Holly Hearts Hollywood (25 page)

“Holly, what the hell?” He said when I answered the phone.

I felt like I was going to be sick. “What?” I said dumbly.

“I saw your little cuddle-fest with Grayson on the news,” he said harshly.

“I’m sorry, what? You mean when the paparazzi attacked us?”

“He had his arm around you!”

“He was
protecting me
. Keller, they were shouting mean things at me. Calling me names and making fun of my weight.”

“He shouldn’t have been touching you. He has a girlfriend. What were you doing out with him, anyway?”

I got angry, something that rarely happens. Who did Keller think he was? He barely calls me; he shows up only when he feels like it, and yet he seems to think he’s in charge of me.

“We were hanging out,” I said tersely, trying to not yell at him.

“I told you I don’t want you hanging out with him.”

“Keller,” I said loudly. “You are not my boyfriend, my boss, or my father. And even if you were my boyfriend, you don’t have any say over who I hang out with. You’re supposed to be my friend, but lately, I don’t feel like you’re my friend at all. I feel like you’ve been playing me.”

“Playing you?” Keller repeated. “You know,
maybe
you could’ve been my girlfriend, but I see now you don’t have the maturity to be with anyone.”

I couldn’t even bring myself to cry at that comment. I didn’t care anymore. I told Keller goodbye and hung up! I actually felt good. I knew, deep down inside, something was a little off with him. I just never knew it was his
SANITY.

I felt a little better. It was like a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders. The thing with Keller had been bothering me, and now I didn’t have to worry about him anymore. But then I remembered that Grayson is dating the most beautiful girl on the planet, and if I get between him and Lacey, Mr. Salazar will kick my front door down. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure why I was happy at all. A few minutes after getting off the phone with Keller, someone knocked on my door. It was Grayson.

“Are you okay? I heard shouting.” He peered around my shoulder and into my room, looking for someone lurking in the shadows.

“No, I’m fine. I was yelling at Keller. I’m done with him,” I declared triumphantly.

Grayson’s brow furrowed.

“Really? Good. I never liked him. He flirted with everyone. I’m going to take a nap; you should too. We’re going to have a busy night.”

How can I nap when I’m single, and Grayson is right down the hall being sexy?
HOW?
Oh, what’s the point? He didn’t jump my bones when I told him; maybe he’s not interested in me anymore.

Later, 3:30pm—The Plaza Hotel

I had the most awful dream. I know they say you aren’t supposed to remember any of your dreams, so
why do I have to remember this one
? My mom always told me I should write my dreams down. I’m not sure if I want to remember this one, but for all I know, it could come in handy in the future.

I was in a cave. Yeah, I know: why was I in a cave? I don’t know. Maybe it’s symbolic of how freaking
EMPTY
I feel inside lately. Or maybe it represents my complete lack of confidence.

My collections were scattered throughout the cave, and I was scrambling about trying to put them in order. My funky plastic forks were scattered about with my vintage
Life
magazines. I kept trying to pick things up and move them, but they wouldn’t budge. My tiny cocktail fork felt like it weighed two hundred pounds.

So there I was, resembling King Arthur when he’s trying to pull that stupid sword out of that rock—only it was a
fork
and not a kick-ass sword, when something swam up to the edge of the cave. Because it was a dream, I had no idea what to expect. It could’ve been a humpback whale or a sharp-toothed mermaid-zombie.

Instead, a shirtless Grayson Frost emerged. Water droplets were running all around the contours of his muscles and everything. It was
hot
. He shook the water out of his hair in a “no-big-deal-I-swim-up-to-ocean-caves-all-the-time” kind of way and grinned at me.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“What am I doing?” I repeated. “What are
you
doing?” So clever, right?

“I’m here to rescue you,” he said as he strutted over, his chest muscles flexing and rippling with the motion.

“Whoa.” I took a couple steps back. “I don’t need rescuing. I need help with these stupid things.” I looked pointedly at my poor collection.

“Every girl needs to be rescued,” Grayson countered smoothly, and he took a few more steps toward me.

