Imposter (3 page)

MY ROOM AT THE BEVERLY WILSHIRE
Hotel is spectacular. Gant opens the patio doors and stands on the balcony. Dad runs a hand across the designer jackets and pants and shirts in my closet. When I emailed Ryder my sizes, I figured it was for movie costumes, not a new wardrobe.

Dad removes a dark blue suit and white shirt and hangs it from the top of the closet door. Ryder has left a note on the jacket:
WEAR THIS.

Ten minutes later, I emerge from the en suite bathroom in my new outfit. Gant and Dad exchange critical glances, like judges grading a contestant. “N-nice,” says Dad.

“If you're into suits,” adds Gant.

“Which I'm not,” I remind them.

Dad points to the closet and laughs. “Th-th-think again.”

We drive to a house in the Hills, where a large guy with a shaved head and a Bluetooth earpiece stands by the door, eyes scanning the horizon suspiciously. I say good-bye to Dad and Gant in the car, but they continue to watch as I approach the guy. He seems to look right through me.

I raise a hand—the kind of lame greeting that ought to get me kicked off the grounds. “Hi.”

He flicks his head in response.

“Can I come in?”

The corner of his mouth twists into a smile. “Hell, yeah. You're the star of the show now, Mr. Crane.” He nods to himself. “The
star
.”

I can't tell if he's serious.

He pulls open the door and ushers me inside the largest home I've ever seen. Everything but the bedrooms and bathrooms is open-plan. The kitchen, dining room, living room, media room, and library all flow together. Recessed spotlights in the ceiling cast rings of light around the cavernous room like daubs of color on a monochrome painting. People avoid them, preferring the view from the shadows.

There must be a hundred guests here. A few of them languish on leather furniture, while more spill onto the outdoor patio, where women in stylish dresses sip cocktails in the glow from the swimming pool's underwater light. Guys laugh too loudly, wanting to be heard having fun.

I'm a half-hour car ride from the Valley, but I've landed in a different galaxy.

Eyes turn at my arrival. I hug the perimeter and head for an unpopulated corner. There's a bathroom, so I slip inside and lock the door.

Marble countertops and sinks. A mirror that covers an entire wall. Soothing music piped in through hidden speakers. A row of scented candles on a shelf. The only thing missing is a personal masseur.

I take in my reflection. Hair, artfully disheveled. Dark blue slim-fit suit, courtesy of Ryder. I look less like me than ever before, but hey—it might be fun to impersonate a movie star.

When I unlock the bathroom door, Ryder's waiting for me.

“Constipated?” He pauses a moment and erupts in laughter. “I'm just messing with you, Seth. You need a moment to calm the nerves. I get it. Everyone'll get it. It's natural.”

He wraps an arm around me and leads me to the center of the room. “How's the hotel?”

“Amazing.”

“Good. Brian complained that there's a perfectly good, cheap motel on the interstate, but at the Beverly Wilshire they appreciate their guests' privacy. You're going to be grateful for that, soon enough. Talking of money”—he taps the shoulder of an older guy with wild hair and horn-rimmed glasses—“Seth, this is Curt Barrett. He's our financier.”

“Our leading man!” Curt takes my hand and pumps it up and down mechanically. “Talk about culture shock, eh?”

“You could say that.”

He gives an understanding nod. “Well, between you and me, I think you're going to fit right in. Just be yourself. Have fun. If you can't let your hair down, then what's the point, you know?”

I can't tell if he expects an answer. “Is this your house?”

“Yes. Funny things, these houses. All this glass for maximum transparency. But then we hire security teams, and put up ten-foot fences and trees so no one can see us. I think that's Hollywood in a nutshell. Appear to show everything, but always control the view.” Ryder clears his throat, and Curt laughs. “Listen to me!
One cocktail and I think I can nail an entire city with a single sentence. If I were you, I wouldn't stick around to hear what I say after my second drink.”

Curt takes a handful of nuts from a bowl on the table beside him—cashews and pistachios, by the look of them; no cheap peanuts here, thank you—but pauses before eating. “No,” he continues in a lower voice. “If I were you, I'd go talk to the redhead on the patio. The one who's been eyeing you ever since you arrived.”

I fight the urge to look straightaway. Channeling the new me, I shake his hand and give a casual salute as he raises his empty glass and moves on to the bar.

I see her as soon as I turn around. She's taller than the women around her. Her green dress shimmers in the light from the pool. Her dark red hair is pulled high in a sleek ponytail.

As our eyes meet I freeze. She's too beautiful to approach, like a painting secured behind several panes of glass. But what will she think of me if I don't talk to her?

In all my years of acting, I've never been so conscious of how I look when I move. My arms and legs feel awkward and stiff. She watches me the whole time, waiting, a faint smile teasing the corner of her mouth.

