Accidental It Girl (15 page)

“What do you want?” Duncan asks me, a small vein popping out of his neck.

“I want
that
to stop,” I say, pointing at the magazine in his hand.

“How do I know you're not the one doing it in the first place?” he asks sharply.

Oh, crap. Could he really be as clueless as I am? “You mean
you
don't know who's doing it?”

He stares at me—appraising, judging.

Okay, Sadie, this is your big chance to be a normal, articulate, rational human being. I speak. “Look, I could be a crazy stalker realizing her dream of kidnapping you and grinding you into dog food….” Right, that didn't come out as planned. “But,” I continue, “I'm not.” Wow, smooth.

Duncan chuckles. “That's what they all say.”

“You really, seriously don't know what all this is about?”

“No,” he replies with regret. “You?”

“No.”

A loud clattering catches our attention. The door we just came from swings open and Brooke peeks her head around.

“Oh, there you are,” she says breezily.

“Who's this?” asks Duncan, stepping away. “Your accomplice?”

“My—”

She interrupts. “I'm Sadie's best friend, Brooke Nolan.” She gracefully extends her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

As he shakes her hand, I see Brooke's face color. Lucky for her, it's dark out here.

Brooke continues, “I apologize. I interrupted you. Please, go on.”

“Hmmm, let's see, where were we?” I say, my voice cracking and getting louder of its own accord. “Oh, that's right—nobody knows
anything
!”

I pace back and forth between Duncan and Brooke—who can't take her eyes off him. It looks a bit like she wants to eat him, though, not date him.

I stop in front of Duncan. “Listen to me, you have to think. Is there anyone who might want to play a trick on you? Have you beaten up any photographers lately? Um…knocked up any girls with burly, photographically inclined boyfriends? Refused some starlet who wanted to fu—”

Brooke approaches from behind and slings her arm through mine—half petting my arm, half slapping it. “Sadie, calm down. There's no need to insult the man.” Why does she sound more and more like her mother as this night progresses?

“I have a
ton
of enemies, dude.” My fake boyfriend uses the word
dude
. “But I don't know of any who would make up shit like this. It's got to be someone at the tabloid looking for a story.”

“I don't think so. I
really
don't think so. This isn't the
Weekly
-freaking-
World
, okay? We're not talking about babies born with horns and the world's fattest mailman. It was on
Entertainment Tonight
!”

“Wow, this really bothers you. Am I that bad?” he asks, trying to lighten the mood.

“No,” Brooke blurts unexpectedly.

He looks at Brooke quizzically, then continues to me, “If there's one thing I've learned over the last few years, it's that these things always go away eventually. Some big story will break and the vultures will circle over some other carcass. They love fresh meat.”

“Are you insulting
me
now?” I ask.

Brooke digs her nails into my forearm and whispers, “Ixnay on the objay.” Then smiles coyly at Duncan.

“What do you do?” he asks with keen interest.

Brooke lets go of me and raises her arms in defeat. Oh, yeah—shocking. He speaks pig latin. Who knew?

People hate me. “I'm a…photographer.” Just now, in my head, “paparazzi” has a ring of sleaziness about it.

“What's wrong with that?”

“Acelebrityphotographer,” I mumble.

“You're a
paparazzi
?” he asks, aghast.

“That has nothing to do with this. Do I have a camera on me? This is my life we're talking about here, all right?”

Stoke begins laughing—uproariously. Between cackles, he manages to wheeze, “You're a paparazzi, who's being harassed by the paparazzi?” He wipes away a tear of laughter. “Pretty poetic justice, don't you think?” He says before snorting and digressing again into laughter.

I don't know why, but the sound of his laugh suddenly makes me want to pound him. And did he say
justice
? “I am not a celebrity. I haven't been involved in any scandal. I am not a public figure. This doesn't make any sense!”

I feel the heavy weight of tears threatening to flow, a hollow pit forming in my stomach. I cover my eyes, pressing my palms against them, in hopes that it will stem the tide.

“Sadie? Is that your name?” Duncan asks in a low, silky smooth voice. I nod my head. He continues, “Sadie, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you.”

I take my hands from my eyes. Duncan puts a hand on each of my shoulders.

