Ben pays the bill and, as usual, leaves an obscenely generous tip. “We have to go,” he says to Holder as he tucks his wallet into his back pocket. “I have to get home and check on my dad.”
“Fuck you. I’m not finished eating,” Holder protests.
“That’s your second sandwich. Take it to-go.”
“You better believe I’m taking this shit to-go,” Holder replies. “It ain’t cutting season for me.”
“Cutting season?” Michelle queries.
“Bro-speak for weightlifting season,” I reply automatically, but she looks even more confused. “Weightlifting season, a.k.a. summer. In the winter, you bulk. In the summer, you cut.”
Michelle rolls her eyes. “Figures you’d know what that means with Biff over there whispering subliminal messages in your ear all day.”
Ben laughs. “Hey, don’t make me break out the drunk stories, Shelly.”
Michelle sneers at Ben’s mention of the nickname her father uses, which she absolutely abhors.
“Aw. I was having so much fun. I’ve missed you guys,” Allie protests, frowning as Michelle and me slide out of the bench seat and stand up. “I guess I’ll text you guys on Tuesday when I’m on my way,” she says, standing up and pulling Michelle and me into a quick but vigorous group hug. “Now, get off my property or I’ll call the cops.”
“Love you too,” Michelle and I reply in unison.
Michelle kisses Allie’s cheek. “Don’t forget to bring my gray hoodie you borrowed.”
Tyrell hangs back to exchange numbers with Allie so they can discuss the possibility of Tyrell doing some “sound engineering” for the San Francisco Symphony. I hold my tongue. Tyrell seems like a nice guy, but I don’t want my friends getting involved with Ben’s friends. That will only multiply the possibility of summer drama.
The hostess smiles as we approach the front of the restaurant. “Those photographers are still out there,” she warns us.
“I’ll bring the car ‘round,” Ponti says.
Ben turns away from the wall of windows and pulls me sideways so his body is obscuring me from the photographer’s line of sight. “I’ll cover you,” he murmurs.
For a moment, I feel utter sadness that Ben has gotten so good at hiding from people and pretending not to be drunk. This is the person he has learned to become, without me around to give him some much needed reality checks.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, noticing the disappointment in my eyes.
I shake my head, not wanting to get in an argument or philosophical discussion about hiding your heart in the middle of a crowded restaurant. Especially when I’m not exactly the most open and honest person here. I’ve spent more time fussing over my hair and makeup and whitening my teeth this past week than I have in the past year.
I glance in Michelle’s direction and I’m not surprised to see Holder attempting to chat her up. I am extremely surprised, however, to see her very obviously pretending not to be interested in him. Michelle is so bad at playing hard-to-get.
Holder is a good-looking guy with tons of personality, but I wouldn’t expect Michelle to be fighting an attraction for him. Then again, maybe she’s just ripe for the picking. It’s been at least three or four months since she broke up with her ex. As much as I want to avoid more summer drama, maybe a little summer fling will do Michelle – and me – some good. If anything, it should certainly help her lighten up about Ben and me possibly getting back together.
I look up in time to see Ben smiling as he watches Michelle and Holder chatting. He’s probably thinking the same thing I just thought, how this can only benefit him.
He looks down at me and his smile fades. “Can you help me check on my dad today?”
My stomach drops. “Why do you need help? Didn’t you hire a caregiver for him?”
He tilts his head. “I did, but I had to let her go when she leaked a scoop about my dad to those fucking sharks that have been parked outside my house all week.” He reaches up and places his hand on the side of my face, brushing his thumb over my cheek. “Please.”
As he uses his charm to try to get his way, I realize I can do this too.
“On one condition,” I reply, staring at his mouth to make him think I’m going to ask for a kiss.
“Anything you want,” he murmurs.
“I’m shooting a wedding this Saturday in Napa. Come with me.”
His eyebrows screw up in confusion. “Why? I’d think I’m the last person you would want to take.”
