“Good.” Brian rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing powerful, tanned forearms. “Now get the hell out of here.”
Gant checks with me before moving. “I’ll see you in the lobby,” I tell him.
He crosses the room and slams the door shut behind him.
I edge closer to Brian. “Sabrina overdosed.”
Ryder and Tracie look away. Even Brian hesitates. “Why did you leave the party last night, Seth?” he asks.
“She needed help.”
“No. She needed to get back to rehab. Which you could’ve made happen. Hell, we could’ve made it happen.”
“Sure. And how would that have played out in your movie?”
“A lot better than it did in real life.”
I lunge at him. Tackle him with both arms and take him down. His head connects with the coffee table and he gasps as the corner slices neatly across his temple. I get in two good punches before he silences me with a jab to the gut. He doesn’t stop either, but volleys punches to my upper arms and legs as his blood drips onto my white shirt. He doesn’t touch my face, though. No one will see what happened here.
As Ryder drags him away, Brian glares at me, all gritted teeth and rapid breaths. Blood runs down his left side. Tracie leads him to the bathroom to clean up.
I drag myself to a seated position. “How did you know?” I ask Ryder. “That all this would happen?”
He rubs his goatee. “We didn’t. We just set the scene. You made it happen.”
“But the stuff about Sabrina . . .”
“All we knew was that she and Kris broke up, and no one was saying why. Sure, we hoped the truth might come out during filming, but we weren’t counting on it.”
Brian appears in the bathroom doorway, a cloth pressed tight against the side of his head. “Sabrina was in this thing to draw attention to you and Annaleigh. To add a little drama. That’s all. This was supposed to be a movie about star-crossed lovers, not a fallen star.”
“Then why tell everyone about the miscarriage?”
“Because you left us no choice. After you bailed last night, we needed to end the movie somehow.”
“It’s not over yet. Not as long as Annaleigh and I are still together.”
Laughter rings out from the bathroom, and Tracie joins us. “You really think an audience needs to see Annaleigh dump you? You ditched her last night. Went off with Sabrina in private, and lured her into confiding her deepest, darkest secrets, even though you knew we were recording you. Now every newspaper in America is linking you to an attempted suicide. You’re toxic. Who wouldn’t dump you?”
They’ve been right about everything else, so why not this? Perhaps they’re counting on me telling Annaleigh the truth, so that things will end at precisely the appointed hour.
Tracie picks up the check and puts it back on the coffee table beside me. “I wonder if anyone’ll believe you’d do so much damage for just fifty grand.”
I don’t look at the check. I just feel the emptiness of everything—money, trust, hope. Or maybe not everything. Because in the room directly under mine, Annaleigh might still be waiting.
Brian runs a finger over his wound. Inspects the bloody fingertip. “Just so you know: You signed a nondisclosure agreement. If you talk to anyone about this movie, we’ll come after you. So do yourself a favor. Go home and make like a hermit for a few months. We’ll be sure to let you know when you’re on TV.”
Ryder’s head whips around. Tracie glances from one man to the other. I get the feeling Brian wasn’t supposed to say that last part. Either that, or this is yet another choreographed response designed to screw with my head.
It doesn’t matter. I know what my next move has to be. I need to come clean to Annaleigh, and risk everything on the truth. If I can’t do that, I don’t deserve her.
I don’t deserve anything at all.
47
BRIAN KNOWS HOW TO HIT. I grit my teeth and concentrate on walking normally, just so he won’t have the pleasure of knowing how badly he hurt me.
They follow me as I leave, my three dark shadows. Escort me into the elevator and tell me we’ll wait for Annaleigh in the lobby.
Brian baits me with comments, but I don’t reply. Words are the only things I can still control, so I shut him out and think about how to explain everything to Annaleigh. As my prepared speech takes shape, I’m certain that it’ll be the last time we see each other.
The doors open to the lobby. In the elevator’s reflective metal interior, I watch the three of them file out. Then I spin around and press the door close button.
