Accidental It Girl (5 page)

Racing through the glass doors, I scan across the street, then left and right down the sidewalks. He's gone. Did he get into a car or something? Maybe he spotted me and ran back into the building through another door? Man, he's fast. Better get back in there and track the concierge. She's waiting for his luggage, he has to meet up with her eventually—

I hear myself bellow, “Oh, good God!” as I stagger back from shock.

Holy shit! Not ten feet away, just outside the doorway, Ethan Wyatt is lighting a cigarette. He catches my exclamation and smiles innocently at me as if to say, “Yeah, it's me.”

I impulsively return his warm, easy smile.

As his eyes flicker up to meet mine, I suddenly want to know more about him and have him smile at me all the time. I wish I were wearing blush with just the faintest hint of shimmer. I desperately wish I wasn't dressed in fruit. And is that…the Musak version of “My Heart Will Go On” being piped throughout the terminal?

Suddenly, Wyatt's frame goes rigid, almost defiant. His gorgeous, dreamy smile fades and is replaced by a bitter, hateful scowl.

Oh, he's noticed the camera. Hi…Sadie Price. People hate me.

He takes a long, slow drag of his cigarette while glaring at me—warning me not to shoot. It's incredible. Even with a really angry sort of frown, his eyes almost sparkle with tenderness.

The stiff collar of his motorcycle jacket perfectly frames his face; it's a sooty black, the color of his hair, and casually cool enough to be worthy of Steve McQueen. I wonder…was it plucked from the racks of an out-of-the-way vintage shop by some enterprising stylist, or are each of those scratches and worn spots a memory? What would that sooty black hair look like tangled up with mine on a rumpled white pillowcase?

I lift the camera to my eye and, through the viewfinder, see him sullenly shake his head and turn away from my lens.

“Do you have to do that?” he asks me with an air of defeat rather than anger.

“Sorry, it's my job,” I reply matter-of-factly, unable to marshall any weapons from my arsenal of defensive quips and phrases. Okay, back to basics. “Give me the shot, and I'll get out of here,” I try.

I wish he would just turn his head a little so I could get the shot. This one-on-one with him bothers me for some reason. There are no fans or bystanders. No witnesses, no chatter to validate my flash bursting on, over and over again. This happens often enough, but for some reason there's no surge of adrenaline to take the edge off the weird, irritating—yet somehow pleasant—fluttering that is gripping my entire body.

Wyatt doesn't turn around, but rather makes an incredulous huff and says, “Doesn't it bother you that your job is to invade people's personal space? To suck the enjoyment out of every little, simple moment of their lives?”

“Uh, no,” I blurt dumbly to the back of his head. I wanted to say “Doesn't it bother you that your job is to prance around in front of a movie camera while playing dress-up?” but it got stuck in my throat.

In one swift motion Ethan Wyatt turns around and shoots me a sharp glare. Sharp like razors. His expression is so menacing, so filled with contempt and revulsion, that it bursts into my camera, cuts straight through my eyes, and rattles around in the back of my brain. It finally settles with a thud, somewhere near the pit of my stomach.

“It
should
bother you,” he demands. “What you do is disgusting.”

Ethan Wyatt is not a ghostly collection of ones and zeroes, but a living, breathing human being who, it appears, would like me to drop dead. Immediately.

I am forced to swallow hard and regain composure. I move the camera from my face and try to look at something, anything else. Anything but that tender face now warped and twisted with a look of…repugnance. Directed squarely at
me.

I suddenly feel slightly ashamed to be holding this camera, and hyper-aware of the weight of it dangling from my neck. Gazing down at my feet, I inhale deeply and try to steady my nerves.

This is not a big deal, Sadie. It's a picture. A silly, stupid picture. You've done it a thousand times. You've been admonished for your profession even more times, in much crueler and more biting words. You have to get a shot of his face.

Oh, shit. I didn't get a shot of his face!

As I turn back toward Ethan Wyatt, I see nothing but a dying wisp of smoke rising from the ashtray.

The automatic doors slide open and he stomps back into the airport.

I force my feet to follow him, but when I get within camera range, my knees go a little funny. They're jittery, weak.

