Accidental It Girl (9 page)

I walk up to the VIP booth Dave pointed out. I spot a sliver of light where the velvet curtains meet a wall panel, creating a cozy little nook. I inch up slowly and squint to see through the slender crack in the drapes.

He's there. He's really in there. With a woman. A woman in a low-cut top and the promised bodacious ta-ta's. Her dark hair, pale skin, and light eyes give the impression that she's a very well-dressed porcelain doll.

Right, this is it. Now or never. No going back.

I grab the phone from my pocket. It feels absurdly heavy in my hands. Like a brick.

I'm nervous. I'm actually nervous about taking a picture. This is ridiculous. I have to be able to do this. I have to.

I take a deep breath and slip my hand through the break in the curtain. I repeat silently to myself, “Aim for the line, Sadie, not over it. You're right on the line.”

I close my eyes, cross the fingers on my free hand, and push the button on my phone.

There's a barely audible click, a very audible gasp, and the sudden clanging of plates.

I retract my arm, shove the phone in my pocket, and practically gallop to the exit.

In one swift movement, I whip off the jacket, plop it on the floor, and slip out the VIP door.

A cool rush of air strikes me as I step out from under the awning. The clammy sensation on my skin alerts me to the fact that I've been sweating. I'm suddenly cold, and though apparently safe, my heart rate only seems to be increasing.

I walk swiftly down the alley while bringing up the picture on my cell phone. A little part of me hopes the shot didn't come out and that I never have to admit to anyone that I did that.

Oh, my…

My feet plant themselves in the pavement.

The shot is in focus, and as clear as can be expected from a phone. What is
crystal
clear, however, is that there is a beautiful young woman leaning into Ethan Wyatt, her head tilted downward—
way
downward—almost directly over his crotch. Good thing there's a big table in front of him or that whole “fully clothed” thing might have been an issue.

A knot forms in my chest. I rub my queasy belly.

No. I will not feel bad for the guy who trashed my dad's car and somehow made me feel like I couldn't take a damn picture. I just need to send this shot to my email and be done with the whole thing. I'll file Ethan Wyatt under
A
for
asshole
and forget about him.

I take three long strides toward the mouth of the alley while scrolling through my phone's many useless functions.

A noise, coming from somewhere in the vicinity of the exit, startles me. Bad. Very bad.

Just in case this happens to be a manager, or a psycho alley killer, I should pick up the pace a bit.

I hear the clomping of feet behind me—getting more and more rapid. A male voice rings out, “Hey!” Indignant. Very
very
bad.

Must speed up, but not too much. I don't want to alarm this person, whoever he is. Dark Alley in New York City 101: must pretend to be strong and unfazed—or completely insane.

Maybe I'll just pretend I don't hear him.

Once I'm out of the alley I'll yell for Luke, or a cop…nope, not a cop…maybe I'll just scream “Fire!” That's only illegal in theaters, right?

The stomping behind me gets louder and faster, more emphatic.

The shadowy figure darts out in front of me and stops on a dime, shoving his hands out to keep me from running him over.

Shit, Ethan Wyatt.

He's hot in more ways than one. A little vein on his neck throbs erratically. A veil of pink rises up from under his Armani necktie and disappears behind his five-o'clock shadow.

I wish I'd thought to comb my hair before I left the house.

“Did you just get a shot of me on a camera phone?” He grunts in baleful tones. His eyes widen as he takes a good look at my face. “Wait. I know you….” He aims a finger at me. “The airport…last night. That was
you
!”

I try to maneuver around him, edge left, then right. He matches every move, spreading his legs for stability and digging his heels into the ground—like he's prepared to take me on in a shoving match.

“Let me see that phone!” he demands.

I try again to scoot around him, but he won't let me pass. I stretch just far enough to see that Luke and Brooke are nowhere to be found.

“What phone? I don't know what you're talking about…crazy man.” Crazy man? Oh, yeah, that was smooth.

“The one in your
hand,
” he retorts, as a patronizing grin spreads across his face.

Oh, crap.

“No, I won't give you my phone. I'm going to dial 9-1-1. You…crazy…stranger.” I begin scrolling through the many options on the phone's main menu.

“Stranger? Ha! That's cute. Go ahead, call the cops. Save me the trouble! That's private property in there—a goddamn VIP room, for Christ's sake!”

Email, damnit! I just want to email! I've got to get the picture off this phone. The dim light of the alley and my need to bob and weave are making this exceedingly difficult.

The phone whines in short bursts. “La Cucaracha,” Beethoven's Fifth, the Partridge Family classic “Come On, Get Happy.” Stupid ringtones! Why do I need more than one? Why won't it just shut up?

I frantically push the buttons—designed for use by infants and leprechauns—but the Partridge Family won't stop:
Hello world here's a song that we're singin' / Come on, get happy…

Okay, screw the ringtone. What I need is email.

