I sigh, relieved at the change of subject. “I guess I’ll be back in LA Monday, then.”
He nods once. “Most are morning shows beginning at totally unacceptable times of day—starting with Monday morning at six.”
“Six a.m.? Crap.”
He shakes his head. “That word is nowhere near strong enough for anything that begins at six a.m. The first one’s at a local LA station, though. I’ll drive, or get a car, and pick you up at your hotel, so don’t worry about transportation. Actually I might as well handle that for all of them. We don’t want anyone talking to us separately if at all possible, what with our romantic charade.” He smiles at me again, but playfully. No reason for alarm.
The coming week will include lots of one-on-one time with Reid. Not long ago I’d have been euphoric over a chance like that. Now it makes me nervous in a whole different way. Though I no longer want a relationship with him, he’s still charismatic and curiously easy to be around—most of the time. I should feel more distrustful and wary. That’s the problem, really—I’m not totally on guard when every logical cell in my body tells me I should be. But then that’s the sort of thing at which Reid Alexander excels—faking trustworthiness.
The rest of the trip is filled with small talk. He asks what I’m planning to study in college, and I ask about his upcoming project—an action film opposite Chelsea Radin, small-town weathergirl turned hot celebrity. He doesn’t bring up last fall or our conversation in March. When we arrive at the airport, he hops out to retrieve my bag from the trunk. Pulling the handle up and out, he presses it into my hand, and before I can react, he leans in close and brushes my cheek with a kiss.
He’s sliding his sunglasses back on and getting into his car, calling, “See ya Monday morning,” while I’m standing on the sidewalk, blinking. The kiss was an unexpected shock, even if it wasn’t on the mouth and seemed oh-so-casual. But his mostly-harmless kiss isn’t what has me frozen.
On the other side of the multiple one-way lanes in front of my departure gate stands a girl with a camera aimed directly at me. This is no cell phone, and no touristy three hundred dollar Kodak. It’s a big, black, professional-looking piece of equipment. Damn. It. As I turn away, her face breaks into a happy, evil grin before she turns, too, quickly disappearing into the parking garage.
I know what just happened between Reid and me on the sidewalk: an innocuous kiss. I also know exactly how it will look on every celebrity gossip website to which that girl can upload and sell a photo.
*** *** ***
Brooke
I’m not as afraid of the paparazzi as some celebs. Very little of my life isn’t an open book, anyway. Aside from my one ginormous secret—that somewhere out there is a (most likely) blonde, blue-eyed, beautiful three-year-old with a mix of genes from Reid and me. (God help whoever’s trying to raise that kid if there’s any truth to the “nature” end of the nature versus nurture debate.)
I have a secret weapon in my paparazzi back pocket. Her name is Rowena, and she’s a female jackal amongst the pack of a male-majority profession. I chose her for that reason, in fact. Anytime I can give a woman a leg up over a man, I’m on board—as long as the woman in question isn’t competition, because then all bets are off. Rowena didn’t trust me, at first. Not until she got two or three photos that would have never been possible without my help. Since then, when I call she only has one word—where.
I use her for “candid” shots of myself, of course. That’s how I got her hooked originally. I convinced her to give me her number, and then I’d call when I stopped by Starbucks for a Frappuccino with a hunky costar. I’d text where I’d be shopping with my mom. Since I control the scenarios, I appear how I want to appear, and Rowena looks like she knows how to catch hot celebrities out on the town, trying to be inconspicuous. Now the gossip rags eagerly take her calls, and I stay in the public eye—looking like a normal (attractive) person, rather than a bag lady flashing her underwear—or lack thereof—to the world.
Some celebs think they’re above such maneuvering, or they’re just too stupid to comprehend how to work it to their advantage. I’m not high and mighty, and I’m not stupid.
When I called Rowena this morning and told her to get her ass to LAX for a Reid Alexander and Emma Pierce exclusive, she asked the gate number and was off like a well-trained greyhound.
“Don’t worry about looking for her,” I told Reid last night. “She’s a pro. You probably won’t even see her until she’s already gotten the shot, if you see her at all.”
“You are a devious little bitch, Brooke.”
I couldn’t take much offense because there was admiration in his voice.
“FYI, I’m not telling you to try anything that could backset our plan… but the more you look like you’re dropping your lover at the airport after a torrid night, the better.”
He laughed. “Okay, yeah, I’ll see what I can do.”
His kiss on her cheek was brilliant. He and Emma both know it was quick and innocent, but the photos that started popping up a few hours later could be interpreted a million ways, and very few of those interpretations are innocent.
***
Me: I just found out I’ll be in nyc the week of your graduation. I don’t want to invite myself…but can i invite myself? Would your family hate me to intrude?
Graham: No, i’m sure that would be fine, if you’re sure you want to go. Might be a long boring ceremony.