Courting Trouble (35 page)

Damien believed he’d satisfy Celeste by giving her a five-carat diamond and his last name. But after what Celeste had found, neither the diamond nor the name was enough. None of it was.
The fucker.

For five years, Celeste fucked him and blew him. Even fucked a few of his friends, and why? Why? Good question. Celeste thought she’d known the answer. For the fulfillment of a promise. That once Amanda Bruckner, Damien’s first wife, was gone, she—Celeste Solange, superstar—would be Mrs. Damien Bruckner. And finally, in the perfect Malibu wedding just six months ago, Celeste had gotten her wish. Or what she thought was her wish. Fulfilling Celeste’s desire to be one half of “the” power couple in the movie business. It had been a grandiose event. Everyone was there. Tom, Kate, Will, Bruce, even the ever-reclusive Robert. The press was phenomenal. Helicopters whirling overhead, paparazzi sneaking through the bushes. (Damien and Celeste had been smart enough to get tents.) The picture of her dress, Celeste heard, had sold for more than a hundred grand.

And then, almost immediately after the wedding, the rumors began. The rumors and the questions. What about Celeste’s career? Was it over? She hadn’t worked in close to two years—was she leaving film to become a domestic diva? Perhaps a little Bruckner was soon to follow the Malibu wedding ceremony. Or perhaps, as the most popular tabloid rumors implied, Celeste was already pregnant with what was sure to be the perfect Hollywood child. None of it was true. Celeste’s sabbatical from film was at Damien’s behest, causing, he believed, the public’s hunger for her next picture to swell. Because Celeste’s first film in two years was scheduled to be the next film Damien produced, an action adventure entitled
Borderland Blue
.

Celeste gripped the steering wheel of her Porsche with an anger that couldn’t be denied—an anger that consumed her beauty, her dreams, even her picture-perfect marriage.

Damien’s ex-wife, Amanda Bruckner, would have laughed at this scenario. Thrown back her head and cackled with glee. Barely forty-five and set for life, Amanda sat in a stunning $15 million home in Nice overlooking the ocean, and Damien threw gazillions of dollars at her just to keep her quiet and to stay the fuck away from Los Angeles. Amanda kept his name and a huge chunk of his money (in addition to the $50,000 a month in alimony Damien paid). Amanda—was free. Amanda would appreciate the humor in Celeste’s current situation— how could she not? The irony was absolute.

Black lace panties.

It seemed Damien liked them on all his women. Because the black lace panties that Mathilde (Celeste and Damien’s housekeeper) had found in Damien’s suitcase this morning weren’t all that different from all the pairs of little black lace panties Celeste wore when Damien was sleeping with Celeste and still married to Amanda.

“
Senora, es to
?” Mathilde had asked, holding up the crotchless undies as she unpacked the suitcase Damien brought home from New Zealand late last night.

Emerging from the bathroom sauna, Celeste froze at the sight of Mathilde waving the panties over the couple’s king-size bed. Her heart pounded. Those are
not mine
. Even from a distance she could tell. The offensive black polyester lingerie that Mathilde held was cheap and shoddily made. It had been a decade since Celeste had felt anything but Agent Provocateur against her skin.

Celeste put on her Hollywood game face (she was a Golden Globe–winning actress, after all) and smiled at Mathilde. “
Sí. Un presente for Senor Bruckner.
To remember me by, while he was away on set.”

No need to have the help talking
. If Mathilde discovered that Damien was having an affair, everyone in town would know. All the hired help rode the same bus—how do you think everyone in Hollywood found out that Steven Brockman was gay?

Celeste flinched at the memory, swerving around her rapper neighbor’s Escalade attempting to turn onto Mulholland in front of her. It wasn’t the fucking around that pissed her off. They were a liberal sort of Hollywood couple. Celeste had been aware of Damien’s fling with this little cocktease of an actress Brianna Ellison for months. But the trip to New Zealand, to a film Damien wasn’t even producing (executive producing only; he might as well be a grip), combined with this little tramp getting the lead in
Borderland Blue
, that was enough to make Celeste burn.

