Hollywood Hit (21 page)

But lately Nikki’s anonymity had been breached.

“The love, the adoration.” Kiki’s face thrummed with the thrill of the idea of all that excitement cast upon one person. “Your aunt says you can act, and we’ve got the necessary connections. Darling, you could be a star by this time next year.”

Nikki attempted a polite smile, while her inner voice screamed
no fucking way
.

Kiki scooted toward Cici, pulling Nikki behind her. She clasped the two together and exited the scene.

“Smile, Nikki,” Cici said without moving her lips.

Nikki forced her best smile to her lips and inched a bit closer to her aunt. She’d rather go find a rock and crawl under it. A chill crept up Nikki’s shoulder. She scanned the throng of fans seated high in the bleachers surrounding them. So many unknown people. A thick feeling wobbled in her belly. A slow, hard grip clasped her throat. Whoever killed Jeb could be here. The killer… the killer that had been after her… not Jeb, but her, could be watching her from those stands right now. Her heart exploded into a fast beat.

“Darling, are you all right?” Cici whispered through her teeth. “You look a little pale.”

Pale? A hollow emptiness widened through Nikki’s body. Aunt Cici’s eyes slid to the right and soon Kiki rushed toward them and ushered them past the rest of the press and into the theater.

Air rushed into Nikki’s lungs.

“Are you okay?” Cici asked.

One of Kiki’s assistant’s rushed a bottle of water to Nikki.

“I’m fine,” she said and took giant sips of water. “I just…” Nikki shook her head. She’d been panicked, frightened, scared. She’d looked amongst the crowd and wondered… wondered… what if whoever killed Jeb and ruined her home was out there… out there watching her? She licked her lips and looked into Aunt Cici’s eyes. She couldn’t tell Aunt Cici her fears. Not now, not tonight, not at the premiere and maybe not even later. “I got a little light-headed. Didn’t have anything for lunch.”

“Of course, darling,” Cici said. “I haven’t eaten in three days. You’ll get used to that.” She leaned in as if telling Nikki a secret. “There’s popcorn here and the food at the party should be amazing. I had Ted make sure of it.”

Nikki forced a weak smile to her face.

“Come on then, darling,” Aunt Cici said. “Let’s find Ted and watch my latest film.”

Rush had planned on attending the
Concession to Her Delight
premiere party even before it became a requirement that he go. He would have attended without Ted’s special assignment to get close to Nikki. Events like these helped Rush maintain his cover and do his job. He listened for tidbits that might impact Ted or Worldwide or even Celeste. Rush took a soda water and lime from the bartender. Unless someone tasted his drink, they would never know that Rush purposely stayed sober. His job was to follow Nikki, keep tabs, stay close, and to find out anything—anything that could lead him to whoever was after her.

He’d maintained his promise to Nikki and not said a word to the press about the ransacking of her town house. He had, however, told Ted Robinoff, but Ted had been unable to tell Celeste. No one had told Celeste. And that was the big fear because when Celeste discovered she’d been kept in the dark about the safety of her niece, then she would most definitely blow.

Boundless Bound
was nearing production. Prep was nearly complete, and soon everyone would be on set. This would make it particularly easy, in theory, to keep tabs on Nikki, except that Rush had no excuse to be on Nikki’s set. He wasn’t a producer on the film. He was neither a member of the cast nor a gaffer nor a grip, so really there was no reason for him to be on the soundstage aside from his pseudo relationship with Nikki. A pseudo relationship that to him, unfortunately, was more real and less pseudo each day.

Not good.

“Rush,” Ted said and slapped him on the back. Ted did not enjoy public events but when forced to attend as owner of Worldwide, Ted was excellent at faking enjoyment. “Good to see you.” Ted shook his hand and locked eyes with him. He was a somber man—expressionless. The fools that tried to make Ted suffer them didn’t last long, no matter what their relationship was to Ted.

“How is our project going?” Ted said and sipped his drink. Amber-colored—Rush knew it was Maker’s Mark. Ted would have one and only one. Discipline. The man was full of discipline. And hard as stone.

Rush tipped his drink and surveyed the room. “Still have the one snag of which we spoke late last week.”

