Imposter

  “I couldn’t work out why the quality was so bad,” he says. “But then I thought about the security camera, and it hit me: This isn’t a photograph. It’s a captured image, like a still frame from a movie. I think you two were being filmed on that beach.”

  “No. I already told you, I saw the guy. He had a camera with a long lens—”

  “And I’m telling you that no self-respecting paparazzo produces an image this grainy. This is low resolution.”

  “He was a hundred yards away. It was twilight.”

  Gant’s leg is bouncing up and down beneath the desk. “Doesn’t matter. These guys are pros. They can get nude pics of celebs a mile offshore on a yacht, and the image is so clear you can recognize the actor’s face. What angle was the guy shooting from, anyway?”

  I think back to that evening. How Sabrina tilted her head toward the guy with the camera. Then she sat on the rock with her back to him.

  “He was behind us,” I say.

  “Behind you,” repeats Gant, leaving me to recognize the impossibility of the shot for myself.

  “There weren’t any other cameras, Gant. I would’ve noticed.”

  “Really? Sounds to me like Sabrina had you fully focused on the guy behind you.”

  He’s got that look again—the one that says he’s uncovered something important.

  “You don’t think Sabrina’s behind this, do you?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “No, it’s not. Anyway, yesterday you said it was Kris. Now Sabrina. Why would she do that, huh?”

  He can tell he’s touched a nerve, even if he’s not sure why. “To get people talking about you as a couple.” He laces his fingers behind his head. “Look, her ex-boyfriend is out of the picture, and Annaleigh’s reeling because of her dad. But who’s still standing? You and Sabrina, that’s who. She’s the common denominator. You see that, right?”

  “Trust me, it’s not her. Today she told me stuff . . . things she can’t afford anyone else to know.”

  “Like the story about Kris and Tamara? She told you that too, right? And then you shared it, just like she figured you would.” I shoot him a warning glance, but he plows on. “Worked out pretty well for her. A couple months ago, the press blamed her for breaking up with Kris. But in the past week, everything’s changed. Kris looks like a lowlife, and Sabrina’s the kindhearted star helping out the Hollywood newbie. And how do you repay her kindness? You hook up with Annaleigh as well.” He points at the photo again and wags his finger. “Sabrina’s in control of this story, bro. Always has been.”

  He has to be wrong. Sabrina just bared her soul. “What about the security video from the party? How did Sabrina get hold of that?”

  “Probably knows someone at Machinus.”

  “How could she be sure we’d be on camera?”

  “She led you to that exact spot, right?” He stands and heads to the bathroom. “Point is, there’s something weird going on. And you’re starting to look like a prop in someone else’s show.”

  As I toggle back and forth between the photos, my phone rings. It’s Brian, which probably means there’s bad news, because, well . . . Brian is bad news.

  “Is your brother there?” he asks. No greeting. No Hi, Seth!

  “Sure. Why?”

  There’s a pause. “With all the crap that’s been going down—photographs, stories—I hired an investigator to see if there’s a pattern. Someone behind it all.”

  So Gant’s not the only conspiracy theorist. I’d laughed at the idea once, but I’m not laughing now.

  “My guy looked into that photo of you and Sabrina on the beach. It was sold through an agency, and they don’t reveal the identities of their photographers. But that one of you and Annaleigh on Rodeo Drive . . .” His tone shifts. “It was sold by an individual. Someone we know.”

  I wait for the reveal. Will it be Kris or Sabrina? And why do I still want it to be Kris?

  Brian clicks his tongue. “Turns out, our mystery photographer is someone by the name of Gant Crane.”

  I can’t move. Can’t breathe. “But . . . there’s no way—”

  “With all due respect, we’re kind of pissed that in return for a free hotel room, your brother’s trying to make some money off of us. Makes us wonder what else he’s been up to.”

