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My eyes went back to the couple a few floors below—they were having sex now, pressed against a wall, and my body hardened just a little, an instinctive response to the wantonness going on below. I thought of Anna Douglas and her invitation, of Lilianna, who would be with me if I’d bothered to ask her to come, ready and eager to satisfy any and all of my desires.
There was nothing exciting about the thought.
I closed the pane of glass and went back to the bar. I started to refill my drink then stopped. I was alone, with no idea what to do. I had planned to work through the holidays, strategizing plans for the new year, but the thought wasn’t palatable anymore.
I went to my closet and stripped off my formal evening clothes, replacing them with black pants and a black sweater over a Henley. On my way to the foyer, I stopped and turned toward the kitchen and the entrance to the stairway. Where I was going, I didn’t need security creeping after me. I didn’t want a helicopter announcing my arrival. A two-hour drive followed by a night of solitude seemed like a better way to spend Christmas than watching people having fun and wondering why I wasn’t.
Two
Allie
I’d been ready to escape the party from the moment I arrived, but my publicist had made me promise to spend a few hours at least. “Talk to people,” he’d begged, his innocent blues eyes earnest. He used that sweet, little-boy expression to deceive the unsuspecting world and got away with it every time, but Sean Collard was anything but innocent and earnest. He was a hound, the best at what he did: crafting public images for famous people.
I still wasn’t convinced I needed any image crafting. I liked to act. I also liked to stay home with trashy novels and entertaining TV shows. My interests were those of most people my age, but apparently, me being a regular twenty-five-year-old wasn’t good enough for the public.
What exactly was good enough for the public?
Across the street, a rabid crowd of paparazzi was camped out, waiting for me to leave the party so they could take more pictures. The required images of
me stepping out of the limo with my co-star and supposed real-life love interest Guy Fletcher had obviously not been enough.
If I went outside hopelessly drunk and flashed them my tits, would they be satisfied and leave me alone for the night? A couple of days? Probably not. They’d follow me all the way to my hotel and bribe the service staff in the hope of finding something more…something the public would devour while deploring my descent from the throne as America’s newest, sweetest sweetheart.
“Sweetheart, have another drink.” It was David Hurst, genius director of many box office hits with two Oscars already under his belt. He was in his late thirties with a thin, hawk-like face and sharp eyes that gave the impression that he never missed a thing. Though I was sure he had missed a lot on this particular night, like his beautiful, surgically enhanced wife disappearing through the balcony doors with a young male model. I wondered if he would care if he knew; he seemed more interested in the champagne and the activity that had left a telltale dusting of white powder around his nostrils.
“I’m good,” I replied. “I just need the bathroom.”
“Over there,” David said, without pointing in any specific direction. I watched him walk a few steps to join a group of guests gathered around a large concert piano where a TV star was singing a slow rendition of a Christmas carol while playing perfect notes on the majestic instrument.
I waited until the performance was over and joined in the applause before abandoning that part of the room. I crossed an archway that led into yet another large living room where a beautifully decorated Christmas tree held pride of place in the middle of the room. There were snippets of conversation all around me.
“Apparently, he was fucking the maid, the nanny, and the piano teacher—who’s a man, by the way.”
“How exciting! Do you know who did his eyes? I know he had something done.”
“She’s an asshole in the worst possible way. No talent whatsoever, but she gives good head.”
“My therapist says I’m suicidal over my Oscar snub. She hasn’t met my wife.”
“Ally!”
I didn’t have time to look in the direction of whoever called my name before I was pulled into strong arms and pressed against a male body that smelled heavily of cologne and booze. Thomas Kane, pop bad boy turned actor. He held me close, shoving his hips forward in a way that made his arousal was unmistakable as his hand drifted toward my butt. I slapped it away.
“Ally,” he crooned, unfazed. “It’s so good to see you.”
I pushed him away. We’d known each other in the early days of our careers, but since he’d become a big deal, so many girls had fallen into his lap he was convinced he just needed to flash a little cock in a woman’s direction and she’d be all wet and ready to ride.
“Tom.” My voice held a note of warning.
He grinned. “It’s me, your friend. It’s been too long. Let’s catch up. Let’s leave this dead party.”
He slurred the last few words, and I ducked my head under his shoulder, abandoning the archway and making for the first door I saw. It opened into a large kitchen, where some wait staff were bustling around. I ignored their curious stares.
From the kitchen, another door opened into a short hallway. There was a service elevator and a door that led to the stairs. I considered the elevator, mapping out my journey to the underground parking, finding a cab to my hotel…I’d likely be recognized before I made it that far, and it would turn into a hassle pretty quickly.
It was probably better to hide out in the stairway. Someone would come looking for me soon enough, but at least for a few minutes, I would be by myself.
Three
