My Charming Rival Page 6

William

  * * *

  I cracked open a beer, waiting for a reply. I tuned into a new Spotify station on my phone that Matthew had sent me—it was chock full of rising new bands he said I’d love. I leaned back against the counter, took a long pull, enjoying the fizz of the cold drink. I closed my eyes, listening to the music and hoping for a reply.

  Everything I’d said to her was true.

  After two songs, I checked my phone.

  But she never wrote back that night.

  TUESDAY

  TUESDAY

  Weather: 70 degrees, Sunny

  7

  Jess

  * * *

  Habit is a hard thing to break, and I had no plans of stopping my check-my-phone-the-second-my-eyelids-flutter-open routine. Which meant I’d already protected myself from temptation. With last night’s unfinished—deliberately so—text exchange tucked safely into a folder on my mobile phone so I would never touch it again, William was washed clear from my brain.

  Safe and sound from his far-too-alluring texts, I opened my email the next morning.

  I was greeted by a photo of a trim and slender Nick Ballast, an actor on The Weekenders. The picture was courtesy of my father, who’d forwarded an email alert from the home page of The Strip before he’d left for work.

  Look who’s being photographed with his personal trainer! xo Dad

  In this photo, Nick was out for an early morning run on the trails with his personal trainer who he’d hired when he slimmed down after a stint at fat camp.

  I zoomed in on the photo. Nick seemed to be looking straight ahead and appeared to be chatting with his goateed companion, but as I studied Nick, I could tell he was cheating a bit to the side. He must have known the photog had been there, had probably even tipped off the shooter. Ballast wanted this shot in the magazines and online. He wanted the world to know he was in fantastic shape. I couldn’t fault him. I’d want the same thing, too, if I were him, and to be honest, I was glad for him.

  Ballast was a former child star who’d played an adorable batboy more than a decade ago in a sports movie, but when he hit high school, he turned into a chubby teenager who’d lost part after part due to his ever-expanding waistline by a mere age seventeen.

  About a year ago, he’d been spotted eating a Twinkie and guzzling a Slurpie in Century City, a bit of flesh poking over his belt. The picture was dubbed Nick Balloons! and it made the cover of many tabloids. That wasn’t my shot. But I did score a scoop on what happened next. After that very public testament to his largesse, he started hiding his food. I’d gotten a tip that he was a notorious car eater, and I supposed I should have felt sympathy—or better yet, empathy—that he didn’t want to eat in public, but I also sniffed opportunity. Besides, someone was going to catch him on camera sooner or later—that’s an immutable law of Hollywood—and it might as well have been me.

  I staked him out, and snagged a shot of him gobbling up an entire key lime pie inside his black BMW while parked under a tree on the side of the road. Next, he was seen scarfing on tubs of ice cream, a box of cupcakes, and a bag of chocolate chip muffins, all my shots, too, before he finally admitted that food had gotten the better of him.

  He checked himself into Waterfall Spa, and three months later checked himself out, a tanned, trimmed, toned, and revitalized specimen of movie star primed for a comeback. He admitted his problem with food on the talk show circuit and spoke openly about his issues.

  “I struggled, Sandy,” he said to the talk show host. “It’s not easy in this town. I was sixteen years old and having food delivered to me from those calorie-counting services so I could stay in shape, and it was seriously hard. I couldn’t take it anymore, but rather than get a healthy grip on things, I let myself go all the way the other direction. I ballooned up. Those pictures in the tabloids were a wake-up call,” he admitted to Sandy. She nodded, patted his knee, and told him he was a talent at any size.

  “Thank you. But I feel better now. I feel good about myself. I feel like I can have a healthy relationship with food, and hey, that’s not a bad thing, is it?”