Ethan lunges at me, reaching for the phone, but gets air.

I sidestep and pirouette. Rush forward, lean back. He won't give up, and I can't shake him.

“You know what your problem is?” he asks me.

“What, you maniac? What is
my
problem?” I reply acerbically while trying to duck and scurry past him—without success.

“You
people
…”—he spits out “people” in a wickedly facetious tone—“you think you can do anything. That you can get away with anything. Because, though it's sick and sad, someone's going to buy that picture. And you'll be the fucking hero of the day. Not giving a shit who gets hurt in the process.”

“Aw, are you worried what
Cocoa
might think?”

He glowers at me, astonished.

I continue, “Oh, I'm sorry. You probably know a lot of Cocos. I'm speaking specifically of Cocoa with an
a
. As in D-N-
A
.”

“You think you know something about my life because you take pictures of me for a living? Because you read all the dirty gossip on the fucking Internet? Let me tell you something, you don't know
anything
about me.”

“And you know so much about
me
?” I bite back. “You guys call us parasites for doing the work your publicists ask us to do. We keep you
alive
, Ethan Wyatt, you pompous prima donna. I pay your fucking bills, whether you want to admit it or not. And…and you wrecked my car!” I don't know, that last bit may have been off topic.

He makes another quick jab at the phone, but I pull it back just in time. I return to punching at the keypad, and he tries again.

This is the most absurd, ridiculous situation I have ever been in. I am in a dark alley playing keep-away with a movie star. Correction: an incredibly attractive, remarkably agile movie star.

He lurches forward, swipes at me again. “Give it!” he shouts over the unstoppable, cloying twitter of the Partridge Family from my cell phone.

I can't help but chuckle. “What are you, ten? Knock it off.”

He flashes me a playful smirk, his posture slackens. “Come on, give me the phone,” he pleads like a tired teenager.

“No,” I giggle back.

“Pleeeease? Do me this one favor?”

“I did you a favor last night. I couldn't get a single decent shot off.” I don't know why I just said that.

“Why couldn't you get a shot off?”

“You turned around, remember?” Very weak comeback,
very
lame excuse. “You ran into the airport like a…a…scared little girl.”

“That's never stopped you guys before.”

He looks to me for some response, but I can't think of one. He's right. I have no idea why I didn't chase him down and make him beg for mercy. I'm usually so good at that.

Ethan Wyatt stops his bobbing and weaving, tilts his head, and flashes me his signature pretty-boy, irresistibly flirty smile. He shoves his hands in his pockets and coyly glances at my waist, then my neck, mouth, eyes. Women pay their hard-earned money to see that grin; they drool over it and dream about it.

For a moment, I fall into a trancelike state, measuring his features—sucked into his sweet and sour million-dollar expression.

A honking cab startles me out of the daze. “I'm going to go now.
With
my phone.”

“All right,” he sighs.

“Good.” I resist the urge to say thank you—for the smile. Sick. He's an evil genius. A flirtatious hypnotist. I am but a helpless pawn in his plot for world domination.

I take a step toward the street.

He calls out, “Hey,” low and smooth, like a lullaby.

I stop and turn around. “What?”

“What's your name?” he asks, closing the gap between us.

“Sadie,” I reply, unable to resist him.

He leans in even closer, so close I can smell him. No cologne, no sharp alcohol-laced hair products, just warm and sexy Ethan Wyatt. There's something reassuring about his scent, like the smell of hot cocoa on a cold day. I drink it in.

He mumbles, just above a whisper, “Thank you, Sadie.”

“For what?” I whisper back.

He steps away suddenly. “For the phone.” His posture, his entire demeanor falls back into that of aggravation—but this time with a twist of arrogance.

I look down at my hands—empty.

When I raise my eyes, Ethan is strolling back into blé, whistling, “Come On, Get Happy.”

I can't believe it. That fucker just stole my phone.

I
stumble into the kitchen with my ear to the phone.

“The guy's banging his girlfriend's sister?” Todd asks with a chuckle of admiration, eliminating any guilt I may have had about dumping him.

I did manage to send the email last night. I'm not sure how I did it, but when I got home it was there in my inbox. A closer look at the picture revealed that Ethan's dinner date was not just some random wannabe starlet.

“Lori is her name, Lori Dunn. She's Maya Dunn's sister, so, yeah, it would seem that it's something like that.” There goes my stomach again, doing a tumbling routine worthy of Mary Lou Retton. “Or not, you know. I don't know.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, why wouldn't I be?” Other than the fact that I feel like I may have pole-vaulted over that invisible line separating myself from the stalkerazzi. Oh, and I've lost my freaking Sidekick. I'm like a ship without a sail, a train without an engine, Mariah Carey without a hairdresser. I'm adrift. Powerless. Dull and lifeless.