Across the room, Ethan Wyatt helps the concierge girl load several large suitcases onto a cart.

It takes will and
courage
to get three or four shots off. Three crisp shots of the back of his head.

I should sprint out in front of him and get his face. I should. But, I can't. He would look at me again, and for some reason that terrifies me.

 

I've retreated back to the glass enclosure between inside and out. My nervous foot shuffling makes the automatic doors whir open and closed. I watch as Ethan Wyatt pushes his luggage cart toward an exit.

I have never frozen up like this. Never. Never ever. I've been spit at, cursed out, flipped off, and pushed around by more celebrities and celebrity handlers than I care to remember, but every time I got the shot. Once, a twenty-million-dollar-a-picture star, in a particularly steamy relationship, “accidentally” elbowed me in the stomach and knocked me to the ground. Still, I got up off my ass and got the freaking shot! That's what I'm known for, damnit. I get the shots that nobody else can get. They call me Killer, for Christ's sake. Stars don't get to me. I'm not attracted to them. I don't care what they think. I'm not one of those women with quixotic celebrity fascinations. Well, there was a brief period in the late eighties when Ralph Macchio had a very special place in my heart—and my bedroom walls—but I outgrew him. I mean that literally; the guy is, like, five feet tall.

So why did I have the sudden urge to flip my hair and giggle when Ethan first smiled at me? What was with that bout of nausea at his insults? Oh, and who is Ethan Wyatt to tell me what I should and shouldn't be ashamed of? This is a guy who has always done everything he can to grab his bit of the spotlight, or at the very least, show how little he cares about having his mug shot stamped across the front page. Yet he looks at me like it's my fault. Like I put him in the papers. I absolutely cannot let some random…
reaction
to some random…really hot
guy
throw me off my game. I mean, this is what I do. It's what I am! And for crying out loud, the guy got his start dropping trou on Calvin Klein billboards. Does that really sound like the act of a man who closely guards his privacy?

I have to get hold of myself. I need to regroup, take a deep breath…and then get him.

O
ut of the corner of my eye, I spot Ethan Wyatt being helped into the driver's seat of his rental—a brand-new Mustang convertible.

The sight of him sliding into the plush leather seat sparks a cascade of palpable frustration through my entire body. No, this is more than frustration; it's making my hands shake and my eyes water.

I can't let him get away like this.

Clutching my camera to my overly exposed chest, I take off through the airport doors and sprint toward the parking garage.

I make a beeline for my car, the rigid soles of my heels clicking out a strident rhythm through the cavernous parking area.

This isn't a chase.

I am not chasing him, because I don't do that.

No, this is just me nonchalantly trying to get the shot that I missed before.

Oh, shit, he's taking off.

I jump into my Camaro and, with the camera still around my neck, peel out. The screech of rubber on pavement echoes across the deserted building, which gives me the strange sensation that I'm in a chase.

But this is absolutely not a chase. It isn't even a follow. I'm just exiting an airport three cars behind a celebrity.

Make that four cars behind a celebrity…stupid cabs! I'm too far behind.

I yank the steering wheel and make a questionably legal move to the right, scooting past the slow-moving cars ahead of me. I squeeze between two cabs, just before the exit ramp narrows from two lanes to one.

An angry honk cuts through the darkness.

Up ahead I see the Mustang move onto the shoulder, out of the line of traffic, then abruptly swerve back.

With a resounding screech, my field of view is flooded with bright red light.

The unmistakable sound of crunching metal and shattering glass fills my ears.

The song on the radio stops, my engine howls like a wounded animal, then sputters slowly to silence.

Oh, my God. I think I've just been in a car accident.

 

A man's voice breaks through the clanging of metal and hissing of car engines. “Are you all right?” he asks calmly.

I look down at myself, take a quick survey…arms, legs, fingers, and toes. No blood to speak of. Luckily, my camera is still in one piece, though I think it got jammed between my chest and the steering wheel on impact.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine,” I say. “But my car!”

By the light of a flickering streetlamp, I watch as silvery fumes billow from the front grill. The hood, normally marked by a stout but aerodynamic slope, is now shaped like a W. Its peaks point skyward, blocking the view through the windshield. The dashboard is slightly off kilter, now pitching down toward the passenger seat.