I may have massive self-confidence issues, but I most certainly don’t need rescuing, dream or no dream. Even during the dream, I knew it wasn’t real. Sometimes these are the worst kind of dreams; no matter what I tell myself and no matter what I try to do, the dream is beyond my control.

“Hey, I like you and everything, but we need to talk.” I said this because it was a dream, and I’m always more honest in dreams than real life. I didn’t finish the sentence, however, because my
Grandpa
came bursting in through the cave wall like the Kool-Aid pitcher. He was wearing his favorite pair of overalls with no shirt underneath. He was brandishing a pitchfork with tines that looked exceptionally sharp. He raised the pitchfork over his head and shook it.

“Stay away from my granddaughter,” he shouted at Grayson.

Grayson’s chest swelled up, and he said loudly, “I can do whatever I want.”

Suddenly, there was way too much testosterone in that cave.

“Grandpa,” I said. “What are you doing?”

Grandpa, with his saggy cheeks and watery eyes, looked at me seriously.

“He’s bad news, Holly. How could you fall for
him
and not some nice farmer?”

“I’m sorry, Grandpa. I really do like him. I wouldn’t be happy with a farmer.”’

Grandpa’s eyes glanced over my shoulder and fixated there firmly. I turned around to see what he was looking at and was surprised to see the Prada bag I bought last week tucked into a crevice.

“What’s in there?” Grandpa said brusquely, gesturing to the bag.

I shrugged. “I don’t know, Grandpa, the normal things you’d find in a purse.”

The glint in my grandpa’s eyes told me he didn’t believe me, and he stomped over to the crevice and grabbed my bag. He opened it and rooted around for a moment before he looked back at me.

“Holly,” he said in a tone I didn’t like at all. “What’s this?” He pulled out the photos of Grayson I tore out of
GQ.
Grandpa’s face was beet-red. I didn’t blame him for being mad. Grayson was barely wearing anything in those photos.

To my horror, he
ripped
the photos into shreds. I released a shriek of surprise, but I couldn’t stop him.

“No good will come of this. No good will come from spending time with
him
, and no good has ever come from these stupid collections of yours,” he hollered.

“Grandpa, what are you talking about?” I said, looking over at my collections and Grayson, who looked rather nonchalant, even though I was hoarding photos of him in my handbag like a crazed fan.

Grandpa didn’t answer me. No. Instead, he picked up his pitchfork and started to smash my collections to pieces. I couldn’t breathe. I felt like someone was gripping my lungs and giving them a good shake. I wanted to scream; I wanted to shout at him. But I could do nothing but watch as Grandpa smashed my Coke bottle collection, stabbed the
Life
magazines, and crushed all my seashells. He even crunched the poor sand dollars! I couldn’t move. I felt like I was frozen in place. My grandpa threw the pieces of Grayson’s pictures on the floor of the cave and walked back through the hole he burst in from.

I stood there and cried as Grayson’s beautiful, torn face stared up at me from the ground. Then I woke up and cried some more. God, I’m even pathetic in my dreams.

I went to Lacey’s room a little while ago to make sure she was okay and ready to head over to NBC, but she was napping. Grayson intercepted me in the doorway as I headed back to my own room. I was blushing furiously, as the memories of him shirtless were still very fresh. All I could picture in my mind was him swimming into the cave.

“Holly, I forgot to give this to you. I saw it at the gift shop, and it reminded me of you.” He handed me a page of the limited-edition anniversary
Star Wars
stamps. “I know you like to collect stamps, and you were wearing that
Star Wars
shirt the other day, so I thought you might want these.”

I nearly melted right then and there. It was so thoughtful and sweet of him. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I already had a couple
books
full of
Star Wars
stamps. Also, I haven’t worn my Princess Leia shirt in weeks. He remembers that? Weird.

“Wow, thanks,” I said enthusiastically, but not too loudly, trying not to wake Lacey. Apparently, she was exhausted from fighting with Grayson.

“No problem, glad to contribute to the cause.” He winked and walked back to his room. “See you in a little bit,” he shouted over his shoulder.

It is no wonder I’m head-over-heels for the guy.

THINGS FOUND:

1.
 
Star Wars
stamps.
EEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!