  As he said those words to Sandy, I’d wondered if I had a healthy relationship with food or if I was one key lime pie away from snapping. But I’d reasoned I was safe since I didn’t care for key lime pie. As for Nick, whatever he was doing now was working. He landed the role as the new sixth student in The Weekenders and was exercising in advance of the shoot that began in a few weeks. It was a plum role, and he’d vied with many other actors for that sixth slot, including the bleached blond with the broody brown eyes, Jenner Davies, who’d battled aliens in his last picture, then warred with front desk employees in a bout of life imitating art. Earlier this year, he’d punched a front desk clerk while on a press junket for the alien flick, and was caught on video, including the moment when he flexed his biceps in the lobby afterward, preening like a mixed martial arts fighter as the clerk’s cracked lip bled.

  My dad and I had watched that video together several times. It was one of those things you simply couldn’t look away from. The incident unfolded as a grainy, shaky cam captured Jenner from across the hotel lobby asking the clerk in a faux-innocent tone, “I’m a little bit confused about something.”

  “Okay, how can I help you, sir?”

  “Is there a reason I don’t have a room with a view?”

  “I’m so sorry, sir. We’re all booked,” said the clerk, who didn’t seem to recognize the actor.

  “So that’s the reason? Because that just doesn’t make a lot of sense to me on the planet I live on. And that’s planet earth, correct?”

  “Um, yes,” the clerk answered, clearly confused with the line of questioning.

  “And on this planet, I would get a room with a view.”

  “I understand, and I would love to give you one but we’re all out,” the clerk replied.

  “Perhaps you could rearrange some room assignments.”

  The clerk then gave a gentle laugh as the cell phone camera holder zoomed in on the pair. “I’m sorry sir, we don’t do that.”

  “Did you see Planet Patrol? Because I want to show you what happens on my planet when things don’t make sense.”

  Then Jenner’s fist met the clerk’s face. Next, Jenner blew air on each bicep as if they were guns. It was a perfect reenactment of his character’s reaction after he’d slammed his knuckles into the alien that had slithered out of his costar’s mouth in the climactic scene in Planet Patrol.

  The cell phone videographer who’d caught the whole hotel lobby encounter would make a good paparazzo, because Jenner had no clue he’d been recorded until “I Want a Room with a View on My Planet” became a viral sensation the next day.

  I suspected Jenner’s publicist pulled some crisis duty and crisis dollars because the requisite apology from the teen star poured forth less than twenty-four hours later. “I would like to extend my deepest apologies to Mr. Garcia at the front desk. Not only was I suffering from jet lag due to the promotional activities surrounding the film’s launch, I also had become so wrapped up in the role that I behaved as the character, rather than as Jenner Davies. I sincerely regret my actions yesterday. I hope to show the world who the real Jenner Davies is, and I have made a donation to a charity of Mr. Garcia’s choice.”

  Ah, the charitable donation route. Hollywood’s version of absolution. Do something naughty, cruel, stupid, idiotic, or selfish in front of a lens, and earn forgiveness by becoming a charitable supporter. Many charities relied on the funds that came from this town’s sinners trying to wash away their bad deeds. Just recently, I’d seen a photo of Jenner picking up trash on the beach with a coastal cleanup charity—he was clearly trying to rehabilitate his tarnished image.

  “Just trying to do my little part for the big world,” Jenner said when an entertainment news magazine interviewed him on that same beach as he delivered his canned response. His little part, though, wasn’t enough yet to win back the good graces of casting directors and studios—no one
would touch him after the hotel lobby incident.

  I closed the email, giving Nick Ballast a mental pat on the back. Good for Nick for beating out Hollywood’s number one teenage douchebag for the coveted part, and for working out.

  A new email arrived. Anaka’s cousin Kennedy had replied, so I opened her note.

  I have a good friend who was invited. I’m going to see him later today, so I’ll ask for more details. When are you coming to NY again? We should see another show.

  xoxo

  I nearly squealed with excitement. Then I sent a quick reply.

  You are a rock star. Hope to see NY and you soon. By the way, is this friend a hot guy?

  * * *

  xoxo

  Jess

  As soon as the email flew off into cyber space, my phone rang. The San Francisco number piqued my interest, as did the name. My friend Jillian Moore. She handled publicity for the city’s NFL team, and had been something of a mentor to me.

