Beverly Hills Hotel

Los Angeles, California

 

Kat curled up on the piano bench, not looking at the piano itself, but sitting with her back to the beautiful baby grand some well-meaning hotel manager had assumed she’d want in the center of the room where she was supposed to be able to relax and not think about work.

“I want to know who he was. That’s all.”

Ricky sat heavily in the center of a coffee table and sighed. “I think it’s more important we find out why some asshole was driving that recklessly around the lot. He could have seriously hurt you!”

“It was a golf cart. How hurt could I have been?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Yeah, well, whoever he was, he put himself in harm’s way when he didn’t have to. I’d like to thank him.”

“Is that all you want?”

Ricky shot her a look that made a flash of anger wash through her. But then it dissipated as quickly as it’d come.

She stood up and walked over to the wide windows that looked out on the pool a few guests were using even though it was fairly early in the morning. She watched for a moment, wondering what would happen if she wandered out there and dove in like she was just another guest of the hotel. There were a couple of teenaged girls out there. Would they know who she was? Would they want pictures? Autographs? Would they leave her alone, or would they mob her the second she set foot out of the bungalow?

Almost as if in answer to her question, the girls suddenly perked up from the bored, angsty looks on their faces to the excitement of someone who’d recognized an idol. One girl got up and rushed toward a man who’d just stepped out of the main building of the hotel complex, jumping around him like a lap dog jumping around its owner’s feet. The man stopped, draping a cane casually over his wrist as he allowed the girl to take a selfie with him. When he turned toward the camera, Kat could clearly see who it was.

Jackson Chamberlain.

“Did you call Mr. Chamberlain?”

“He called me. He wanted to come over and check on you, and I told him you’d be happy to see him.”

Kat sighed. That was something her former manager would have done.

She couldn’t really blame Ricky. She’d kind of shoved him into the role of manager, asking him to deal with the people she didn’t particularly want to deal with. She’d never liked the business side of all this. She wanted to make music and leave it at that, but nothing was ever quite that simple. Ricky had always been something of a buffer between her and the rest of the world. Taking on the role of her manager was just an extension of that, she supposed.

Chamberlain made his way to her door. Ricky strolled over to open it, leaving her at the window. Alone. Lately, she’d always felt quite alone.

“I was concerned after I heard about the incident on set last night,” Chamberlain began, coming toward her with his hands outstretched. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

She turned and accepted his touch, lowering her head slightly in acceptance of his words.

“My son, as you might be aware, owns a security firm that has an office here in Los Angeles. His men are already checking the security cameras to see if they can find out who was responsible.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know who the man was who pulled me out of the path of the cart, would you?” she asked, grasping at straws. She didn’t miss the shake of Ricky’s head as he shot her a dark look.

“I do, actually. His name is Jason Stine. He works for my son.”

“A security guard?” Ricky asked, the derision in his voice unmistakable.

“My son calls them operatives. They are very well-trained in the art of protection.”

Kat smiled. She liked that phrasing: the art of protection.

“I’d like to meet him. To thank him.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Chamberlain informed her. “He’s been placed in charge of Colt Murphy’s security for the duration of the film.”

“If he’s on the set to work, we shouldn’t bother him,” Ricky announced. “The last thing we’d want to do is delay the filming any further by distracting Murphy’s security detail.”

“I don’t think having a brief conversation with Ms. Carlisle would be out of the question,” Chamberlain said.

“I would only take a moment of his time.”

“Of course.” Chamberlain squeezed her hands before backing off just slightly. “We will be returning to our previous schedule beginning this afternoon. Colt is already on set, and, I believe, you are due to be in makeup at eleven?”

“I am.”

“I heard the filming of the music video went well yesterday. I’m looking forward to viewing the footage.”

“I hope it was what you wanted.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“Of course it is,” Ricky announced. “Kat is a professional. She knows what she’s doing.”

Chamberlain glanced at Ricky, clearly annoyed by his constant interjections. “Well, I’ll get out of your hair now, then.” He turned to Kat and took her hands again. “I believe things will be back on track now that Colt’s issues have been resolved. We’d like to get this movie done and everyone back to their own thing as soon as possible. Your mother stressed that your schedule was unmalleable, and I want you to know that we appreciate that fact and your patience in all of this.”

“Thank you. But you should know my mother is no longer my manager.”

Chamberlain was very careful not to react. She could see the surprise in his eyes, but he didn’t raise an eyebrow or make a comment other than to utter a quiet, “I see.” She loved him for that.

“Well, anyway, we will do our best to keep things on schedule from now on. And avoid incidents like last night.”

“Thank you.”

He smiled. “I understand you have quite a dramatic scene to perform today. I’m looking forward to the dailies.” He turned, lowering his head in a brief nod to Ricky before showing himself to the door. “Good day.”

“I can see why so many people like working with him. He’s quite charming.”

“He’s a shyster, just like all the other people in this town.”

Kat turned back to the window. “Don’t be so cynical, Ricky.”

“How could I be anything but in this town?”

Kat watched the young girls giggle and whisper as Jackson Chamberlain crossed their path again, their curiosity now focused on the door to her bungalow. They were clearly wondering whom Chamberlain had come to visit. Kat could remember what it was like to be that innocent, to be that impressed by people. Unfortunately, as Ricky had so perfectly voiced it, she’d lost that naivety about people. Celebrities were not the marvel those girls clearly believed them to be. But she hoped they never had cause to realize that.