“Okay,” he says, unconvinced. “You came in just under the wire for
Celeb
's print deadline, so they have the exclusive. It's gonna go wide after tomorrow. There's nothing out there right now.” What he means is that no one has been photographed looking freakishly skinny yet this week, so the papers are hurting for things to report. He continues, “The dailies are drooling over it. The glossies will run it up front next week.
Entertainment Tonight…Access Hollywood
. Wide.”

“Great.” I pour myself a glass of orange juice and settle into the eating nook in the kitchen. It is great, damnit. I got a shot with a big juicy story attached—sex, love,
and
betrayal—the tabloid trifecta. I wanted it, and I got it. I might actually make enough off this shot to pay for my car repairs. But, it was supposed to make me feel
better
.

Right, the feeling of satisfaction hasn't hit me yet, but it will. I'm sure it will. I got a picture of Ethan Wyatt, right? Of course, my eyes were closed at the time. I didn't have to see him sitting there,
hating
me. Whatever. I still got it. I'm not losing my edge.

“Do you know where he's staying?” asks Todd.

“Yeah, Luke found out. But I'm not doing the follow-up.”

I hear Todd hit something, like his desk…or the cheap acoustic tiles on his office ceiling. “Like hell you're not,” he responds firmly.

I don't ever want to see Ethan Wyatt's smug, obnoxious face again. Too bad, really, because
Charming Samantha
looks kind of cute. “Todd, I've already had two close calls with this guy—”

“That's sort of the point.”

Under normal circumstances, I'd have no problem waiting for him outside his hotel. But there's something about him that makes me really nervous, unsure of myself—unreasonably girly.

Although, I wouldn't mind the opportunity to have Ethan see me wearing something that fits. No. No, not worth it.

I make excuses. “I am not that girl, all right? I am not going to follow him around and egg him on. That's just not my style. Besides, he already wrecked my car; he could go all Tommy Lee on my ass in a heartbeat. I refuse to risk—”

Todd interrupts, “You did it last night.”

I'm rendered speechless. He's right.

“Look,” Todd says, obviously trying to keep his temper in check, “I'll put somebody else on him today, but that's all I'm giving you. You hear me? Whatever is going on with you, you need to buck up and get over it,
pronto
.”

Pronto? Who even says that anymore?

“Whatever,” I reply.

“Sadie”—Todd's tone softens to a moderate grumble—“it was a nice piece of work.”

My instinct is to say “Thanks,” but when it comes out of my mouth it sounds more like “Ugh.” There is something absurd about being congratulated for getting a picture of a man on a date.

“Hey,” Todd says, and then pauses for what feels like an hour. “Why didn't you just tell me you were seeing someone else?”

“What?” I chuckle.

“I called your cell first. Some guy answered.”

“Excuse me?” I ask, shocked, dropping my breakfast bowl on the table with a crash.

Todd huffs, “A guy. You know what those are, right? Hairy, stronger than you, easier to talk to. One of them answered your phone. I assume you know him?”

He answered? That crazy, arrogant bastard!

Should I explain the situation to Todd? Admit to him that I lost my cool and my focus and allowed a millionaire-slash-thief to coax a phone out of my hands? Of course, if I tell him I'm seeing someone so soon after our breakup, he'll probably think I'm a slut. This raises two important questions: One, do I care? And two, which is more humiliating—sluttiness or stupidity? Hmmm.

I answer finally, “Uh, yeah. I, uh, must have left the phone at his place.” Silence. I add hastily, “Nothing happened when we were together.” I don't know why I said that. I am so bad at off-the-cuff lying. For me, lying takes preparation—a solid story, hours of practice in the mirror, margaritas.

“Right,” Todd replies. “Well, take today off if you want.”

“Uh, Todd?”

“Yeah?”

I pose timidly, “What did he say?”

“You mean did he tell me that he's totally hot for you and ask me to pass you a note in study hall? No.” Wow, bitter much? “I asked if you were there. He said no. I hung up.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks. Bye.”

I hang up with Todd and immediately begin pacing between the kitchen and the living room, the cordless phone in my right hand begging to be dialed.

Should I do it? Should I call my own freaking cell phone and see if that idiot answers? What would I say?

Well, “Give me back my phone, you egomaniacal slime” might be a good place to start.

I punch in the area code.

No, the story has already hit the papers. He's probably foaming at the mouth by now—while a team of highly paid spin doctors and ass kissers massage his ego.

Wait a second,
he's
the bad guy here. He's the one who caused the crash and
didn't
have to sit in the back of a cop car.
He's
the one who stole my personal property. I am but an innocent victim of street crime! Right?

Yeah.

I dial the number with both thumbs, have to get it in there before I lose my nerve. I march between the sofa and the bookcases and embolden myself by staring at one of Brooke's fitness books entitled
Be Firm and Confident.

