good-bye but smiling nonetheless.