Hollywood Lies (4 page)

I can see my tiny reflection in her eyes. For just a second, my eyes are hard and my mouth is set in a straight line. Remember the character. No one cares or knows about the real Cole Stroud unless I let them. I paste on my most pleasant smile in the universe. It’s the smile I use in all interviews and red carpet events.
 

Julie reminds me. “Think of the charity. Think of what that money could do for them and how many kids will be able to read thanks to—”

“Literacy is very important. Thanks for putting it in perspective.” I take a small breath and the interview begins simply enough. Quick questions about new projects, anniversaries of past projects, and conversation about my work on the last presidential election.
 

“You’ve lived here since you were three, and you’re a citizen of the United States, but being born in Scotland gives you a unique perspective. Which candidate do you think best gives America a shot at reclaiming past glory?”

I’ve fielded political questions before, so my standard answers and thought framing are at the ready. But soon after I answer, Carmen switches gears abruptly.
 

“That’s quite some insight.” Carmen throws a confused and thoughtful look into the camera. “
Some people, like myself, can’t quite figure you out. Party girl? Serious artist? Hollywood bad girl? Political campaigner? Gentle, misunderstood victim of—”

My stomach tightens, and I am awash in tension.
Tread carefully, Carmen. You’re venturing into territory you won’t be able to handle
. I wish I could say that, but instead, I hold it in.
 

“We spoke of anniversaries, and many of your fans haven’t forgotten, as I’m sure you haven’t
 . . .
”

I hold my breath.

Carmen’s look of pity is exaggerated, and since she plays it to the camera and not to me, I know exactly where all of this is going. “This weekend marks the tenth anniversary of the attack you suffered at the hands of Rodney Douglas
 . . .
”

The walls press in on me. The familiar terror seizes my body. It holds me in a vice-like grip threatening to shoot me spiraling down a tunnel of anxiety I might not be able come back from.

I’m not sure how long I sit frozen, but I know chaos is currently ensuing around me.
 

“The interview is over.” Julie pulls the microphone off me. “You signed the contract, Carmen. I hope your two seconds of malicious glory is worth the legal battle you and this studio have just brought on.”

The three bodyguards I never leave the house without appear. Oscar takes my hand and leads me off the stage, and the other two protect me from the front and back.
 

“Don’t worry,” Julie soothes when we’re all in the SUV. “Thank God it wasn’t live. I’m calling Anthony. He’s going to nail that bitch to the wall. What a blatant disregard of the contract.”

I stare at Julie, the woman I hired eight years ago to handle these aspects of my life. She’s worth her weight in gold and then some. Although grateful to have her, I can’t focus on anything but the panic bubbling up and threatening to drown me.

He’s dead. Rodney Douglas is dead
. He was killed by the cops who stormed my apartment looking for me ten years ago. But knowing he’s gone doesn’t ease the fear from my body, or soothe my racing mind.

I lean forward and place my head between my knees. Someone’s hand, Julie’s or Oscar’s, presses against the small of my back. It’s warm and comforting, but not quite enough.

“Shit. Now the fucking photogs are looking for a juicy picture.” Julie’s voice sounds distant, muffled as she talks to my bodyguards. “Step on it, X.”

Xavier speeds the vehicle up and performs a few illegal evasive maneuvers. I can’t see if we’ve gotten rid of the paparazzi or not. I’m not going to look up anytime soon. The last thing I want is to be on Locker’s Confidential – the gossip television show, or their blog – looking like a panic-stricken idiot.

It’s not until my entourage secures me in my Malibu estate when I start to come back to myself. The antianxiety medications Julie gave me in the car kick in, and the hot water of the shower pours down on me like a river of truth.
 

I’m home. Protected. Safe.

When I make an entrance into my kitchen an hour later, all talking stops. Julie and Zara sit at the island studying my appearance in an attempt to size up my mental status.

“What’s up? Why is no one talking?” a grainy voice asks from the cell lying on the countertop.
 

I immediately recognize my lawyer’s voice on the other line. “Because I’ve just entered the room, Anthony, and you know how it is after I freak out like a little kid.”

“It was completely understandable,” Julie offers. “Don’t—”

I don’t need to be babied any longer and change the subject. “So what’s going on?”

“Anthony’s drawing up the papers as we speak. We can go after both the studio and Carmen.”

I wipe my hand over my face and sigh. “I don’t want to ruin them. Just
 . . . 
just don’t set up any more interviews with that woman.”

Julie begins to argue, but it’s Zara I listen to. “That’s not a problem. Carmen is already blacklisted in my book, and I’ve made calls to everyone I know to let them know her tactics so they can protect their clients as well.”

“It would be wise to at least file an official breach of contract,” Anthony’s disembodied voice adds.

I hesitate, then say, “Whatever; just don’t get too aggressive. I don’t want to look like the bitch on this one.”

My assistant takes a step toward me. “We all know who the bitch is in this situation, you don’t have to—”

“I’m going to workout.” I pivot on the ball of my foot and head to my gym.

I shock no one by my predictability in these situations. Everyone in my employ from the security guards to my chef, housekeepers, personal assistant, and publicist all know my
MO
. Part of the reason I keep them around is because they won’t call me out on my avoidance techniques.
 