Damien didn’t even have the integrity to tell Celeste that she’d been bumped from the lead role (and the sneaky bastard hadn’t left the trades lying around this morning—he’d taken
Variety
and
Hollywood Reporter
). But Damien wasn’t clever enough. Much like finding crotchless panties in the hands of their housekeeper, Celeste learned of her public disgrace via another employee—this time her publicist, Kiki Dee. There in the fax machine, just like every morning, lay copies of all the articles (
Us
,
People
,
Star
,
the Enquirer
,
Variety
…) that mentioned Celeste. But this morning there’d been a hissing cobra on the second page of Kiki’s twenty-page fax. BRUCKNER BLUE FOR BRIANNA screamed the headline in
Variety
.

The humiliation was horrifying. Celeste had spent the last two years prancing around town talking about nothing but her next big part in Damien’s next big film. For two years, through script rewrites, changes in director, and changes in locale, Celeste had held off doing any other film. Instead, Celeste waited for Damien and
Borderland Blue
. She’d been offered other roles. Roles for which other actresses were nominated and even won awards, fulfilling what was Celeste’s dream—to have an Oscar to sit next to her Golden Globe. But no, Celeste waited. She waited for Damien’s film, because he’d promised.

And now Brie Ellison was getting the lead—an eighteen-year-old wannabe who hadn’t even starred in a film.

Sure, her breasts were perky and she had great hair, but so did Celeste. Celeste had paid twenty-five grand just three months ago to have her breasts re-perked (a little maintenance in preparation for the bikini scenes). It wasn’t pleasant having stitches around your nipples.

How had this happened? Fury knotted in her stomach. Fury and anger and even fear. Fear that her career was over, fear that she’d never work again—fear that she’d lose everything she spent a lifetime working for and have to return to that beat-up trailer in Tennessee. Celeste’s heart hammered within her chest and she gulped big breaths of air. The money, the marriage, the house, the clothes—none of it meant anything if she didn’t have her job—her work—her career.

 Where the fuck was her agent in this colossal mess? It was Jessica’s job—not only as Celeste’s agent but also as her best friend—to protect Celeste’s business interests and to never let her get blindsided in the trades. Celeste obviously couldn’t trust her husband to look out for her best interests (at least whenever his cock was involved).
But her agent, one of her closest friends? What was going on?
Jessica had to have known about this deal; she was the president of CTA, the most powerful agency in town. Agents knew everything, every bit of business, gossip, and intrigue that went down, usually before all the players. And Jessica was the best.

“Jessica’s office,” Celeste commanded her hands-free cell.

“Jessica Caulfield’s office,” answered Kim, Jessica’s number one assistant.

“It’s me,” Celeste said. The bitchiness in her voice was barely contained.

“One moment, Celeste. I’ll get her.”

They’d better recognize her voice. She’d paid enough in commission to CTA over the last seven years to buy a Third World country. Ten percent of her $20 million quote combined with ten percent of first-dollar gross was big bucks.

“Cici—”

“What the fuck is going on, Jessica?” Celeste roared over the phone line. Fuck it. She knew she sounded shrill and high maintenance, but she didn’t care. This was her life, her career!

“Cici, the deal closed late last night, one A.M. I didn’t find out until two.”

“You could have called.”

“Someone leaked it to the trades; it wasn’t supposed to run today. I’m sorry, Cici. I swear we just didn’t get in front of the story fast enough.”

“I was bumped for someone younger and by my own fucking husband!”

“Cici, there are at least a dozen producers who want you in their films. I have three full-quote offers right now—pick one. We’ll run it tomorrow; it’ll look like it was your decision, not Damien’s—that you chose to step off of
Borderland Blue
for a better film.”

“I don’t like them. I’ve read them,” Celeste whined, her anger deflating. She wanted sympathy from her agent. And coddling. And a fucking good script.

“What do you like? What do you want to do?”

“I like
Borderland Blue
, Celeste whispered, “and I want my husband not to be such a backstabbing bastard.” Her bottom lip quivered—she was bumped and her marriage was most certainly over. A lump of sadness plopped into her heart and spread upward and grasped at her throat. She bit the inside of her cheek and willed herself to halt the tears that threatened—again.

“What about Lydia’s film?” Celeste finally asked. Lydia Albright was a close friend of both hers and Jessica’s and a mega-producer. One way to get back at a bastard was to do the film of his biggest competitor. Plus she’d rather spend four months on set with Lydia—someone she could trust—than be thrust into the arms of a producer she disliked and some project she loathed.

“She can’t make your deal,” Jessica said.