“Normally, yes,” I reply, my muscles tensing up as I start to worry he’s going to reject me. “But this is going to be a huge wedding. I normally come away with at least two new clients from weddings this size. If you’re there with me… I could double or triple that easily.”
He stares into my eyes for a long time as he ponders my request. “What time?”
“I have to be there by noon to take pictures while the bride gets ready. The ceremony is at four. Reception at six. It will probably run until midnight or so.”
He presses his lips together as he continues to mull it over, for much longer than I anticipated he would. I thought he would jump at the chance to do something like this, considering how doggedly he’s been pursuing a second chance with me.
Finally, he nods and flashes me a tempered smile. “I’ll go with you.”
For a moment, I contemplate telling him to just forget it, but then I recall my pathetic bank balance and quickly decide to swallow my pride. “Really?”
“Of course,” he replies.
And as he places a soft kiss on my forehead, the tension in my muscles melts away.
I smile as he pulls me into his strong arms and I wrap mine around his waist. “Maybe you are romantic after all,” I say, inhaling the intoxicating, manly scent of his skin, which is embedded in his warm T-shirt.
He shakes his head. “Baby, you have no idea.”
15
Creep
Then
April 4, 2015 - 9:48 p.m.
As I sit back against the headboard of the king-sized bed in my hotel room, the music booming in the room next to mine leaks through the adjoining door, but I don’t call the front desk to complain, because it’s my music. Twenty feet away from me, a group of strangers are blasting the album I just released a few months ago and, by the sounds of it, making some pretty amazing memories. It’s fucking surreal.
As I always do, when things like this happen, I think back to how this all began. And, as usual, I find myself flooded with feelings of self-loathing. Normally, when these feelings become overwhelming, I find Charley and tell her I need some “me time.” I can always count on my kitten to put me at ease.
But I’m all alone in this hotel room. It’s just me, a bucket of Dos Equis bottles on ice, and a baggie of baby-blue Fentanyl tablets. And I’m beginning to understand the allure of the more permanent type of hotel checkout so many celebrities before me have opted to take.
I slide the baggie out of my pocket and set the pills on the nightstand. Then, I sit back and close my eyes to let my mind wander back to where it all began. Maybe if I force myself to think about it instead of drinking or relying on Charley, I can finally relieve some of the burden.
March 7, 2009 - 12:21 p.m.
“Hello?” I say, answering my cell phone.
It’s a 310-area-code, which I distinctly recognize as a So-Cal area code — Los Angeles in particular. Maybe I was getting a response to the messages I left last week. I got the idea from an online group for aspiring actors to go through the L.A. Craigslist classified for auditions for actors and singers. That was about six days ago and no one had called back. I didn’t really expect anyone to respond to a sixteen-year-old nobody, which is why I said I was eighteen when I left the messages.
I got the idea to respond to the Craigslist ads from the Sapphire Sway Facebook group I’m in, which is a place for social media influencers to network. It’s a midlevel “sapphire” community I qualified for when I reached 25,000 fol
lowers on Twitter and 50,000 likes on my Facebook page. I’ll be able to join the “emerald” level group when I double those numbers.
Unfortunately, according to the other influencers in the group, without a manager or an agent, it will be extremely difficult for any modeling or talent scouts to take me seriously. And without any professional gigs, it will be hard to boost my followers, unless I do something really controversial. I wish Bodega Bay wasn’t such a small town, then I might be able to form a band.
“Hi. Is this Ben Hayes?” asks a deep voice with a thick, surfer-like accent.
“Yeah, this is Ben. Who’s this?”
The man chuckles. “Hi, Ben. I’m Jordan Kroll. I work for WMA, a talent agency in L.A. You responded to an ad we placed for auditions, so I’m calling you back to see if you have any headshots or a demo reel, or a demo. I believe your message said you also sing.”
For the first time in my life, I was tongue-tied.
“Um… No—No, I don’t have any of that stuff. Sorry. But I can, like, text you a picture of me or something, if that’s cool.”