THINGS TO DO:

1.
  Re-develop platonic feelings toward Grayson.

Later, 8:30pm—On the way to Rockefeller Center

It takes Lacey forever to get ready to go anywhere. She didn’t even have to do her makeup; she has a makeup artist waiting for her. But no, she can’t go anywhere without “just a little bit of foundation and mascara.” My sudden awareness of my attraction to Grayson has made everything so awkward. He obviously doesn’t know why, but he’s noticed how quiet I am.

We were standing in the hallway, waiting for Lacey to “find her favorite lip gloss real quick,” and Grayson was trying to talk to me about his favorite song from
Wicked
.

“I know it’s not the ‘big number,’ but it’s the most emotional,” he said.

I blinked.

“Sorry, I zoned out. What song are you talking about?”

“‘I’m Not That Girl,’” he said, looking at me like I’d grown an extra head. “I feel for the Wicked Witch so much as she pines after the prince.”

My heart actually turned to slush. That song had struck a little too close to home for me, and I almost turned into a sobbing, confused mess right there. Instead, I said, “Oh yeah, I love that song too.”

Luckily for me, Lacey burst into the hallway.

“Ugh,” she groaned. “I’m all out of my favorite Stila lip-gloss, and I’m pretty sure that shade is discontinued. My day is totally ruined.”

Grayson glanced at me, laughter all over his face.

“I’m sure you’ll cheer up soon,” he said.

We’re in the car now, Rockefeller Center only a few blocks away, and Lacey is chatting away about all of her favorite kinds of makeup that have been discontinued. She doesn’t even seem to notice that Grayson looks miserable and has tried to change the subject five times. He keeps mouthing, “Help!” to me, but I just shake my head and pretend I can’t understand him.

Later, 10:00pm—Ladies restroom at NBC

I think my world is collapsing. I know that’s a horribly traditional “teenager” thing to say—next thing I know I’ll be wearing all black, writing depressing and vulgar beat poetry, and serenading my Marilyn Manson poster. Not that I’ve got a Marilyn Manson poster or anything…but I’m sure I could track one down.

When we arrived at NBC, I knew I had to talk to Grayson. I wasn’t planning on confessing my sudden attraction to him or anything, but after the realization I had yesterday and the prospect of spending all of this time on tour watching him and Lacey nuzzle noses, I knew I had to tell him about Mr. Salazar’s threat. He needed to know what I knew, or else we’d keep getting closer, and the paparazzi would take more and more photos of us together. I couldn’t tell him about the singing though. I was contractually bound not to.

I thought I’d be able to talk to him, especially with Lacey preparing to perform, but Lorne Michaels approached Grayson when we arrived and asked if he wanted to do a cameo. Grayson agreed and shuffled away to his own dressing room before I could talk to him.

I was with Lacey in her dressing room, trying not to roll my eyes too much. She was a full-on diva—probably the most overbearing I’d ever seen her. It seemed no one could do anything right. She was mad at her choreographer for adding another backup dancer. She shouted at her assistant because she forgot to buy gel insoles for her high heels. There was a lot of hair tossing. While Lacey was getting last-minute alterations made to her dress, I slipped out and went to Grayson’s dressing room.

I knocked on the door, of course. I didn’t want to walk in on a real-life Ralph Lauren ad.

“Who is it?” he yelled.

“It’s Holly.”

“Oh! Come in.”

My heart was in my throat. That bastard seems to have taken up permanent residence in all sorts of places where he doesn’t belong. I was about to tell Grayson everything I felt, and I was panicking. I opened the door, walked into his dressing room, and froze.

I was right about the real-life Ralph Lauren ad. Grayson wasn’t wearing a shirt. He was wearing pants, though, thank God. I didn’t know what to do with my eyes. I couldn’t look him in the face, because I was blushing. I obviously couldn’t stare at his muscular chest without looking creepy. So, I stared at the wall.

“Hey, what’s up?” Grayson asked, adorably oblivious to my discomfort.

“I need to talk to you,” I stammered while I focused on a dark brown stain on the wall. It was probably the result of a drunken rock star partying with his groupies. From the corner of my eye, I saw Grayson smile, and I felt my heart flutter like a swarm of butterflies.