  The bathroom door is closed. Gant’s camera sits on the desk beside the computer. I switch it on and scroll through the photographs, working back from the most recent. Three photos later, I stop. I recognize the scene: me climbing into Sabrina’s Prius just a couple hours ago, looking shady and furtive as if I have something to hide. How would either of us look if this photo got out? What would Annaleigh say if she saw it?

  “Did you know he was doing this, Seth?” Brian asks. His tone is gentle, but I don’t trust it. It’s the voice of Good Cop Brian, and Bad Cop Brian is a whole lot more convincing.

  “No,” I say.

  I keep scrolling through Gant’s pictures. I’d almost forgotten about that photo of us on Rodeo Drive. Compared to all the other photos coming out, it was tame and inoffensive. But here are dozens more just like it, all taken from distance with maximum zoom.

  “You’re going to sort this out,” says Brian.

  “Yeah,” I mumble. Then I hang up, because really, I have no idea how to sort it out.

  The bathroom door clicks open. Gant steps out and sees the camera in my hands and the look on my face. “What’s up?”

  “You’ve been following me. Photographing me.”

  He shrugs.

  “You sold me out!”

  “What? I haven’t shown them to anyone.”

  “One of them already appeared in a newspaper, Gant. I notice you’ve got some of me and Sabrina ready to go too.”

  “I swear, I never—”

  I punch the scroll key on his camera. Locate the photo of Annaleigh and me on Rodeo Drive. Turn the camera so he can see the screen for himself.

  “I know how it looks, Seth, but someone else must’ve been next to me taking pictures as well.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Well then, maybe someone hacked into my photo library.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that when the photo came out?”

  “Because then you’d want to know why I was following you.”

  “I still want to know!”

  He looks away. “There’s money in this, okay? If I can photograph you in secret and get good images, I can film other people too.”

  I still don’t believe he’s telling the truth, and he still hasn’t apologized. He just stands there, stony faced, no longer my little brother, my rock, but another rogue cell in a fast-spreading cancer.

  “You stalked us, Gant. You’re like a freaking Peeping Tom.”

  “Are you serious?” He curls his lip. “Who spent his first night here ogling hundreds of images of Sabrina Layton, huh, Seth? I saw all the links in your search history.”

  “I’d just met her at a party.”

  “You met Kris too, right? How many photos of him did you pull up?”

  This is crazy. I’ve done nothing wrong, so why am I on the defensive? “I think it’s time you went home,” I say.

  “I’m not going to leave you.”

  “I’m not asking!”

  He doesn’t move. “You going to make me? Drag me past those photographers waiting on the curb? Let them shoot pictures of you stuffing your kid brother in a taxi? How’s that going to play out with the fans?”

  He knows he’s got me. The story of rival siblings is almost as old as star-crossed lovers.

  And the end is just as predictable.

  30

  ANNALEIGH IS TOWEL-DRYING HER WET HAIR. The hotel bathrobe looks huge on her.

  “You’re early,” she says, letting me into her room. “Where have you been, a
nyway? I tried calling this afternoon.”

  “Just out.” I wander around her room, too tense to sit.

  “Is that what you’re wearing? You know, for the date?” She makes the last word sound smaller than the others.

  “Oh. I . . . I’ll change later.”

  She’s not moving at all. Just stands in the middle of the room, clasping the towel to her chest. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah,” I tell her, but it’s obvious that she doesn’t believe me.

  What am I supposed to say? Annaleigh knows firsthand how destructive a family member can be, but there’s a big difference between a father who’s several states away and a brother who’s just the other side of the ceiling.

  “You want to know the worst thing about what my dad did to us?” she says, filling the silence. “It’s that I knew something was wrong and I never said a word. I just acted like everything was okay.” She walks over to the patio doors, head bowed. “I don’t want to be that person anymore. I want to be honest. And I want you to be honest too.”

  Annaleigh is backlit by the dusky sky, a shadowy silhouette. The L.A. evening seems to swallow her, minimize her, and I want to hold her so much. We’ve both watched a parent drift away and fought to pull the remaining pieces of our lives back together. I want us to pull together now.

