CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Hollywood North
Nick left for Vancouver the next day and I started pitching the article. I was selective. Nick didn’t give many one-on-one interviews, and his story — the whole, true story — had never appeared anywhere in print or online before. It was a bombshell exclusive and worth a lot. I knew now it was Ray Towne who had been peddling what he’d called “shocking revelations” about Nick to publishers. Nick paid him double his rate to back off and he dropped the case.
I didn’t see Ray or the blue Taurus again, but I did speak to him on the phone a few times. I gave him a new case to work on, someone else to follow. It didn’t take him long to find something incriminating on Adam. A couple of the girls he’d featured on his site were underage. That meant he was liable for distributing child pornography, in addition to violating California’s revenge porn law when he posted the video of us. His mistake, I learned from Nick’s lawyer, was recording and posting the introduction. That made it easy to prove intent. The site and the YouTube channel were both shuttered, though whether that was voluntary or court ordered I didn’t know. I heard later he spent six months in jail and had to pay a hefty fine. I didn’t feel sorry for him. Knowing Adam he’d find a way to spin it in his favor.
Two weeks after I sent my first inquiry I got an email from an editor at Vanity Fair expressing interest in the story. They were considering it for a cover feature and offered to pay me more than I made in a month at Hollywood Beat to write it. There were other offers too, but none as good. I’d have loved to have seen Jackie’s face when the news of my commission made its way to her. I sent back a signed contributor agreement to Vanity Fair and embarked on a successful new career as a freelance writer.
I couldn’t wait to tell Nick. I reached him in his trailer on the set during a break. He said he was proud of me and they’d already contacted him to set up a photo shoot. We were crossing our fingers for Annie Leibovitz. That somehow made it real. My nerves kicked in every time I thought about the task before me. It wasn’t the article that made me anxious but the trust Nick had placed in me, the responsibility I had to tell his story in a meaningful and respectful way. I didn’t want to let him down.
Around the same time I was sending out pitches, I had one or two requests come to me. Some writers reached out to ask for an interview, some for a reaction to the video. I turned them all down. If there was going to be a piece about me and Adam I was going to be the one to write it. Ironically, his vengeful act had turned out to be the big break I needed. In the publicity-dominated media sphere it didn’t matter how people knew your name, only that they knew it. As Nick once told me, Hollywood wasn’t right or fair; that was just how it worked. And I was going to make it work for me for a change.
Sure, there were lewd comments from anonymous creeps on social media and the odd encounter with a photographer on the street. That would never go away completely. I got good at clapping back, publicly shaming the trolls and gaining more followers each time. Ordinary people recognized me sometimes in real life too. The thought process was written all over their faces. First there was the look of concentration as they tried to place me, then the flash of realization when they figured it out, then the blushing as their guilty conscience kicked in. I refused to let it get it to me. The way I saw it, if they were ashamed, it was on them. It didn’t matter what they thought anyway. I was going to be published in Vanity Fair.
A few days after I told Nick about the commission a Fed-Ex delivery arrived at my door. Inside the envelope there was an itinerary including a first-class ticket to Vancouver for the coming weekend, car service to and from the airport, and a two-night stay at the Sutton Place Hotel, all in my name. At the bottom of the paper Nick had written: “Congratulations on the article! We need to celebrate in person. Will you come?”
We weren’t officially a couple anymore, so I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I didn’t want to spend the trip second guessing his motives, but I wasn’t going to pass on an opportunity to see him again. I decided to go with the flow and keep my expectations in check. I sent him a text.: “Fed-Ex just arrived. Of course I’ll come. Thank you! See you soon.”
He replied: “Can’t wait.”
I arrived at the Sutton Place in Vancouver late Friday afternoon. The woman at the front desk welcomed me and informed me, to my surprise, that my reservation was booked under their “romance package.” When I got to the room there were chocolate-dipped strawberries and champagne waiting for me. There was also a note, written on hotel stationery, from Nick: “Welcome to Vancouver! Meet me in the bar at 8.” It was half past five, so I ordered dinner from room service and sat down at the desk to get some writing done.
I don’t know if it was the space or the quiet or the excitement of seeing Nick again, but the words flowed like never before. I worked on my opening hook, a description of the our first encounter at the junket. “Nick Archer isn’t interested in living up to anyone’s preconceptions of what actors are like” — I wrote — “and before I met him I had plenty.”