  “Hey you,” I said.

  “Hey you to you, too. I have something for you.”

  “Do tell, do tell.”

  “Want to shoot some pics of some of our players? A couple of guys are going to be in Los Angeles for an event. You’re the best local photog I know.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere as will the chance to snap shots of hot athletes. Who’s in town?”

  “The top guys. The quarterback, our star receiver, and our running back. It’s a quick turnaround, though. Are you free on Friday?”

  She gave me a time, and I promptly agreed. “And when I see you, will you give me all the gossip on who you’re crushing on on the team?”

  “Oh stop. I’m not crushing on anyone.”

  I arched an eyebrow, though she couldn't see me. “Last time you and the guys were in town, I distinctly remember you checking out the wide receiver. Jones Beckett.”

  She gasped, like what I’ve uttered is clandestine news. “I’d never check him out.”

  Laughing, I said, “You can fool most of the people with that line, but I know straying eyes when I see them, and yours were wandering, my friend. He’s a hottie.”

  “And you’re a troublemaker. See you Friday.”

  I hung up, glad to have snagged a little side gig. The occasional shoot like that helped pay a few bills.

  I showered, dressed, ate an apple and a plain yogurt, and hopped on my scooter to swing by the hospital. I needed to drop off Jennifer’s certification renewal with Helen, the bawdy salt-and-pepper-haired woman who ran the volunteer program, as well as the hospital’s human resources department. I knocked on her open door, and she quickly waved me in. She was guzzling a latte and pointing to the computer screen.

  “It’s Reeve Larkin,” she said, waving a hand in front of her face, as if she was fanning herself. “Shirtless. From Escorted Lives Part III. I’m dying from the hotness.”

  My eyebrows shot up to my hairline. “Show me,” I said because Reeve was a certified babe. He’d risen to stardom in the first two Escorted Lives pictures, based on the mega bestselling erotic romance novels, and while he’d been shirtless in the first two flicks—not to mention pants-free, too—his chest was still a sight to behold.

  Helen leaned forward and kissed the screen. “Some day he will be mine,” she said, leaving red lipstick marks on Reeve’s chest.

  I laughed. “Good luck tearing him away from Sutton,” I said, referring to his wife, well known in Hollywood circles for her work as a casting director.

  “A woman can dream,” Helen said in a wistful tone, then gulped more of her latte.

  I handed her the papers. “Dream big, then. And here is Jennifer’s renewal.”

  “Excellent. Keep bringing that hound by. The kids love her, and I love chatting with my favorite gossip hound,” she said.

  “The hound and the hound are happy to be here. See you next time.”

  Several minutes later, I pulled up to the university parking lot for my advanced biology class. After the lecture on gene organization, the professor reminded us about the quiz tomorrow, then tossed out some rapid-fire sample questions. I’d been studying for it for weeks, so my mind wandered briefly to William, and his coursework. He’d been speaking Spanish yesterday at the beach, then said he knew Japanese and was studying East Asian languages. I wondered how he knew so many languages, why he took pictures, and if he was paying for college himself as well. Most of all, I was curious how he felt about all those things. Did he feel the way I felt? Tense. Poised. The weight of the world on your shoulders.

  The professor called on me and asked me a question about cell structure. I wasn’t paying attention, so I plucked an answer out of thin air.

  “Very good,” he said, and I was pleased that my impromptu guess was correct. Good thing William hadn’t worked his hot guy magic yet to distract me from school. I had to stay strong, though, and remain impervious to his charms.

  8

  William

  * * *

  A quick Google search revealed the initials MT stood for…waiting, waiting, waiting.

  Ah, there it was.

  Of course.

  Monica Tremaine. That was all I needed because everyone knew she had the most distinctive identifying feature in all of celebrity culture.

  I raced through the hall in the University of Los Angeles building where I’d just finished my two morning classes in Traditional East Asian Civilization—one for Japan, one for China. J.P. had sent the assignment only three minutes ago. As I picked up the pace, I tapped out a curt reply: I’m on it. Will have them.