After two hours of cardio, an hour of lifting, and forty-five minutes of yoga, my mind is almost back to normal. I’ve forgotten the interviewer’s name, the wasted years following the attack, and my love affair and fierce battle with chemical substances. I’ve forgotten everything except the attack itself. That never seems to go away.

In the past, cocaine and heroin were the only things that could make me forget the man who ambushed me in my little North Carolina apartment. I’d only been twenty-three and filming a television series for a year. While I’d known I was famous, I never thought I was famous enough to induce psychopaths to hurt me.

Drugs had been my only solace during the recovery process—the period when the surgeries to repair what Rodney Douglas had destroyed stopped, and I began to learn how to function again.
 

Even though I know how and where to get them, and sometimes desperately want the cool embrace of a chemically altered brain, the drugs are gone. Now only one thing can satisfy the need to stop thinking about the pain Rodney Douglas had inflicted.

The sex I have with men from all walks of life sates me. My psychiatrist says it’s a somewhat destructive way I use to regain the power he took. It allows me to control the memories of that night and create new ones. As bad as the physical attack had been, those wounds healed.
 

She says the sexual assault is what keeps me moving from man to man in an attempt to rewrite that night of fear and loss of control. But it’s not pain—mine or another’s—I seek. BDSM isn’t what I’m into. Beyond spanking and some stiff biting, I leave that alone. Too much trust is needed to be involved in something like that, and I don’t trust easily.

What I’m really after is the satisfactory feeling I get when I come together with another person in the absence of fear. Pure, simple fucking. No worries. No fear. The quiet of my mind after such an extreme release of tension.

After showering and dressing, I announce, “I’m going out.”
 

Not surprised, my security detail is already waiting in pressed outfits, worthy enough of being seen in clubs and on the covers of magazines when the shutterbugs snag a good picture of me.

“Want me to come?” Julie asks.

My answer is the same as always. “No.”

“Be careful, okay?”

I bring the guy to
my penthouse on the Wilshire Corridor. He was easy to pick up. Most men are. I found him at the bar and introduced myself, not that I’d needed to. His wide eyes told me he already knew who I was and what I wanted from him. As soon as the door closed behind us with Oscar and Xavier standing guard just outside, I unbuckle his belt, then pop open the fly of his jeans.

“Don’t you want to—”

I stop his words with my mouth by pulling his head down to mine. We kiss, and our tongues tangle for a moment before he stands up straight again, a slight edge of uncontrolled distress in his eyes. I keep him close to me by using my grip on his belt, and his pelvis presses against my abdomen.
 

“I mean . . . you’re so hot and I . . .”

“You’re cute and young and nervous, but I want to fuck you. I’m not like the little coeds you’re used to. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to caress or snuggle. I don’t want to be coy. I want you.”

His eyes widen as I take a hold of his cock through his boxers.
 

“And you want me. When I saw you, I knew you were a sexy motherfucker with a cock that could fuck me until I can’t move. Now prove me right.”

It takes him only a second to start stripping down before he turns his efforts on me, roughly pulling me out of my clothing. A rip sounds as he tugs my shirt over my head, but he doesn’t stop to acknowledge his destruction of my two hundred dollar article of clothing. His plush lips move to my neck as he throws the garment to the floor. My flesh rises at the gentle feel of his mouth and the swirl of his tongue.

Shivers run through me. This is what I want. All thought beyond my current situation flees my mind. Any lasting sense of fear or memory of the past disappears. All I can feel are his hands on my body as he guides me back to the sofa in the middle of the open space. He smells of salt, sweat, and soap. I love it.

He hisses when he backs up and his calf hits the glass coffee table. I take the opportunity to bite his lower lip. It brings his attention back where I need it to be: on me. He yanks his head away and gives me an annoyed look.
 

I lick my bottom lip and run the palms of my hands over my breasts. The dark skinned young man in front of me tries to take charge of me again, but I take a fast step back. “I forgot your name.” My voice drips with seduction.

“Vincent,” he replies, smooth, deep, and low.

I drop my eyes to where one of his hands wraps around his hard cock, then run my hands down my body and dip a finger into the folds between my legs. “Vincent, have you ever tasted a movie star before?”

He doesn’t speak; just shakes his head and watches me sit down on the edge of the sofa. I lift and spread my legs as I lean back into the plush cushions. Men like a show to whet their appetites, and performing is what I do.

I run my finger up and down the length of my pussy and slip one finger into my vagina, then pull it out slowly. “Look at what you’ve done to me, Vincent. What do you think I’ll taste like?”

“Fuck,” he mutters, squeezing his dick and taking a step forward.

“Stop.”

His eyes flash with anger again, as if I’m just playing with him, but he moves no farther.

“You know what will happen if you talk to any media about this night, right?”
 

He remains quiet.
 

I continue. “I’ll deny it, and my publicist will destroy your credibility so completely, not even your mother will believe you.”

“I won’t say nothing.”

“Good boy, Vincent. Now tell me what you’re going to do to me when I let you get near me.”

“Damn, baby. I’m gonna lick that pussy up and down. I’m gonna make you scream when you come. See these?” He holds up his right hand and spreads his long fingers. “These are gonna make you squirt.”