  I join her by the doors. We’re close. So close.

  She swallows. “I need to know you won’t hurt me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  She reaches up and touches my cheek. Her fingertips meander across my chin and onto my lips. She gazes at me, unblinking, as if she’s trying to memorize every millimeter of my face.

  I touch her too. Run my fingers through her still-wet hair. Feel the delicate curve of her neck, and her smooth, soft skin. She presses her cheek against my hand, breathing faster.

  “I never counted on this,” she whispers. “On us.”

  I try to smile, but I’m too nervous. “What about us?” I ask innocently.

  “Don’t do that. Don’t tease. Not now.”

  She kisses my neck and my jawline. I close my eyes and kiss her right back—her forehead, her nose, her lips. Every part of me is alive and electric. She leans into me, but it’s not enough.

  I slide my hands beneath the robe, pulling her closer, closer, closer. The robe slides off one shoulder and then the other, landing softly in a heap around her ankles.

  Everything seems to be moving faster. I’m desperate to touch every part of her, and to be touched. When she unbuttons my shirt, I cast it aside. Her hands skate over my shoulders and settle against the small of my back, locking me tight against her.

  We kiss again, but it’s not gentle anymore. I feel like she might slip away at any moment. I can’t let that happen.

  We stumble to the bed and throw ourselves onto the perfectly made sheets. Our kisses grow desperate as we explore every inch of each other. And when she puts me inside her, the rest of the world vanishes. There’s no Gant or Sabrina or Kris anymore. No photographs, and no movie. There’s only this moment, and this girl.

  Annaleigh is my everything.

  I wake to bright sunshine. I’m coiled around Annaleigh so that her feet rest against the tops of my feet and her head nestles under my chin. The soft white sheets only cover our legs.

  “Hey, stranger,” she says in a sexy drowsy voice. “I thought you were never going to wake up.”

  It takes me a moment to realize where I am. It’s morning, and I’m lying next to a beautiful girl, her lips creased in a smile, raven hair striking against the white pillow. I’m scared and thrilled all at once.

  “You realize this is going to make losing you feel really crappy,” she says.

  “Huh?”

  “Well, we wouldn’t exactly be star-crossed lovers if we got to live happily ever after.”

  “Oh. The movie, you mean.”

  She rolls over to face me, eyes wide open. “What are you saying? That movies aren’t real?”

  “Afraid not,” I say, kissing her. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.”

  She bites a fingernail provocatively. “Well, I must say, this is all quite irregular, Mr. Crane,” she announces in an English accent.

  “Isn’t it, Ms. Ware?”

  “I mean, there I was, preparing myself for a lifetime of smoldering glances, and it turns out we don’t have to follow the script.”

  I swallow hard. “No, we don’t.”

  “No, we don’t,” she agrees, accent slipping. She climbs on top of me. “Not at all.”

  An hour later, we sit on the bed, facing each other. Annaleigh’s wearing my shirt, which is several sizes too large to count as modest on her. There’s a tray of room-service crepes beside us, and I’m starving.

  “It’s weird,” she says. “Even with all the stuff that’s happened, I’m ready to get back to work.” She doesn’t flinch as I wipe away a piece of sleep from the corner of her eye. “Plus, tomorrow’s New Year’s Day, and we get paid, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And there’s the party tonight. Ryder says it’s going be beautiful.”

  “Which one’s that again?”

  She smacks me gently on the arm. “New Year’s Eve. It’s on the itinerary.”

  “Yeah. I’ve been distracted.”

  “Distracted, huh?” She swings her legs off the bed and stands. “Well, we can’t have that.”

  She heads to the bathroom, legs delightfully visible beneath the hem of my shirt. As if she knows I’m watching, she lets the shirt slide off just before she disappears through the door.

  “Start without me,” she says.