He adds, “I swear, it'll all go away. It'll stop. Everything is going to be fine—”

Without warning a bright flashing light breaks through the darkness of the alley. A distinctive
snap-snap-snap
echoes around us.

Instinctively, I turn toward it. Duncan turns away from the noise, backs off.

“Shit!” I hear Brooke exclaim.

Snap-snap-snap
rings out again—autowind…film…camera.

No. This is not happening.

This. Is. Not. Happening!

The flash goes off again, right in my eyes. But I think I catch a glimpse of a red baseball cap, a beard.

I scream, “You
asshole
!” and take off running in the direction of the photographer.

Behind me, Duncan screams, “Stop!”

I don't know if he's talking to me or the guy taking the pictures. Doesn't matter, really. Neither of us is going to listen.

The creepy guy with the camera stops his picture taking and sprints away from me—out of the alley and east on Eighty-first Street.

I fly past pedestrians, zigzag through a maze of flower stands and outdoor displays.

I beg my legs to go as fast as they can, but after about a block my injured left knee begins to scream for mercy.

In the distance I hear Duncan Stoke's voice ring out in the night. “Let him go! It's not worth it.”

Fucking actors. What do they know?

Up ahead, near the entrance to the Museum of Natural History, a man walking his dog looks on with interest.

I yell, “Stop that guy!” just as the creepy photographer passes the man and his tiny poodle.

The dog owner swings his hand out and clips the photographer on the arm.

Damn, it wasn't enough. After a brief stumble the photographer regains his stride. He runs even faster now, across the wide lanes of Central Park West and straight into the vast and dangerous darkness of Central Park.

I can't follow him. I'm a single woman with a limp. I'd be like a really large worm on a hook in there.

Damnit!

I lean over to catch my breath. With my head somewhere between my knees, I see something streak by me.

Lifting my head, I see Luke's two skinny legs—the palest pale—stomping out a well-practiced stride, and Todd's flat feet pounding away in a strained, clumsy jog. They disappear in the deep brush surrounding the park.

“You guys!” I yell, afraid for their safety. “He's gone!”

A few seconds pass before I see Luke and Todd emerge from the thicket, dusting themselves off—no photographer in tow.

Well, I hope that he's attacked by man-sized rats, or better yet, mugged by a band of flesh-eating zombie homeless people. Come on, a girl's gotta dream.

I hobble back toward Columbus and say a quick thank-you to the Good Samaritan dog walker as I pass.

He asks, “Shall I call the police?”

“No,” I answer, between gasps of breath. “No use.”

I limp down Eighty-first Street, silently cursing myself. I did the stupidest thing—I looked
toward
the camera when I heard the shutter clicking. Whenever you catch a famous person out with their unfamous love interest, it's always the anonymous one who looks at the lens. The famous person, trained in the art of camera avoidance, instinctively turns away from the sound of a shutter—not toward it. I don't know why, but my turning toward that camera bothers me more than having the picture taken at all. I feel like my body betrayed me.

On the corner of Columbus and Eighty-first, I'm met by Duncan Stoke and Brooke. Given the length of time they've gone unsupervised, I'm a little surprised Duncan is still in full possession of his clothes.

Luke and Todd totter up behind me. Luke has the fresh glow of a man who's just had an easy, recreational trot. Todd could be having a heart attack.

“Are you okay?” I ask Todd.

“Need to. Go to. Gym,” he says unsteadily. “Fine.”

“Did you see the guy?” asks Luke.

“No,” I reply. “You?”

Todd shakes his head.

Luke gives me a disappointed “No, sorry.”

“Thanks for trying, you guys,” I tell them both.

“It's okay, Sadie. Everything is going to be fine,” Brooke says, echoing Duncan's words from moments ago.

“No, it's
not
going to be fine, Brooke. The story has just been confirmed. It was rumor before, now it's a documented fact.” I lean against a nearby mailbox for support. “How could I have been so stupid? How could I have let this happen?” I ask no one in particular. “It was so careless. We shouldn't have been talking outside. Don't you know
anything
?” I ask Duncan.

Duncan is rocking from side to side, shuffling his feet—deep in thought.

“Hey, Stoke!” I say loudly, trying to bust him out of the little personal conference he's in.

“Hold on, I'm trying to think,” he says brusquely. My fake boyfriend needs absolute silence to
think
.