Ryder’s the first to realize what’s happening. As he runs toward me, I throw my bag at him and he tumbles backward. Brian’s right there too—at least until Gant flashes into view and blindsides him with a tackle.
The doors close, shutting out the chaos.
I get off on the fourth floor. Hobble along the corridor and bang on Annaleigh’s door. “Who is it?” she calls.
“Me.”
She opens the door immediately. Closes and locks it behind me. Applies the security chain for good measure.
“Sabrina,” she says. She glances at the blank TV screen and back to me. Wipes tears from her eyes. “I saw the news. Were you there?”
“Yeah.”
“Is she . . . okay?”
“I don’t know.”
She pulls me into a tight hug that makes me gasp. I bury my face in her hair and savor her familiar scent. I just want a few more seconds—time to breathe in her perfection before I lose her forever.
“I should’ve done more,” she says. “Reached out to her. If only I’d known what she was going through . . . but she was a star, you know? Who am I?”
I shake my head. “This is my fault. I knew things were messed up, and I’m the reason it’s all out there now.”
She leans back and places her palms flat against my cheeks. “No, Seth. You didn’t make her an addict, and you didn’t get her pregnant.”
I open my mouth, but it’s dry. I need to hurry, say what I have to say before Brian bursts through the door and takes matters out of my hands. Gant won’t be able to hold him back forever. But I don’t want this to end. Why does everything good have to end?
“That’s not the point,” I say. “The drug story got out because I was being recorded.”
She narrows her eyes. “What do you mean, recorded?”
“My conversations. Every freakin’ word.”
“Not the ones with me, though.”
I take a deep breath and nod. She steps back suddenly.
“Look, Annaleigh, I never meant to hurt anyone—”
“Sabrina’s in intensive care. She might die.” She stares at me with wide, wild eyes. “You’re even worse than my father. You’re a monster!”
“Please, just listen—”
“Get the hell away from me. Go. You’re toxic.”
She’s right. I am toxic. But something about that word keeps me rooted to the spot. Tracie said I was toxic too. I almost expect to find her in here now, watching with Brian and Ryder.
I take in the familiar objects around the room. But that’s not all I see. There are smaller objects hiding in plain sight too—a tiny camera peeking around the TV, another tilted upward from behind the sofa, and a third angled toward me from the darkened bathroom doorway.
“Get out,” screams Annaleigh. “Get out! Get out! Get out!”
She bends over, hands on her knees like a runner after a long workout.
“Why are there cameras in here, Annaleigh?”
Slowly, she straightens. I expect to see a look of fury or desolation, but as she blinks away tears, she begins to laugh. “Geez, Seth. You can’t do anything right, can you? The way you keep ruining these final scenes, it’s like you’ve got a crush on me or something.”
I
hear the words, but I don’t believe them. They’re not Annaleigh’s words. Can’t be.
“Oh, what? You’re going to pretend to be surprised? Well, don’t bother. Brian stopped by an hour ago—told me you were in on the plan the whole time, same as me.” She mistakes my shock for embarrassment. “Yeah, I was speechless too. I’ve spent two weeks worrying the truth would slip out. That I’d say one stupid word and everything would come crashing down. You have no idea how hard it’s been for me to watch shit happening to you. And all along, you knew.”
I shake my head. “No, I didn’t. You didn’t, either.”
“What, you think you’re the only one who can act? I was there when my mom signed the contract. It was me who told Brian to expose my dad in the newspaper.”
“But you were . . .” Distraught. Inconsolable. But of course she was, because that’s what the part required.
What did Sabrina say? Timing’s a little off, but the instincts are good. I blasted her for that.
I grip my hair. “No. This isn’t happening.”
“Why did you have to take things so far with Sabrina, huh? Why couldn’t you just leave her alone?”
“I never meant for that stuff about her to get out. That’s why I took your old cell phone when I went to see her last night.”