A great wave of sadness rushes over me, a quiet sob grips my throat as tears begin streaming down my face.

This is my father's car.

“Miss, I think you should get out if you can. I can't tell if that's smoke or steam coming from up there,” the man says, pointing to what used to be the hood of my car.

I unhook my seat belt and, with the aid of the stranger, try to open the door. It won't budge. I lay my shoulder into it, but all I manage to do is slam my camera into the immovable door.

After taking the camera off and placing it gently on the passenger seat, I tip my head through the open window and use my arms to push myself out of the car, like Daisy Duke exiting the General Lee. The kind stranger lends me his arm to steady myself.

“Thank you,” I tell him.

“No problem. You sure you're okay?” he asks, his eyes dancing over my tear-streaked face.

“Yeah.”

“I'm going to check on the others then,” he says, pointing to the knot of vehicles ahead.

I nod yes, and he jogs away.

It's hard to tell for sure, but it looks like four or five cars have been involved—a chain reaction. Police and fire personnel have already begun to stream in, the one good thing about getting into a car accident a stone's throw from a major international airport, I guess.

There's honking in the distance as impatient drivers eager to merge onto the exit pile up behind us.

As though driven by some primitive instinct, I find myself walking toward the flashing police lights.

After a few fitful strides I see the cause of all this drama—a brand-new, bright red Mustang convertible.

Ethan Wyatt stands deep in conversation with an attentive group of law enforcement. It's a sea of uniforms, ill-fitting suits, and plastic windbreakers with POLICE, FAA, and HOMELAND SECURITY, plastered on them in big block letters. I've inadvertently stepped into a bad Tommy Lee Jones movie—costarring Ethan Wyatt.

I edge up to eavesdrop on the conversation.

“I'm telling you,” Ethan says forcefully, “someone was following me and, I don't know, I took my eyes off the road, thought I saw something, and—” His voice drops off. Ethan's eyes catch mine.

He raises his arm, slips it cleanly between two slender police officers. His finger wags like a dog's tail—pointing directly at me.

“Her!” he shouts. “It was
her
. That's the paparazzi that was chasing me!”

At least six heads and twelve menacing eyes swivel around and appraise me.

The two slender cops begin walking in my direction, one slapping a hand onto his gun.

“Wait a second,” I implore. I lock eyes with Ethan. “Listen here! This is New York, Bub.” Did I really just say
“Bub”
? “We don't do chases here.” I have never been comfortable around cops. I always end up sounding like a character from a 1930s gangster movie.

“You were
following
me!” Ethan blasts indignantly.

“Was not!” I say, moving toward him.

“Was too!” He replies, inching toward me.

“Was
not
!” Or, a Three Stooges movie.

The slim police officer with the very large gun spreads his hands wide as if to keep Ethan and me from jumping on one another. “Okay, okay. Calm down.” He looks to me. “Where's your car, miss?”

“Way down there,” I say smugly—to Ethan.

“Doesn't matter,” Ethan insists. “She was after me. I saw her.”

“But you stated before, Mr. Wyatt, that it was your own negligence that led you to stop short. Am I correct?” asks one of the guys in uniform.

“Ha!” I exclaim, pointing at Ethan.

Ethan's features screw up into a scowl. Then, just as quickly, a cocky serenity washes over his face. It's like someone literally wiped the anger right off him. Amazing.

Ethan tips his head to the most stern-looking officer. “Look, I'm just grateful that no one got hurt. And I know what good work you and your men do. I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you all in any way. I did some research for my role in
Out of Harm
with some of your guys. You know Chuck Larsen?”

The stern officer gleams. “I just got back from a fishing trip up at his place on Findley Lake.”

Ethan gives a deferential smile to his assembled audience, shakes his head wistfully. “He does have a nice piece of property up there, doesn't he?”

“Sure does,” comes the response from the officer.

Oh. My. God. He's charming them. That sneaky, slimy…

“Hey!” I snap. “
Hey!
” But no one hears me; Ethan's just made a joke or something and the whole group is chuckling.

I circle around them and try to get the attention of a heavyset man with a bristle-brush mustache. “
Hello?”