I watch as Brooke approaches Duncan…leans in…and sniffs him. Oh, my God, she's possessed.

But that got him. Duncan turns to her. “Did you just
smell
me?”

“Sorry about that,” Brooke says, and slinks toward me.

Duncan goes back to thinking, while Luke and Todd begin mumbling to each other.

After a few moments, Duncan halts the swaying and says, “Okay, I think the only thing to do is let my publicist release a statement about us just being friends, but only after—”

“No!” Luke, Todd, and I exclaim at once.

“No! No. Nonononono. No. Absolutely not!” I repeat. “Everybody knows that to the general public ‘We're just friends' translates to ‘We're sleeping together just all the damn time and about to get engaged.' ”

“You might be right,” replies Duncan.

“Oh, she's definitely right,” adds Luke.

“Yep,” Brooke concurs.

“Really?” Duncan asks, astounded. “It's that universal?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Brooke, nodding her head for emphasis.

“Totally,” replies Todd almost simultaneously.

Duncan lets out a disappointed huff. “I guess then we…ignore it?” he tries.

“But, you've got interviews and stuff coming up, don't you?” asks Brooke.

“The junkets are over,” Duncan replies thoughtfully. “So, that's all good. But if anyone asks I'll just say I prefer to keep my private life private.”

“It's not perfect,” I respond. “It'll definitely pique some interest, but what other options are there, really?” I hate this. I hate it!

“Another thing,” says Duncan. “I'll be seen out with other people. You do that, too. I don't care who—brothers, uncles, this guy…” He points to Todd.

“Do you think that'll work?” I ask.

Duncan Stoke looks at me with his big, mysterious, recriminating eyes and hisses, “You tell me. You're the fucking paparazzi.”

S
adie! Wake up!”

“What do you want?” I groan.

“Get up—now!” I hear Brooke roar, through the lovely, fluffy, life-sustaining down pillow I have pressed over my head.

I feel the sleepy warmth of my body evaporate as the covers are ruthlessly ripped off my bare legs. I cling to the pillow over my head with both arms as Brooke tugs at it violently.

“No!” I mumble through the feathery buffer. “Why won't you just let me sleep?”

Five days of watching increasingly unflattering photographs of me appear on the Internet, while waiting for a completely ridiculous picture of me and a movie star to hit the magazines, has, believe it or not, helped me get much-needed beauty rest. When I'm asleep I don't worry about tabloids and movie stars, stalkers and embarrassing photographs.

“Go away!” I try again.

Brooke stops her tugging.

Good, now I can get back to my dream. What was it?

Oh, right…me…at a five-star spa…. I'm swathed in a chocolate and seaweed wrap that's guaranteed to perk me up and smooth my lumps. The chirpy little spa urchin says, “I'd love to detoxify your pores, Miss Price, but first I have to
find
them”…Ethan Wyatt is waiting for me in the Zen garden….

Okay, now I'm up. What the hell was that?

Just as I'm about to roll out of bed, an obscenely loud and obnoxiously perky voice rings out from the living room—freaking KC and the Sunshine Band: “That's the way, uh-huh, uh-huh / I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.”

“I'm up!” I scream to Brooke.

KC's girls sing, “Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo
doo
!”

“Dear God, make it stop!” I plead.

Silence, and disco-free peace, once again reign.

I take my hands from my ears and stagger into the living room, rubbing my aching eyes with one hand and adjusting my baggy old tank top and giant, yet miraculously wedgie-creating, granny panties with the other.

“Sadie,” says a familiar male voice—Luke. “Ah! Pants!” It sounds like a compulsive utterance by a victim of Tourette's syndrome.

“Think of this as a really ill-fitting tankini, all right?” I reply.

“I'm a
man
!” he pleads.

“Oh, fine!” I plod back into the bedroom for some pajama pants.

“And what the hell's a tankini?” I hear Luke shout from the other room.

When I reenter the living room, Brooke and Luke are standing in the little divot by the window, looking down on First Avenue—pointing and whispering.

“What's going on?” I ask.

Luke starts. “I came straight over from work. Got here at about six-thirty. On my way in, I noticed three cars parked across the street, each with people just sitting inside.” He pauses, inhales ominously, and adds, “All of them watching the front of the building.”