“You knew you were being recorded all the time. You just said so yourself!” She huffs. “Look, I warned you not to leave the party. That was the climax of the whole movie—all those extras, and camera setups. My mom on standby outside, ready to kill our dreams as the clock strikes midnight. But I let you go because I was worried about Sabrina. I cared, which is a hell of a lot more than you can say.”
“I didn’t know—”
“Just stop it, okay?” She jams her palms against my chest, fresh hits on top of still-forming bruises. “I fell for you. I slept with you. I fought for you. Ryder and Brian wanted you to be the bad guy, but I said no. I really figured that once filming was over, I could put everything behind me. I thought we could make things work, you and me.”
“So did I.”
“Then why did you run off and sleep with Sabrina?”
“I didn’t sleep with her.”
“That’s exactly what you did.”
“I’m the innocent one here, not you!”
“The hell you are. I’ve lived a lie, sure. But the things you’ve done . . .” She looks up at me with icy blue eyes. “You make me sick.”
I take a step back and lean against the wall. The cameras follow me remotely. I feel tired and angry, but more than anything, I feel empty.
“They’re filming all of this, aren’t they?” I ask.
“Of course they are. Ryder said the footage from the fitness center this morning wasn’t good enough. I was pissed when he told me that, but now I’m glad. Once everyone hears you come clean, they’ll know why I have to leave.”
Annaleigh grabs the handle of her case and heads for the door.
“You’re wrong about me,” I say. “You are so wrong, and one day, you’re going to know it.”
She lifts her case and clatters it against the floor. For a moment I think she’s going to yell at me again, but she just shakes her head. “You’re a decent actor, Seth, but take it from me—this is not your most convincing performance.”
As she opens the door, I expect to find Brian and Ryder outside, eavesdropping. But of course they’re not there. They set this up too: telling me not to confide in Annaleigh; telling Annaleigh I was in the dark, then shifting course. They knew this meeting had to happen, and that by the end of it, their story would reach its conclusion in real life, as it has in the movie.
We’re star-crossed lovers, after all. Didn’t they make that clear the very first time we met?
48
GANT IS WAITING FOR ME IN the lobby. He leads me out of the hotel and toward a taxi. Fights off the paparazzi when they swoop in for one last money shot, like he’s my personal bodyguard.
He gives the taxi driver our home address. No bluffing, no trickery—just the address in Van Nuys. The driver makes a halfhearted attempt at small talk, but Gant’s short answers discourage him. We tumble into silence.
I follow the taxi’s turns. West on Wilshire. A shortcut through the Los Angeles Country Club, and past Westwood. Join the 405 North and pass the Getty Museum tucked high up on a hill to the left. We’re surrounded by hills here, and I could almost believe we’re in the middle of a vast natural park. But each hill is hiding something—a neighborhood, a reservoir, a secret—and I can’t see beyond any of them.
Appear to show everything, but always control the view.
We emerge to the flatness of the Valley. Streets in grids, houses in rows, and nowhere to hide. I welcome it, and I loathe it. But above all, I need it.
Dad sees us pull up and comes out to meet us. There are a couple news trucks outside our house, but not as many as there will be. I need to apologize to my father, but not with TV cameras capturing the whole scene. Some things should remain private.
Dad pays the driver and retrieves my bag. A reporter from the local cable news station barks questions, but the words are just white noise. As I walk inside, legs leaden, mind numb, my father speaks for me.
I take a seat at the kitchen table. It’s odd to be back in the Valley, scene of my triumphant turn as Romeo. I’m center stage again now too, and like Romeo staring at his lifeless Juliet, I see only what I’ve lost. No wonder Romeo drank the poison.
Gant pours two glasses of orange juice and hands me an energy bar.
“We need to eat,” he says.
He takes the seat across from me. I nibble the bar, but it doesn’t sit right.