I typed until my fingers cramped. I had nearly a thousand words down when I looked at the clock. It was already 8:15. “Shit!” I said aloud to the empty room. “Shit shit shit.”
I was still in the jeans and slouchy top I’d worn on the plane, but I didn’t have time to worry about my outfit. I grabbed my phone and the room key and ran down the hall to the elevator. On the way down I texted him: “Running late! On my way!”
He texted back: “Stuck in traffic?” with a winking face.
I raced through the lobby, trying not to look like I was speeding, then through the restaurant to the bar. It was more of a lounge, with soft leather chairs and pictures of hunting scenes on the walls. A social hub of the “Hollywood North” crowd, it was popular with locals, crew members, and A-list stars alike. I saw Nick as soon as I walked in, leaning against the bar, chatting with the bartender. He was dressed in a V-neck sweater and dark jeans, casual yet devastatingly handsome. When he noticed me approaching he smiled, not just any smile, but the secret one he reserved just for me. Everything else in the room faded away. My panting breaths slowed, but my heart kept pounding.
“You made it,” he said, a little too loudly. He had a drink in front of him, some tawny brown liquor on the rocks. I could tell the alcohol was having an effect. It probably wasn’t his first.
There was a brief, awkward moment when we weren’t sure how to greet each other, leaning in, out of sync, then back again. We finally settled on a hug. It lasted well past the point where two people who were just friends would have pulled away. When we finally separated he cleared his throat and banished his hands to his pockets. I tucked my hair behind my ear and stared at the bar.
“Should we get a table?” I asked.
“Lead the way,” he replied.
We sat down in a pair of comfortable armchairs at a quiet table in the back corner of the room.
“It’s good to see you,” Nick said, collapsing into his chair.
“You too,” I said. “Sorry I’m late.”
Almost as soon as we were seated a cocktail waitress appeared out of nowhere and asked if she could get us anything. “How about some champagne?” Nick said, asking me and the server at the same time. “We are celebrating, after all.”
“Sounds good,” I said, because I did feel like celebrating. I was with Nick again. At least, in the sense that we were talking face to face. Even if the night didn’t lead to anything more, I had that.
Without consulting the menu he ordered two glasses of something in French. The waitress wrote it down and scurried away. When it was just the two of us again, he said lightly, “So what kept you?” His eyes were dancing. I liked him this way, tipsy and agreeable.
“I was writing. I kinda lost track of time.”
“Working on the article?” he asked. I nodded. “That’s great. How’s it coming?”
“Really good so far.”
“I’d love to read it.”
It wasn’t the usual protocol to let an interview subject read a piece before it was published, but I could make an exception. Especially if it meant he had to come up to my room. “It’s a work in progress, but I can show you what I have so far.”
He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, his eyes fixed on my mouth. It was so hard to concentrate when he looked at me like that. “So you got checked in okay and everything?” he asked.
“Yeah. Everything was perfect. Thank you so much.”
“No problem. Sylvia handled it all, actually.” I remembered the wink she gave me at Nick’s house. She must have been the one who booked the romance package. Maybe she was rooting for us.
The waitress returned with two tall flutes of champagne and set them down in front of us.
I held up my glass. “What should we toast to?”
“How about new opportunities?” he suggested.
“To new opportunities,” I repeated. We clinked our glasses together and sipped. It was cool and fizzy and tickled all the way down.
“Speaking of which, I have a bit of news,” he said.
“I hope it’s good news. Don’t break my streak.” I took a big gulp of champagne.
“It could be. I met with a local casting director who wants to bring me in for a TV pilot that’s shooting up here at the end of the year.”
He was clearly excited so I tried to be happy for him, though the idea of him leaving L.A. made my heart ache. “Wow. Is that something you’d want?”
“I think so,” he said. “It’s something for cable. ‘Prestige TV,’ they call it. Though, to be honest, I’d do hemorrhoid cream commercials if it meant I could work up here and be near Sophie.”
“So . . . you’re thinking of moving? To Vancouver?”
“It’s not that far from Seattle. I might even be able to convince Reed and Helen to let Sophie come stay with me. Maybe eventually . . .” He trailed off and I could tell he was picturing the future, a future with his daughter. He came back to the present and waved his hand. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. I haven’t even taken the meeting yet.”
“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”
“I’ve had a lot of downtime on set. So what about you? What are your plans?” He took a long sip from his champagne glass.
“Freelancing for now. I’ll see where it goes. I don’t think I want to do what I was doing before. But I don’t want to start over either.”