He laughs again. “Can I ask you a question, Ben? Your message said you’re eighteen years old. Is that true? It won’t affect whether or not we can work together. I just need to know if I should be talking to your parents.”
Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “My mom’s dead. And—My dad’s super cool. He’s a comic book artist. He’s totally okay with me acting and singing.”
“A comic book artist? Impressive. And I’m really sorry to hear about your mom, but it seems like you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, so let me tell you a little about what a talent agent does.”
Jordan goes into a fairly lengthy explanation of how he can help me secure auditions for movies and music bands looking for new members. He also explains that, in the beginning, I’ll probably be doing mostly print modeling work and the occasional commercial. But eventually, small movie roles or backup vocals will turn into roles in major feature films or even a lucrative record deal.
“It all sounds great to me,” I reply. “But, there’s just one thing…”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t live in L.A. I’m near San Francisco.”
Jordan is silent for a moment. “Well, that shouldn’t be a problem. Flights from SFO are less than two hours to LAX. And if that becomes too expensive, you can always stay with a host family here in L.A. If you put in the effort, I will do the same for you as your agent.”
“Do you…want to talk to my dad, or something?”
He chuckles again. “Ben, in Hollywood, most child artists handle their own careers from the time they’re about ten or eleven years old. It’s easier that way. But if you think you need your dad’s help, that’s okay. I won’t judge.”
Contrary to what he’s saying, it feels like he’s judging me. Almost like he’s accusing me of being a Daddy’s boy who needs his dad’s approval to take a shit. That definitely isn’t who I am. Since my mom died, my dad pretty much lets me do whatever I want.
“I don’t need permission. My dad trusts me,” I reply.
“Good. Great. Then, go ahead and text me those pics and I’ll get in touch if I think you need to come out here and get some professional headshots taken. I have a photographer friend who specializes in young artists’ headshots. Peace out, Ben.”
I hold in my laughter at his sign-off. “Bye, Jordan,” I reply, ending the call.
As I sit back on the brown leather sofa in the living room, I can’t help but smile. That call went better than expected. I get a weird sensation in my belly, and I realize this must be what it’s like to feel hopeful. Since my mom died, and all my prayers for her not to die went unanswered, I try not to get my hopes up. But I can’t stop imagining myself playing Spiderman — my dad’s favorite superhero — on the big screen.
Maybe I should ask Charley to take some photos of me, so I can at least send Jordan some decent pics. I shake my head at this thought. Mason caught me staring at his fourteen-year-old sister a couple of weeks ago and the death stare he shot in my direction was almost lethal. If I asked her to take pics of me, he would probably stuff her camera down my throat.
I point my camera phone at my face and take a few awful pictures, some smiling, some serious. Then, I shoot them off to the number Jordan called me from. He replies almost instantly.
Jordan:
Perfect! I’ll call you in a few days to set up a shoot for those headshots.
April 4, 2015 - 10:16 p.m.
I get up from the hotel bed and pop open a Dos Equis using the bottle opener on the room service cart. As I down half the bottle in one go, I slide my phone out of my pocket. I stare at the first name on my list of favorite contacts: Meow-Meow. Usually, just seeing my nickname for Charley will cheer me up, but today is different. Today, everything changed.
April 4, 2015 - 7:30 p.m.
Jordan sits across from me at the tiny Chinese restaurant in the Meatpacking District of Manhattan. The last time I visited New York, to perform in a special Christmas episode of the Today show, I brought Charley with me. We were so tired of being followed around by the new bodyguard I hired, that we snuck away and took a couple subway trips before we found a tiny hole-in-the-wall place to have a private dinner. I’ll never forget how much she laughed when I suggested we just close our eyes and point to something on the menu, and I landed on fried chicken feet. God, Charley has the best laugh.
I figured this place, and the memories Charley and I made here, would give me the strength to do what I was about to do.