  Rushing to the parking lot, I hopped on my bike and started the engine. Desperately needing to land the shot first this time, I repeated J.P’s orders as I weaved through late morning traffic. Get a shot of MT. She’ll be ordering an iced latte in an hour at the Sbux near those punk crap shoe stores on Melrose.

  After finding the spot, I parked then grabbed a position, leaning casually against a shoe store that peddled buckle-laden boots and chunky platform shoes. My eyes were shielded with my aviator shades, but I wasn’t trying to go incognito as a shooter. Besides, the celeb I was pursuing wanted to be recognized. This celeb preened for all the cameras, and dozens of photographers were lying in wait for the call of the booty. Across the street, I noticed a guy with a soul patch pacing the sidewalk as he clutched a camera. A couple stores over, a gray-haired and well-weathered guy smoked as he fiddled with his camera lenses. Down the street, a girl with a red braid hunched over her Vespa, waiting to snap a shot. They didn’t even pretend with Monica. There was no need to. Monica lived her life in the public eye.

  I scanned for Jess, but saw no signs of her. Equal parts disappointment and relief washed over me. I wanted to see her, and I also wanted to beat her this time. But if she wasn’t here, she wasn’t in the race. Though it was entirely possible some of the other shooters here were also in J.P.’s arsenal and that he’d pitted me against someone else in his employ.

  Fine. That was fine. I didn’t have fantastic reflexes for nothing. Jess might have smoked me in the quest for Riley Belle yesterday, but today was a new day, and a Monica Tremaine payday would not elude me.

  A minute later, I spotted the most famous ass in the world, and the woman it was attached to stepped out of a black town car. Hell, this ass was the size of Kansas. The caboose on Monica Tremaine could double as a shelf. Maybe hold a few books. Park a frappuccino there while you hunted for change. I zoomed in on the rear end first and snapped a shot of it because J.P. could peddle one of those bad boys to an online site run by a purple-haired pseudo-journalist who liked to draw doodles on his celeb photos. This ass was a hell of a canvas for doodling. I pulled back the focus and captured a few pics of her heading into the coffee shop.

  This was a two-part shot, and it was the second one that was most valuable. The swarm of photographers waited like hyenas to pounce on the prey.

  Willing prey, mind you.

  Soon she was on her way out, a massive handbag dangling on her arm
, and a venti iced drink of some variety in her other hand. Her shades were high on her head.

  “What are you drinking, Monica?” someone called out.

  “Soy chai latte,” she replied when she spotted the questioner, the dude with the soul patch. She pretended to point at something beyond him, brandishing a huge smile as if to say Hey, look at that adorable bit of absolutely nothing that I’m pretending to admire for the camera.

  I snapped more pictures of her, capturing the happily staged point, then the lowering of the shades as she continued to smirk, then the first cold taste of soy chai deliciousness on her bee-stung lips.

  A driver held open the car door and she slid into the backseat. The show was over as quickly as it had begun. This woman gave new meaning to the phrase wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am with the way she played every move for the gossip rags.

  As soon as the car turned into noontime traffic, I dug my phone from my pocket and rang J.P. I wanted to let him know that I’d pulled off today’s shoot far better than yesterday’s.

  “J.P. here,” he said gruffly as I raced into the shop.

  “Hey, it’s William. I got the shot.”

  “Yeah? Where is it?”

  “I’m heading into Starbucks right now to get on the wifi and send it to you.”

  “You do that,” he said, and he sounded distracted. Or disinterested. The latter was more concerning.

  “It’s a great shot,” I said, keeping up the conversation as I snagged a chair.

  “I’ll be the judge of that. Just get moving and send it to me. The first to post is the first to gloat,” he said. “And yes, I do know that doesn’t rhyme but it’s close enough.”

  “Indeed it is,” I said, as I grabbed my iPad and sank into a chair. “Hey, so I was just curious. How did you know Monica Tremaine was going to be here?”