“I was sure Brian was going to beat the crap out of me,” Gant says. “But the moment the elevator doors closed, they all started smiling. They didn’t even go after you.” He takes a bite of his bar and chews it. “Annaleigh knew, didn’t she?”
I nod.
The sound of the door closing startles me. Dad appears in the kitchen. “What is ha . . . happening?” he asks Gant.
For most of an hour, Gant explains everything, while I ride shotgun in his crazy story and think how unrealistic it all sounds. How could anyone be as stupid as this Seth Crane character? Audiences will find it hard to relate to him, I think. No one likes a patsy.
When Gant finishes, Dad steps over to the counter and thumbs through some pages—the waivers, I guess. I think it might be the first time he has ever truly read them. He grips the skin around his mouth and stretches it. As he reaches the final page, he closes his eyes.
“I’m so s-sorry,” he says.
“It’s my fault,” I tell him.
“No. I . . . I should’ve read it.”
“And I should’ve told you both that something weird was going on.”
Gant ends the discussion by placing Brian’s crumpled check on the table. He flattens it out carefully. “Tracie gave me this before they left.”
I shake my head.
“They screwed us over, Seth. Don’t let them keep their money too.”
I brush the check onto the floor. I don’t want to hear about how it could change our lives. If we profit from this, I’m no better than Brian.
Gant folds his arms on the table and rests his chin on them. Peers up at me with heavy eyes. “What do you want to do?”
“I want to make things right.”
“We need to f-focus on us,” says Dad.
“Dad’s right,” says Gant. “We need to keep a low profile until we know exactly what’s happening.”
“Hide out, you mean.” I pick at the energy bar. “That’s what Brian told me to do—go into hibernation for a few months.”
“What happens in a few months?” asks Gant.
“The movie comes out.”
As soon as I say it, I realize that’s ridiculous. Ther
e’s no way Ryder can get a final cut ready for theatrical release in just a few months. The footage is still raw, the sound even weaker.
I pull out my laptop and check on the movie’s status. It’s still listed as in production.
“W-what is it, son?” Dad asks, peering at the screen.
“Something doesn’t add up,” I say. “They need this movie out soon, before everyone forgets about it. But theatrical releases are scheduled months in advance. How else are they going to—”
I look at the screen again. My name is there, along with Annaleigh’s and Sabrina’s—a close-knit cast of three. Ryder is listed as director, and Curt Barrett as executive producer. Brian’s name is conspicuously absent.
I search for Curt Barrett and Machinus Media Enterprises, and scan the news feed. The first result is a press release from this morning: Machinus unveils plans for cutting-edge pay-per-view drama.
I only read the first few lines, but it’s enough. For the price of a movie ticket, people will be able to download the feature-length release. Details are closely guarded, but it will change the face of moviemaking.
I can guess who the stars will be.
I turn the laptop around. From the look on their faces, I know that Gant and Dad are thinking the same thing as me. It won’t matter that the images and audio aren’t cinema quality, because no one will be seeing this in theaters. They’ll be watching Sabrina and Annaleigh and me on their TVs, tablets, laptops, and phones, and any shortcomings in the footage will be amply compensated by the drama.
“You n-need to . . . to sleep,” Dad tells us both.
Gant yawns as if in agreement, but I’m wide-awake now. I have a deadline, and a few months is long enough to tell a different story. A true story.
“W-what are you d-doing?” asks Dad as I pull the laptop around.
“Writing,” I tell him.
I launch a blank document and give it a title: Imposter.
EPILOGUE
I WRITE BY DAY, WHEN LIGHT filters through the blinds, energizing the reporters keeping vigil outside our house. And I write at night, when they retreat to their vans and cars, running their engines to keep the heaters going. I imagine them hunkered inside, muttering angrily about the boy who was welcomed into Hollywood’s teen elite, and went into seclusion when he was caught selling secrets to the enemy. They probably think that I’m the most despicable traitor, even as they continue to milk the Sabrina revelations for all they’re worth.