“I talked to Bernard last night and he says Pepsi wants to talk about a partnership,” Jordan says, flinging his long, light-brown bangs out of his wide face.
The way his wide-set hazel eyes almost appear yellow in certain lighting sometimes reminds me of an insect. It doesn’t help that the foundation he wears on his face makes his skin look gray. He certainly has the blood-sucking mosquito act down pat.
I take a sip of my iced milk tea and set it down on the table. “I’m firing you Jordan.”
He laughs as he continues pouring soy sauce on his dome-shaped mound of brown rice. “Heh. Funny. So what do you think about working with Pepsi? I know some people have had bad experiences getting out of those restrictive contracts, but I think Eric and I can work out the legalese for you and cut you a good deal.”
Eric Burns, my entertainment lawyer, is also getting fired, but Jordan doesn’t need to know that.
“I’m serious. You’re fired. I’m going free-agent for a while. Figure out where I’m going from here.”
Jordan freezes, staring at his mound of rice for a moment before he smiles and sets down his chopsticks. “What is it? You want to renegotiate your agency contract with a gun to my head? Is that what this is? A shakedown?”
I shake my head. “I think you know exactly what this is,” I reply, looking him straight in the eye as I lean back in my chair.
As we stare each other down for a while, I know we’re both thinking the same thing. The same memories are flashing through our minds.
The first time sixteen-year-old me spent the night alone at the WMA mansion in the Hollywood Hills, because my dad couldn’t afford to fly out to L.A. with me.
The first time I took ecstasy.
The first time I was introduced to the cave-like grotto attached to the pool at the WMA mansion, which was supposed to mirror the grotto at the Playboy mansion.
My initial apprehension when I was told no one was allowed in the grotto with clothes on.
How I was in total shock and awe when I saw the photos of celebrities lining the wall behind the bar in the grotto — if these stars took their clothes off to get in there, I could do it too.
The time I woke up in a drug-induced haze and found a drugged-up seventeen-year-old Katie Lindberg lying on the bar top.
The ache in certain parts of my body, and the sickening realization that both Katie and I had been violated in the grotto.
How I
had to wait for Katie to wake up before I left the WMA mansion that night. I couldn’t leave her there.
And as I waited, I was threatened by Jordan and Wesley Gammett — the photographer who took my headshots. They said Katie would think I did it, since Katie and I had had sex earlier that night. And even if Katie figured out it wasn’t me, if I spoke up I would never work in Hollywood again. I would be blacklisted.
Looking around at the pictures of all those celebrities. Did all those people, some of whom I admired, know about this? Or were they here for a different kind of party and their images were used to coerce unsuspecting child stars? Did it even matter?
Without uttering a single word, all these memories were there between us in that tiny Chinese restaurant, as clearly as if I’d laid them out on the table. I shook my head at the server as he approached us and he spun around, taking the hint to leave us alone for a while.
“I know about the child support payments. I know you paid off Katie and her mom,” I begin, relishing how his eyes flit left and right, searching for signs that any of our fellow patrons might recognize me or be listening in on our conversation. “And I know that the reason she almost OD’d last week is because you threatened to cut her off unless she signed a new agreement, slashing her payments in half.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, picking up his chopsticks again and digging into his rice and mu-shu pork.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” I reply, unable to temper the menacing growl in my voice. “I’m done pretending like nothing happened that night. I’m going to offer Katie my help again. If she doesn’t want it, that’s fine, but I’m done staying silent for you.”
“For me?” he replies with a chuckle. “That’s rich. I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who needs protecting in this situation. You’re the one with the most to lose. I have plenty of other clients. Katie has plenty of work lined up for the next couple of years. You’re the one who still hasn’t lined up a team for your next album. You’re the one with a fledgling movie career that can be squashed with almost no effort on my part.” He sits back in his chair and reaches into the breast pocket of his sports coat. “You’re the one with a girlfriend who would be devastated if she found out how you recorded a video of her losing her virginity.”