Well, I guess the creep did get a clean shot of me and Duncan—and it's hit the papers. That means I'm onto a whole new level of tabloid fervor. Now that the story's been confirmed, all the outlets have to get their piece of the pie.

I grunt. “They're here for background shots. They'll get some usable stuff of me and then stalk Duncan, wait for the money shot—him and me together again.”

A sudden rush of adrenaline begins its quivering, pulse-pounding journey through my veins.

I am such an idiot. Five minutes in a dark alley with a movie star and I'm suddenly a big fish. Did I learn nothing from Divine Brown? I should have seen it coming. I should have known better. Why can't I think clearly anymore?

I step around Brooke and Luke and take a look at the street. “Which ones?” I ask.

“The black Escalade, three cars from the corner,” he points. That'd be Phil. “The black Honda SUV, seven cars from the corner—” That's Nate! Of all the stupid ridiculous things! He works for Todd.

I stomp across the room, retrieve the telephone, and dial Todd's number with lightning speed.

He says, “Hel—”

“Todd, please explain to me why Nate is parked outside my apartment building.”

“He
is
?”

“Yes, he
is
, and you know it.”

“Sadie, I wouldn't do—”

“Oh, yes you would,” I spit.

Todd replies quickly, “All right, I would. But I
didn't
. Happy?”

I wander back to the window and stare down at First Avenue. “No, I'm not happy. There are photographers staking out my apartment building.”

“You were seen with Duncan,” he says matter-of factly.

“Are you going to call Nate off, or what?”

“I'll give him a call. Adler won't be covering this at all. But, Sadie?” he asks, suddenly getting serious.

“Yeah?”

“This isn't going to just
go away
anymore.”

“Oh, yes it is. It's all lies, Todd. It has to stop—”

“It won't.”

“Oh, I beg to differ.”

“Sadie, this isn't a joke.”

I believe in truth, justice, and the American way, damnit! This has to end! I'll call the ACLU or…Barbara Walters.

“You just take care of Nate. All right?” I fume, while nonsensically pointing down at First Avenue to emphasize my point. “The guy knows me, for God's sake, and he's down there….” The words escape me—they form and then dematerialize in my foggy head. “Gotta go,” I blurt to Todd. “I just thought of…Luke, did any of the guys in the cars down there have on a red baseball cap and look exceptionally creepy?”

At these words, Brooke presses her forehead against the window and peers down at the street. I hang up on Todd and press my own forehead to the glass.

“I was getting to that. He's in the white Taurus.” Luke smiles.

“Finally!” And now I kill him.

“Do you need backup?” Brooke asks. She must sense what I'm thinking.

“No!” And ruin my fun?

I stomp to the kitchen and dig through the messy drawers for the largest meat cleaver I can get my hands on. Thanks to Brooke's aspirations to throw the perfect dinner party, we are in possession of world's largest Ginsu knife.

I head for the door.

Brooke screams, “Shoes!” while Luke yells, “
Knife!
”

“Sadie.” Luke chuckles, slightly alarmed. “Sadie, put down the knife.”

“You expect me to go out there unarmed?”

Luke speaks. “You'd be better off—”

Brooke interrupts him with a wave of her hand. “Sadie, those are your favorite pajamas,” she says dryly.

Ah, she has a point. Knives are messy, and it took me six months to break in these pants. Let me see, what is less messy than a knife, but still capable of inflicting serious bodily harm? Hmmm.

Oh, got it.

“Fine,” I say finally, plopping the knife onto the coffee table. “Where do you keep the baseball bat these days, Brooke? You got a box for that somewhere in your room?” I head for her bedroom door. “What's it filed under? Sports equipment? Wood? Man-luring props?”

Brooke goes red and Luke cracks up.

“I don't have a box for man-luring props,” she lies.

Oh, I know where it is. She keeps it under the bed now. I don't really understand it. The baseball bat really only works as a burglar intimidation technique if you're, say, Barry Bonds. Now, if you're going to beat an unsuspecting photographer to a quivering mass of black and blue flesh, on the other hand…

I fly into her room and retrieve the bat. (Fun fact: not a single dust bunny under her bed. Remarkable.)