“What about a trick deal?” Celeste asked. “SAG minimum and more gross points?”

The silence from Jessica only confirmed what Celeste knew to be true. Working on Lydia’s film, with a trick deal, was a gargantuan gamble. Celeste hadn’t worked in two years and she would forgoe her $20 million fee on the possibility of Lydia’s film,
Seven Minutes Past Midnight
, becoming a success. The risk was obvious; did the public still love Celeste enough that she could open a blockbuster action film and earn her fee on the back end?

“If that’s what you want,” Jessica said her voice even, “I’ll call right now.”

Celeste sighed and the iron-gripped fear in her belly relaxed its tightfisted grip. The slightest smile crossed her face. At least Jessica still believed in Celeste and her box office strength. “I’ll call Lydia. You call the attorneys and start drafting the deal.”

“Anything else?” Jessica asked.

“I want a producer’s credit, too,” Celeste said, the wind whipping her golden locks around her face.

“Not a problem. Call me after you talk to Lydia.”

“Got it.” Celeste said and Jessica was gone. There was one more call to make before she dialed Lydia. Another call to make Damien pay. Aside from taking the role in
Seven Minutes Past Midnight
, there was one other thing that would force Damien to experience a similar anger and pain that burned through Celeste.

For the second time, Celeste spoke to her phone, “Get me Frederick.”

“‘Allo; Frederick,”

“Lover,” Celeste purred.

“Oh, my Cici! I wondered if I might hear from you today,” Frederick said, with a hint of a question.

“It is a very big day.” Anticipation warmed Celeste’s skin and desire tingled up through her toes and legs.

“How big?”

“Black Card big,” Celeste answered, referring to the limitless credit card that Damien kept locked in his safe. Damien mistakenly believed Celeste knew nothing of the card.

“Oooh!” Frederick moaned into the phone. It sounded as if he’d come all over himself. “We just got some fabulous Christian Louboutins this morning.”

“Perfect. I’ll take twenty pairs.”

“He must be in very big trouble, your Damien,” Frederick cackled. “Back from New Zealand?”

“Last night.”

“You know, my boyfriend’s ex-lover is doing makeup on that set. For the actress, Brianna Ellison. You know her.”

Celeste’s heart beat kicked upward and humiliation swept through her body—she felt the heat on her chest and neck.

Of course Frederick knew about Damien and Brie. Everyone knew.

The film industry was a small town in a huge city. Everyone’s boyfriend’s ex-lover did makeup, set design, acted, wrote scripts, produced, gaffed, gripped, agented, or directed. Hollywood was six degrees of separation minus five degrees.

“Brie’s lovely,” Celeste hissed. “I hear she likes girls.”

“Interesting,” Frederick cooed. “I hear she likes cock.”

If Frederick were a woman, she’d rip his eyes out for that remark. But being a member of the catty-effeminate set, Frederick could say whatever he wanted. The exchange was fair trade because Frederick would pay Celeste back with a juicy tidbit of Brie gossip once Celeste finished dropping fifteen grand in his store. And if Frederick really wanted to help Celeste, he’d start spreading some wonderfully salacious lie about little Miss Brie Ellison—perhaps something in the gonorrhea or methamphetamine family?

“I should be there in twenty minutes.”

“Darling, for you I’d wait forty. Ciao.”

Celeste took a quick check of her reflection in the rearview mirror and then balanced the steering wheel with her knees. She grabbed her purse from the passenger seat. The vial had to be in her Chanel bag somewhere. She dug through her purse tossing aside her credit card case, make-up, and cigarettes. She just needed a teensy weensy sniff to keep her alive. There wasn’t a Starbucks on the way, and with so much shopping to do and so little sleep (silly her, she’d cried into her Egyptian cotton towels for three hours), she just needed a jolt. She dug into the pretty white powder with her pinky nail.

Sniff. Sniff.

Celeste wiped under her nose and glanced in the rearview mirror one more time. Still perfect.

Praise for
Secrets of the Hollywood Girls Club

“In her follow-up to
Hollywood Girls Club
Marr not only takes readers behind the scenes of Tinseltown, she plummets them into the middle of hot sex scandals, blackmail and illicit affairs. These four powerful women not only manage to stay on top – both in the office and in the bedroom — they keep their friendship strong and their movies hot.”