He takes me by the shoulders and, with one eye still on Ethan, says, “Ma'am, you're going to have to calm down.”

Unbelievable.

“Are you
kidding
?” I ask indignantly. “He's
acting,
can't you see that? He's manipulating you—”

Still with one adoring eye on Ethan Wyatt, the policeman takes me by the hand. “Ma'am, please come with me. If you can't remain calm, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to be seated.”

Before I know it, the policeman has managed to guide me to a squad car. He opens the back door.

I stare bewildered at the dingy metal mesh closing off the back of the car, eye the blank space on the door where a handle should be. The interior has a curious smell, a strange blend of pleather, industrial disinfectant, and sweat.

I stutter, “I admit that I may be partly responsible, okay? But Ethan Wyatt is just as—”

The police officer stares me down, his bristle-brush mustache twitching irritably. He tightens his grip on my wrist. “Ma'am, please be seated.” I can tell by the way his voice dropped down an octave that, loosely translated from police speak, his friendly “Ma'am, please be seated” actually means
Sit your ass down or I'm going to make you
.

I slowly sit myself down in the back of the police car. The officer puts his hand on my head, shielding it from the door frame—just like they do to the perps on
Cops…
and
America's Most Wanted.

He slams the door shut.

“Wait a second!” I shout through the thick glass. “Am I under arrest?”

Oh, man, I hope I'm not under arrest.

No, I couldn't be. Nobody's told me I have the right to remain silent or anything, right?

Oh, my God, this is so humiliating.

Staring out the window, through the flicker of red flashing lights beaming from the roof above me, I watch as Ethan Wyatt slaps backs—and has his back slapped.

I am helpless as he cavorts, jokes, and signs a few autographs.

The officer with the bristle-brush mustache hands over his handcuffs to Ethan Wyatt. Ethan swings them around on his finger with great flourish. Then, in one swift, rakish motion he stares directly at me, winks slyly, spins the officer around, and places him in the handcuffs.

You have got to be kidding me.

This guy getting the royal treatment from law enforcement is the same guy who was splashed all over the headlines because he got caught frolicking with (and just plain
licking
) a model on a very public Miami beach. The model happened to be topless—and married—at the time.

A year or so later, he proved that the slogan “What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas” is not, in fact, the elusive Eleventh Commandment, but rather a total crock cooked up by delusional advertising executives. A Las Vegas stripper called Cocoa—“with an
a
,” as she liked to remind people—claimed (for the bargain price of $5,000) that she'd recently ended a relationship with Ethan. The relationship (read: three nights at The Palms while he was filming
Celebrity Poker Showdown
) had, according to her, decimated her stripping career—she was six months pregnant. Ethan admitted to having slept with “Cocoa with an
a,
” but denied that he was the father of her baby. A DNA test confirmed that he wasn't, in fact, the cause of Cocoa's career bump, but the fact that a chunk of his past can be described using the words “Cocoa the stripper” and “DNA” says something about him, don't you think?

Later that same year, the poor
beleaguered
Ethan Wyatt was arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct after starting some sort of brawl at Bar Marmont in L.A. If I recall correctly, he and Duncan Stoke got into it over something and ended up overturning several barstools and a cocktail waitress. There were two weeks of coverage about it before Kelly Ripa had a baby and knocked him off the cover of
Star
.

The officers around Ethan clap and, no doubt, compliment his technique. While he beams at me—gloating. I have the sudden urge to bang my head against the car window and kick my feet against the metal mesh—just like they do on
Cops…
and
America's Most Wanted.

 

After what feels like several days in the back of the cop car, the officer with the bristle-brush mustache opens the door. I practically leap to freedom, taking a deep gulp of fresh air.

He begins, “I wish there was something I could charge you with….”

As the officer continues to belt out admonitory advice and lament the fact that he can't lock me up, I watch Ethan Wyatt finish up his performance.

He shakes hands as a black limousine pulls up beside his audience. A chauffeur exits the limo and opens the door. With one final, patronizing wink of his frighteningly blue eyes, he shoots me a smug grin, slips into the vehicle, and is whisked away from the airport—headed straight for the soft, welcoming glow of Manhattan in the distance.

“…do you understand me?” the officer says, craning his neck before me.