“I’m going to shower, then we should probably head to the studio.”

“I’ll call for the car.”

“And Ricky,” she said, pausing in the doorway to the bedroom, “you will please arrange the meeting with Mr. Stine.”

“Kat, really, he was just doing his job.”

“I know. But I want to thank him anyway.”

He rolled his eyes. Kat turned away, hoping that she never grew quite as cynical as he was.

 

***

 

Kat Carlisle was born backstage at American Idol’s auditions in Tulsa, the name coming after just two or three minutes of discussion. Kathleen Adams was too generic, her mother said. Kat had snap to it, it rolled off the tongue easily, and it implied a certain kind of toughness. And Carlisle was the name of one of her mother’s favorite singers, Belinda Carlisle of the Go-Gos. It seemed the perfect name at the time.

Kat hated it, but her mother promised it would grow on her. Just like her mother promised that putting videos of her singing on YouTube would make them famous. She was right about that. The videos had won them a personal invitation to the Idol auditions.

Her mother had always been the driving force behind Kat’s career. Camille Adams was determined to be rich and famous. If she couldn’t do it on her own, it was good enough to do it through her daughter. And she did. Kat was offered a record contract halfway through Idol, a contract that landed her four number one singles, four more than the winner of Idol that season managed to pull in.

Kat was thirteen at the time.

Her mother assured her that all she had to do was write her songs and perform whenever there was a mic placed in front of her. She was okay with that. But then the record producers decided her music was too morose, too dark for a child her age. They made her sing songs that were a little more spirited, songs she didn’t write. And, when they allowed her to use her own songs, they’d change the beat, alter the words, make the whole thing sound like a totally different song. And her mother went along with it, smiling and nodding whenever a producer acted like he knew better than she did. Which was all the time.

The hits kept stacking up, making it seem as though the formula the producers were using was working. But then Kat turned eighteen, and she became a legal adult, allowed to sign all her contracts herself. Slowly, she began taking control of her career, refusing to put songs she hadn’t written on her albums, insisting that she be allowed to arrange her own music. Finally, she pushed out the producers and began her own studio, her own production company, and started producing her own music.

Eventually, the music she put out into the world was truly her music. And her fans loved it. Her sales increased threefold, presales rivaling those of Adele and Beyoncé.

The final step in taking control of her career was kicking her mother out as manager.

It didn’t have to go the way it did. If her mother would have listened to reason…but the arguments were overwhelming, more stressful than stepping onto a stage alone in front of a crowd of thousands. Her mother didn’t want out. She wanted to hold on to the little bit of control she had left. Kat finally had to ask her lawyers to find a loophole in her contract, to push her out with cold, professional detachment.

That was a month ago.

Kat stood in the shower, imagining her mother sitting in her huge house in Santa Monica, cursing her ungrateful daughter for this ultimate act of betrayal. But she couldn’t keep allowing her mother to put her nose into things that no longer concerned her, to continue committing Kat to things she didn’t want to do. Like this movie. Kat had never wanted to be famous, let alone an actress. All she’d ever wanted was to write her songs and play her keyboards. That was it. Being Kat Carlisle was her mother’s dream, not hers.

If she could roll back time, change things, she would do it in a heartbeat. Give back the money, the fame, the gold records. She just wanted to be able to go out and sit by the pool like any other hotel guest. To be anonymous.

He thoughts wandered to the man who’d saved her last night, pushing her out of the path of that runaway golf cart. She couldn’t believe he was the same man she’d seen watching her when she was on stage singing. What were the chances that he would be in the right place at the right time to save her? Kat had never believed in coincidences.

She was meant to meet this guy.

It was something of a cliché, how celebrities ended up marrying the people who were closest to them: agents, managers, musicians, dancers, roadies, bodyguards. Kat always said she’d never date anyone in one of those professions, which had caused a great deal of frustration in those members of her entourage who liked to think they might have a chance at romance with her.

She was pretty sure that was the source of Ricky’s derision for Jason Stine, or anyone who got closer to her than he liked.

She shivered at the thought of being with Ricky. He was fifteen years her senior, and he’d already been married twice. Not really her idea of a perfect match.

But was there really any such thing as a perfect match?

Kat’s life was all about her career. She didn’t have the kind of childhood most kids had. She didn’t go to high school, didn’t try out for the cheer squad, didn’t attend football games. She didn’t go to school dances, didn’t sneak out of her prom to do dirty things in a rented hotel room. She didn’t have crushes on boys her age. She dated, but most of them were carefully contrived meetings with other pop stars or young actors whose reputation or career could give her career a little bump in the right direction. She’d never been in love, never really been given the chance to get to know a guy that well. It was a source of great frustration for her that had made for good music some time back.

Right about now, she’d be happy just getting to know a guy. Mr. Wrong was fine. There’d be time for the right guy to come along. She just wanted to get off the bench and jump into the game, you know?

Twenty-three years old, and she’d never shared a kiss with someone she actually wanted to kiss. Yet she sang about love and romance, providing the soundtrack to everyone else’s love life.

It wasn’t really fair.

She just wanted to meet a guy who didn’t want anything from her but the experience of getting to know her. And by her, she meant Kathleen Adams, not Kat Carlisle. Not the pop star, but the woman. Maybe this Jason Stine…

He was an operative. Not the same thing as a bodyguard.

And he was hot.