“Do you . . . I mean would you . . . ever consider living somewhere besides L.A.?”
“Maybe. If the right opportunity came along.”
“What about Canada?” He sounded casual, like he was just throwing out a random suggestion, but I didn’t miss the deeper meaning in the question.
I wasn’t ready to address the subtext, so I ignored it. “I mean, sure. These days everyone I know has thought about it. But isn’t it kind of a hassle with visas and immigration and all that? Besides, I’d really miss my apartment. And my mom. And my friends. Not necessarily in that order.” I couldn’t tell him the truth, that I’d go anywhere with him if he asked me. Because he hadn’t asked me. Not directly, anyway.
He mulled my answer, then swallowed down another gulp of champagne and tried not to look too disappointed. He failed miserably. “Right. Yeah. No, that makes sense.”
The tension between us was palpable. It was the good kind, though; the will-they-or-won’t-they unresolved sexual kind of tension. “Now I have a question for you,” I said.
“Well, I’m all out of secrets, so fire away.” The leather chair creaked as he shifted in it.
“Last week you wanted to break up. Which I never agreed to, by the way. And this week you’re flying me up to Vancouver. That’s not something you do for someone who’s just a friend. So what exactly is going on here?” I gestured between the two of us.
He emptied his glass and set it down on the table. It wobbled a bit on its stem, but righted itself before toppling over. “Okay. Here’s the thing.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinned, and shook his head. “I’m selfish. That’s what it is. I’m a selfish fucking bastard. I know I’m not good for you. I know that. I’ve tried to keep my distance, but I can’t. I’m miserable without you, Kate. I didn’t even think, I just bought the ticket. I lied before. Sylvia didn’t do anything. I set up the whole trip myself. I know these mixed signals are confusing. It’s confusing for me too.”
So he’d been the one responsible for the romance package. I felt my hopes rising to the surface, like the bubbles in the champagne. “You did this?” He rolled his eyes, then dropped his head to the table, defeated. I reached out and smoothed his hair. “Hey, I’m going to say this once, very clearly so you understand: You, Nick Archer, are an idiot.”
His head shot up. It clearly wasn’t what he was expecting. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I didn’t soften my tone. He needed to hear the unvarnished truth. “You blame yourself for things that aren’t your fault. You push away anyone who might love you because you think you don’t deserve it. This whole self-sacrifice routine might seem noble, but it’s not all about you. Get over yourself. I don’t need you to protect me. The choice is mine.”
He nodded his head, conceding. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have talked to you instead of making the decision on my own. I didn’t think I could go through with it if I had to do it in person.”
“It doesn’t have to be this way. I, of all people, know what I’m getting into. Give me some credit. Nothing has changed for me. After everything that’s happened I still want to be with you. I love you, you gorgeous idiot.”
The light came back into his eyes. “I never thought I’d fall in love again.” He exhaled like he’d been holding onto the words for a long time and it was a relief to finally let them go. “But here we are. And I’m tired of fighting it. So now what?”
“Let’s have a nice time. We don’t have to decide anything this weekend. When you get back to L.A. we’ll see what happens.”
“What if I end up relocating to Vancouver?”
“That’s still a ways off, isn’t it? We’ll figure it out when the time comes.”
“Okay. Just so I’m clear, though”—he licked his lip again—“what exactly are the current parameters of our relationship?” The smoldering look he gave me was one of the best in his repertoire.
I could play his game. The champagne was making me feel bubbly and bold. I took his hand, rubbed my thumb across his palm, then brought it slowly to my lips and ran the tip of my tongue along his skin to the pulse point at his wrist. He closed his eyes and took a sharp, inward breath. When he opened them again I felt the spark between us ignite once more. It had never really gone away.
I wanted to hear him say it. “What exactly are you asking?”
“I hear the rooms in this hotel are lovely.” God, I’d missed the lovely gravel in his voice.
“Did I hear that right? Is a famous movie star inviting himself up to my hotel room?”
“Actually, I’m trying to get myself invited up to the hotel room of a famous published journalist.”
I laughed. “I may be famous, but not for that.”
“Interesting. Would you care to show me what you are famous for?”
“Like, you want a re-enactment?”
“What? No. Ugh, way to kill the mood.” He took his hand away in mock offense.
“You brought it up. But I think I know how to bring the mood back.” I leaned across the table and whispered in his ear, “I may have packed lingerie for the trip. Just in case.”
His eyes went wide. “Check please!”