Ted nodded. “I think I may have a solution to that problem. Any information on what created the original concerns?” Ted asked, his smile in opposition to the fact that his question was of a heavy nature.  He wanted to know if Rush had any leads, and Rush didn’t. All Rush knew—or felt in his gut—was that somehow the killing of Jeb Schmaltzer and the violence in Nikki and Christina’s town house was related. Perhaps Nikki was deeper into the drug scene than Rush suspected. He’d dug into Adam’s life and the discoveries had been shady and dark. Rush should tell Ted what he found out about Nikki’s ex-boyfriend… He’d meant to tell Ted, and it was a breach of protocol for him not to, and yet… yet… he hadn’t. Not yet. He wanted to be sure of the connection—to find a connection—if there was a connection.

He glanced across the room and out the front doors to where the paps were going wild. He tilted his soda water to his lips. There was some fresh young glamour girl making her way onto the scene. Rush was trained. Trained to keep his emotions under wraps, but this woman was a beautiful package, tied up in a colorful blue bow. The photogs flashed madly. While her face was obscured by the crowd near the doorway, Rush could see the outline of her breasts and the long lean legs capped by an indecent pair of high heels. His heart beat furiously—every man in this place would be all over that hot thing. Even he—if not for his current job—might be. The woman got past the lights and the press, and she entered the far end of the room.

Rush stopped breathing. This was ever so bad. The woman was Nikki Solange.

*

Lydia hadn't wanted to believe the call she'd received. She'd been shocked and surprised. She'd asked her driver to make an unscheduled stop between the movie-premiere for
Concession To Her Delight
  and the premiere party. Lydia had to see him. She had to know that Jay was all right and alive. He'd risked his life for her, the least she could do was show up at the hospital.

A beaten man would get the best medical care in the world on the eighth floor of Cedars-Sinai. Lydia’s eyes roamed over Jay. He was a human pincushion. IVs splayed from his arms, wires snaked to beeping machines. Lydia recognized the morphine pump by his side. His beautiful dark skin was battered and bruised. Sutures showed under butterfly stitches on his cheekbones and above both eyebrows. Nighttime lights trickled through the slit in the curtains and the slow drip of drugs glistened through the clear tube.

A sour, sick feeling coiled through Lydia’s belly. Jay was a good man. A man who protected people for a living. A man who had once, when she was president of production at Worldwide Studios, protected her when some nutjob sent her threatening letters.

“Lydia?” Jay rasped out. His throat sounded dry. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question.” Lydia reached for the water glass and settled the straw between Jay's lips. In addition to the bandages and stitches above both eyebrows, his hands were in big white bandages. She’d gotten the lowdown from the Cedars-Sinai eighth-floor specialty nurse. Jay had arrived days before and had recently been taken off a respirator and emerged from his medically induced coma. He was lucky to be alive.

Lydia’s gaze roved over Jay. A sick feel settled into her belly. Jay had been one of the Studio’s security guys for years. Now, Lydia knew from her sources, he was on Ted’s private detail, a detail that was wrapped in secrecy but protected Cici, and Lydia guessed whether Nikki knew it or not, the younger Solange too.

“Lydia, you know it’s always good to see you,” Jay whispered out, “but you’re not doing either of us any favors by being here.”

Lydia had survived the Hollywood meat grinder and she wasn’t worried about Ted Robinoff.

“I’m not afraid.” She reached out and settled her hand on Jay’s forearm. “When are you getting out of here?”

Jay held up both his hands. “I got rehab first. The feeling is coming back and it’s not too pleasant.”

“They’ve got good drugs here,” Lydia quipped. She didn’t do well with tragedy and pain. Her chosen venue was pretend beatings, car chases, and explosions—not the real deal.

“I’ve been using them.” A small smile played around Jay’s lips. “With pleasure.”

Silence settled around them. Lydia wouldn’t ask Jay where he’d been or who he was looking after. His presence on the celeb-only floor at Cedars was testament that he’d been working for Ted when he got hurt.

“I know you won’t tell me what happened, and I’m not going to ask. But I want you to know if you need anything…” Lydia looked away. Her eyes filled up. She sucked in her cheeks and pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. She willed away her tears and looked back at Jay. “But if you need anything or if there’s anything I can do…”

Gratitude and understanding shone through Jay’s eyes as though entwined with Lydia’s emotions. “I’ll be out of here soon,” Jay said. “Maybe following you around again. Who knows?”