  I roll a crepe and take a bite. Unfold today’s newspaper and lay it out on the bed. Sabrina, strikingly beautiful in designer shades, graces the front page, her sleek ponytail draped over her left shoulder. Familiar subject and familiar pose, but I’m not certain I have any more idea what’s going on behind those shades than I did before I ever met her.

  There’s a headline too—Exclusive: Teen Star Is Drug Addict.

  I drop the crepe. Choke on the mouthful I’m eating. I don’t want to read on, but I can’t not read . . . about her breakup with Kris and her spiraling addiction.

  With every new sentence the brutal reality hits home—this isn’t gossip or speculation.

  This is what she told me yesterday.

  31

  HANDS SHAKING, I PULL THE CELL phone from my pants pocket. I call Sabrina, and go straight to voicemail. I don’t leave a message because I feel responsible. The timing can’t be a coincidence.

  I call Ryder. He picks up right away. “I was about to call you,” he says.

  “Sabrina—”

  “She’s okay. Just needs to disconnect while everything blows over.”

  “Blows over?” I’m stage-whispering so that Annaleigh won’t hear me, and the words come out as a continuous hiss.

  “This is a shock for all of us, but we have to keep going.”

  Keep going. How many times have I said that over the past few years? I believed it too, but not anymore.

  “Who are you talking to, Seth?” Annaleigh calls from the bathroom.

  I catch a glimpse of the newspaper again, and the black-and-white image of Sabrina. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I shout back.

  I don’t wait for a response. Just grab my shirt, retrieve the newspaper, and step into the corridor. After everything Annaleigh’s been through, hearing about Sabrina is going to completely freak her out. I need to get things straight in my head before we talk.

  Ryder’s still on the line as I close the door behind me. “Look, you can’t beat yourself up about this, Seth.”

  “Did she say anything? About how this might’ve gotten out?”

  ??
?No.” There’s a pause. “Why?”

  “Because she told me stuff yesterday . . . about being an addict.”

  “Why would she tell you that?”

  “She said she needed to open up.”

  I wait for the fallout. For questions about what I’ve been doing since that moment. Who I’ve seen, and what I’ve said.

  Instead, Ryder sighs. “This isn’t something that just happened. It’s probably been going on for months. Years, even. Lots of people would’ve known, and she’s been making a lot of enemies recently. She dumped Kris and hooked up with you, so he’s probably pissed. Same with her recently fired agent. Rumor has it she’s running her mouth to reporters too. Point is, anyone could’ve done this.”

  Kris? No. Her agent? Unlikely. But she did speak to a reporter—even told me so.

  I want to believe Ryder. But still, the timing . . .

  “Where’s Sabrina now?” I ask.

  “Someplace safe. She’ll rejoin us soon enough, but right now she needs to focus on getting help.”

  Rejoin us. I want to ask what exactly she’ll be rejoining. We lost Kris before he even signed on, Annaleigh’s still feeling fragile, and Sabrina’s out of commission for who knows how long? The whole movie is slipping away.

  Conversation over, I hang up and lean against the cool corridor wall. I can’t go back into Annaleigh’s room. She’ll have questions I can’t answer.

  It’s a short journey to my room. I figure Gant will be gone, but he’s stuffing his clothes into a duffel bag on my bag.

  “You don’t need to say anything,” he snaps. “I’m leaving.”

  I toss the newspaper to him. He hesitates a moment, and unfolds it. Looks at the photo and reads the text.

  “Another day, another story,” he mumbles. “Still think it’s all a coincidence?”

  I fiddle with the buttons of my shirt. Well, not my shirt—the shirt Ryder gave me so that I could become Andrew. Crazy thing is, this shirt is the only thing that separates fictional Andrew from actual Seth, and it’s nowhere near enough.

  “After you saw me getting into Sabrina’s car yesterday, we drove to Griffith Park,” I say. “She told me all about being a drug addict. Now the story’s out.”