I want to argue. These days I work until I pass out from exhaustion. Complaining is weakness. There was a time my family fought for every penny. I won't ever belly-ache about this life but I need to meet with Paul. Silver lining of losing one’s mind is the readily available excuses for missing obligations.
“I do need a break.” I need to clean up my act before I’m committed and not to another movie. And while any publicity is good publicity, I haven’t reached that point in my career. “Yeah. Now that you say it. I bet that was it.”
“Okay.” Rachel purses her mouth to the side. “I’m going to go deal with the rest of the reporters.”
“Thanks.” I feel a ping of remorse for the people who waited all day.
“You got it.” She stands up. “You rest up for the yacht party.”
“I said I’ll think about it.” I follow suit and leave the room.
I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to be. Downstairs, I sneak out a back entrance and glance at my watch. I could walk a bit before it’s time to go meet Paul. I stride away from naked fans and crazy yacht parties. But when I blink, the face that stared out at me from the closet is right there. It’s implanted in my brain now. We better never cross paths again.
3
Maggie
No.
There’s no way.
I race down the hall. Naked. Heart racing. Mouth dry and head pounding. The hallway narrows and expands like I’m on the set ofVertigo. I run my hand along the moulding to keep myself from falling.
Stay calm. Assess the situation. Make a plan. Leave the hotel as soon as possible. Get dressed. Maybe not in that order. Definitely not in that order.
It is entirely possible my worst fear just happened. I have to accept that. Roe saw me because I let myself get too tired and for some reason, my power slipped. I ignored the little voice that told me it hadn’t slipped, and Roe’s assistant didn’t see me as I sprinted out of the room while he steadied the flower vase.
My clothes and bag wait for me undisturbed in the janitor’s closet where I left them. So are the three bottles of water. Dressed and feeling a little more in control, I drink the water, one bottle after another, my pulse calming with each gulp. I return to the waiting area where the rest of the reporters pack up with faces of disappointment.
A few wisps of conversation meet my ear. “Waited six hours for nothing.” “I’m still billing for this.” “Roe’s a diva after all.” “Some crazy fan.”
It’s that last one that has me stopping to examine a massive potted plant so I can discreetly listen.
“Are you serious?” one whispering voice asks another.
“That’s what I heard. The security guard was telling his staff to be on the lookout.”
With that I scurry out the rotating doors of the hotel and into the heavy foot traffic of dusk in Hollywood.
My phone vibrates in my bag. Right on cue.
O.G.’s message reads, “You have ten minutes to get here.”
“Pushy, pushy,” I respond as the map loads the address in the background.
“Gonna tell me what happened back there?”
When O.G. popped into my life a couple years ago, providing scant bits of information via texts, I quickly learned his value. Whether or not he knows all of my particular talents, I’m not sure. We don’t really talk about it. We don’t really talk at all actually. He provides info; I reply with snark. It’s our shtick.
My thumbs blur as I type a response. “Nothing. All is well.”
“Right. Hurry.”
I send a “strong arm” emoji. A second later he buzzes me again. “Go left. Sidewalk blocked.”
Just in time I see the construction signs.
“Creeper,” I shoot off as I keep moving.