Lydia stood. Yeah, who knew?

“Did you bring the nail clippers?” BAM rolled down the back window, snorted snot from his throat cavity, and hawked a loogie onto the street.

Liam maintained his stoic facial expression and contained the sudden and violent urge to vomit. BAM was particularly repugnant when well dressed, as though when putting on a beautiful façade he needed to offset any attempt to make himself appear human with his foulest behavior.

Liam opened the bag that BAM required he carry at all times. He searched for the plastic protective wrap that contained a pair of nail clippers. Not just any nail clippers, but nail clippers that could cut the troll-like nails attached to BAM’s toes.

“Mr. Shasta,” Liam said and unzipped the pouch containing BAM’s required medicines and toiletries. “I wanted to discuss my credit on the upcoming film,
Boundless Bound
.” Liam held his breath after the release of his words. He waited for some slap akin to a physical one, only instead were BAM’s words—words that shredded and tore and ate at Liam’s insides much like shards of tiny tiny glass could eat at BAM’s.

“Credit?” BAM screwed up the monstrous thing attached to his neck with a fleshy nose and doughy lips that passed as a face. “What the fuck do you think you’ll get a credit for?”

Again BAM snorted the phlegm from his throat, pressed the button on the car door, waited for the window to recede, and then hawked his vileness out the window and into the wind.

“Sir,” Liam said, coming up with the clippers enclosed in a hermetically sealed case, “I did in fact find the script and secure a copy for your perusal.”

BAM kept his eyes firmly secured to the passing scenery.

“Then, sir, I did convince Mr. Schmaltzer to allow you to option the screenplay.”

“Allow?” BAM’s face formed into something he might consider a smile but looked more like a creature ready to eat something still living.

“Yes, sir,” Liam said, maintaining his courage. Nothing was ever gained from fear—except more fear. He was, after all, the captain of his ship, the master of his destiny. “And it was my information regarding JP Anderson’s desire to do an erotic thriller that allowed you to attach him to the film.”

“Again with the fucking word allow.” The window slid down yet again and a gelatinous loogie flew from BAM’s thick lips into the air.

“Then, sir, if you remember, it was my bit of information that allowed us to attach Cici Solange.”

“Us?” BAM now turned his face—his viper eyes locked onto Liam as though he were a boa constrictor ready to devour a frog. “There is no fucking
us
, you dumbfuck. There is
me
. There is Shasta! Productions. Which has
my
fucking name. There is no
you
. There is no
Liam
. You don’t even fucking exist in this town.”

Liam’s eyes remained fixed, his face neutral. Anger raged within his chest. Heat boiled to a near-volcanic point. His mouth held tight to many vulgar yet descriptive words. Words appropriate for only BAM. Liam stifled the heat and the vocabulary and fixed firmly within his mind that BAM would not, could not, see Liam’s imperative contribution to the making of
Boundless Bound
, the film that would be Shasta! Productions’s crowning achievement. A film that would firmly place BAM back into the good graces of the studio system—a system that provided luxurious filmmaking. No more would BAM be subject to riding a rusted bicycle with a flat tire and no horn through the crazy-driver-infested streets of Bangladesh—all of which felt surprisingly similar to the experience of putting together an independent film.

Yes, it was Liam and his taste, his vision, even his connections that had given BAM his rope to climb back on top of the Hollywood shit heap and yet… and yet… BAM refused to acknowledge Liam’s contribution.

“Pistachio?” Liam asked and held out the cracked and shucked nuts to which he’d dedicated an hour earlier in the day. What appeared to be salt glittered over the naked legumes.

BAM’s meaty hand fisted into the bowl and took a large handful. BAM had been eating a number of nuts as of late. Liam had made certain that they were always available and plentiful and already shelled.

BAM dropped half a handful into his gaping maw. Satisfaction coursed through Liam.

“You’re a fucking assistant. You’re
my
fucking assistant,” BAM said, letting spittle and bits of chewed nuts fly from his mouth.

Liam took one finger and swiped under his own left eye where a piece of BAM’s half-eaten nut had landed.