The phone rings three times, and then silence.

“Hello?” I say, meekly.

“Hello,” replies an accented male voice in a wildly superior tone. “Who may I say is calling?” So superior, in fact, that it has to be Ethan himself.

“The woman who owns the device you're holding, you psychotic phone pirate.”
Psychotic phone pirate?
Really, Sadie.

“I wondered how long it would take you to call simpering and begging for your phone back,” Ethan says, slipping out of the lame accent he opened with.

“I am not going to
beg
you for anything. It's my phone, and I demand its return.”

“Not gonna happen. But, I am duty bound to relay your messages,” he says in a ridiculously sarcastic tone. “Someone named Todd called looking for you. And I chatted with a very nice woman named Paige for about fifteen minutes this morning. She says hi. Oh, and you'll be happy to know that last night you won a free stay in Kissimmee, Florida. A salesman will be stopping by next week to discuss time shares.”

He spoke to my mother? Oh, dear God.

I squeeze the top of an orange juice bottle to release some of the tension that is currently turning my limbs to stone. I have to say something—jab back. “Speaking of duty bound, have you seen the cover of today's
Celeb
?”

My stomach churns the second it's out of my mouth.

“Proud of yourself, are you?”

No. But I am pissed off. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”

“Job well done, hey? You've caused the pain and heartbreak of no less than three people in the last twenty-four hours. Mission accomplished.”

“
I've
caused it? I'm sorry, but where do
you
fit in to all this?”

“I was living my life, you bottom-feeder.” His voice drops to a deep, grating hiss. “None of what they printed was even remotely true. Lori wasn't even doing anything. She was reaching for her purse. And, by the way, Maya and I weren't dating.”

“Oh, no?” I bite back. “Then how did I hurt all of you so badly?”

“I will tell you this, not because I feel the need to explain myself to you—because I don't—but because you should know the extent of the stupidity you peddled. Maya had a thing for me. I had a thing for her sister. Bad timing, yes. Cheating? No. Not that it matters to you or the fucking editors. You spread lies. You hurt people, and what's worse, you
know
you're doing it. You are low—lower than low.”

I swallow hard to maintain the strength in my voice. “Aw, come on,” I say in a sarcastically whiny pitch, “you're gonna hurt my feelings.”

“Your
feelings
? You don't have feelings.” Like a punch, the words set my ears ringing. He didn't say that like an accusation, or an impassioned insult, but as though it were a fact and he felt pity for me. He continues, “My only consolation is that you'll pay for it.”

“Are you threatening me?” I snap.

“No. I'm talking about karma, sweetheart. It packs a bigger punch than I ever could. What goes around comes around.”

Did he just call me
sweetheart
?

The line goes silent, but I can still hear his breathing and the distant buzz of a television somewhere behind him.

I should say something, contradict him. Tell him that this situation is the result of
his
karma, not mine. Scream at him. Tell him that I don't usually do this kind of thing. Apologize?

No. There will be no apologizing. Not to a man who thinks Paige is
nice
.

“I think,” Ethan-freaking-Wyatt continues smugly, “you're broken. Like sociopaths, and wolves, and…I don't know…invertebrates—you're missing something…” He pauses, and I hear him sort of humming to himself, as if mentally winding up for the next punch. He adds finally, “In the head.”

I'm missing something?

Hold on,
am
I missing something?

Wait, why am I giving any credence to what this guy says? How does he know exactly which buttons to push? It's sick.

Snap out of it, Sadie.

I grumble, “You're right. I
am
missing something—”

“I'm right?” he asks, surprised.

“Yes,” I say coolly. “I'm missing
my phone
!”

The line again goes silent. An age seems to pass with no sound but the hum of background noise, and the pounding of my heart. Should I just hang up? I don't really want to hang up.

Maybe I should hang—

“I'm curious,” Ethan says earnestly. “What is it about your job that makes it worth selling your soul and selling out your fellow man? Is it just the money?”

“Selling out my fellow man? I'm not a war criminal, you whack job, I'm a
photographer
.”

“You're not a photographer,” Wyatt responds calmly. “Real photographers make a contribution. Their pictures say something, they
mean
something. You take meaningless, vapid snapshots.”

“I—” I don't know what to say. “I…I contribute!” I stammer. Oh, I probably shouldn't have said that.

“Oh, yeah?
How
?” Ethan asks bluntly. Yep, there it is.

The word—
how
—echoes through my empty skull. I can hear my own restless heavy breathing over the phone line. I feel like an unprepared, hungover college student who's been called on by a professor. I feel like I've been asked by my father to explain something I did wrong.
How
.

I rack my brain for something solid and true to tell him, some meager contribution to the world or tiny sense of meaning I get or give through my work. Then, I rack my brain for something made up.

I get nothing but the irritating swish of blood thumping through my eardrums.