I slip on my fuzzy duck slippers and march out of the apartment, with Brooke and Luke close behind. They both chatter incessantly over and on top of each other. Convenient, as I don't have to bother ignoring them—I can't understand a word either is saying.

After lying into the elevator's down button, I pace the floor.

“Don't do anything stupid,” Luke warns.

I try to reassure him. “I'm not really going to
hurt
the guy.” Much.

Leaving Brooke and Luke at the front door to keep an eye on me, I head to the bowels of my apartment building. I found this a couple of years ago when my mother came for a surprise visit, and I slipped out to freedom so that Brooke could honestly claim, “Sadie's not home.”

I wander in the dark with a tiny key-ring flashlight and a nervous stomach. This will take me out to First Avenue about a half block from the front lobby of my building. I unlock the rusty door and ram my shoulder into it.

The sudden blast of light in the gloomy hallway briefly stings my eyes. I stumble down the steps into a filthy alleyway. It's littered with clock radios, crusty dead houseplants, books, and other assorted bits of household ephemera that have apparently been falling out of people's open windows for the last hundred or so years. The alley is wide at the back, where I am now, but narrows to barely a crack at the other end. Hopefully my thighs will be able to squeeze through.

Slowly, carefully, and using the bat to push the really disgusting things (toilet seat) or just plain bizarre things (a four-foot-long rubber penis?) out of my path, I navigate the minefield of junk. I guess this is the swan song for my fuzzy duck slippers—Brooke will never let me in the apartment with them again.

It's a warm, sunny day—not that you'd know it from back here. The chill of hard shadows makes the temperature a good ten degrees cooler than out in the sunshine. A flurry of goose bumps tingle along my bare skin.

Finally at the narrow opening of the alley, I squeeze myself between the towering brick apartment buildings. Shuffling my feet and sucking in my belly like a freaking
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit model, I work my way slowly through the crack. At the narrowest bit, it's a challenge not to scrape my face on the masonry.

Oh, my God. If I get stuck here I will absolutely die. That would definitely make the front page: “Duncan Stoke's Mystery Gal Pal Dies of Embarrassment as FDNY Unit Unable to Rescue—Paralyzed by Fits of Laughter.”

I think skinny thoughts (I am a toothpick. I am a pencil. I am Nicole Kidman) and I make the final push to freedom. Excellent, still in one piece.

I dust myself off and survey my surroundings. I'm on First Avenue, a good five car lengths behind the Taurus. Perfect.

Ignoring the strange looks from my fellow New Yorkers, I crouch down and clamber to the trunk of the offending white vehicle.

That's strange, it has a rental car sticker. What self-respecting paparazzi would rent…a Ford Taurus? This better be the guy. If I bust in on a bunch of vacationers from Kansas, it would be very disappointing—and bad for tourism.

I pop my head up, peek inside the car, and pop back down.

One head, in a red baseball cap. Four doors, unlocked.

Okay. It's now or never….

I leap to my feet, sidestep between the car and the curb, and whip open the passenger's side door.

Quickly plopping myself into the seat, I point the head of the bat at the driver's skull. I hiss, “You should really lock your doors.”

Holy shit!

A high-pitched wail of misery fills the tiny car and most of the East Village.

I think that was me.

A dark, handsome face turns toward me. I feel a violent stir of excitement well up from deep within me, the frightening consequence of attraction and revulsion intertwining. There's no scruffy beard, but rather freshly shaven skin—smooth and touchable like flesh-colored silk. Locks of wavy, shiny black hair tumble out from under a worn-out Red Sox cap. Two impossibly blue, unimaginably penetrating eyes stare back at me with astonishment.

“You!” I screech at Ethan Wyatt. “It's
you
!”

Wyatt's lip curls in a little smirk. “So, you found me.”

“I mean, I
knew
it! But it was just too unbelievable!
You've
been following me and taking those horrible pictures?”

“Wait a second. I think I've shown remarkable improvement for a novice. I gotta give you credit, it's not as easy as it looks.”

He's nuts! “Why are you doing this to me?”

“There's this thing my father always used to say: turnabout is fair play,” he replies smoothly.

“What goes around? Karma?
Revenge
?” I ask bitterly.

“
Revenge
makes it sound so evil. I prefer to think of it as atonement,” he replies with a sickly superior tone in his voice.