“I'm Sabrina.” She offers her hand. In heels, she's only a few inches shorter than me.

We shake. “I've seen your movies,” I tell her.

“All of them?”

“Some. Saw
Swan Song
last week.”

“Ugh.” She rolls her dark eyes. Manages to make even that look sexy.

“You don't like it? You won an award.”

“That movie was only made to win awards. I thought it was self-indulgent and melodramatic.”

“No sequel, then, huh?”

She smiles fully at last. “Well, as my agent reminded me: Never say never.” She narrows her eyes and leans a little closer. “But seeing as how my character died at the end, it'd be kind of difficult, don't you think?”

My face flushes red. I wonder how bad it would look for me to run straight out of the party.

“Hmm,” she murmurs, running her thumb across her lips. “You didn't watch all of it, huh?”

“No. I-I kind of thought it was, well . . . self-indulgent and melodramatic, I guess.” She seems surprised that I actually say this out loud. She's not the only one. “Sorry.”

“No,” she says quickly. “This is good. I like honesty. Which means we're compatible, doesn't it, Seth?”

Sabrina Layton knows my name!

“I didn't think you'd know who I am,” I say.

“Oh, I know you, all right.” Her voice is silky smooth, every word delivered with teasing certainty. It's impossible not to be nervous beside her. Impossible not to want to impress her.

“So tell me something about me,” I say with a confidence I don't feel.

“Okay. Let's see . . . you're out of your element here, and you wish it felt better than it does. You hate not knowing who most of these people are. You haven't got a drink even though everyone else has one. And my guess is, you won't take a cocktail because
you're worried what people will think of you for it.” She tilts her head to the side. Her ponytail swings languidly in amber silhouette.

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. You didn't choose those clothes.”

Somehow, my heart beats even faster. “How do you know that?”

“You're too buttoned up.”

She places her glass on the wall and draws closer to me. I hold my breath as she reaches up and undoes a second shirt button. As she adjusts the cloth, her finger slides underneath and brushes against my bare skin. Such a fleeting movement, but it's electrifying.

“Better?” I croak.

“Better,” she agrees. “Sends a different message.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Two buttons undone says that although I get the lead role in local stage productions, I'm still just your normal laid-back high school senior.”

“Undoing one extra button says all that?”

“All depends which button.” She picks up her glass and downs most of the contents. “Tell me something, Seth Crane. Do you always go red so easily?”

“Yes.” I take the glass from her and finish it off. “Now you tell me something, Sabrina Layton. Do you always drink water from a martini glass?”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Yes.”

“Very clever.”

“Aren't I? Why don't you get us two more?”

Fighting the urge to run, I head back inside. One of the servers pours springwater into two clean martini glasses for me. He watches me closely, but doesn't say a word. I think he might be jealous.

And why wouldn't he be? Sabrina Layton is talking to me, and wants to talk more. Everyone nearby seems to be watching me, as if breathing the same air as her makes me a celebrity too.

I keep the glasses high as I weave through the guests. Air runs across my chest where Sabrina has unbuttoned my shirt. Suddenly it's as though no one else at the party exists. Deep down I know it's all an act, but it's my fiction as much as hers. We're writing this scene together.

I stop before the patio doors.

There's another guy standing beside her. Tall, with muscular arms and shoulder-length hair that drapes across part of his face. It's Kris Ellis, one-half of Hollywood's favorite former teen couple. As Sabrina looks up and catches my eye, he wraps his arm around her.

“Is that one spare?” A girl points at the glass in my left hand. She looks about sixteen. Black hair styled short in a pixie cut. Cute instead of beautiful.

“I guess so,” I say, handing it to her.

She clinks our glasses and we stare at the patio together. “Well, it looks like their separation didn't last long.”

“No.”

She turns to face me. “I'm Annaleigh, by the way. Your star-crossed lover.”

That gets my attention. I don't know who I thought she was,
but costar didn't occur to me. Or maybe I'm not thinking at all. One conversation with Sabrina Layton and I'm starstruck.

“I'm Seth,” I say.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Last time I checked, I didn't have a lover.” I frown, realizing how weird that sounds. “In the movie,” I add, backpedaling. “Because, you know, she hadn't been cast.”

Annaleigh's fighting a grin. “I'm a late addition.”

I look at her properly. Notice her large blue eyes accented with a thin band of black eyeliner. The blush on her cheeks. Her small hands. I wonder if Ryder picked out her yellow dress the way he selected my clothes, and if she's as freaked out about being here as I am.

She raises a finger to her mouth, but stops herself before she bites the nail. “You're tall,” she says, as if she's just noticed the ten or so inches between us. “You must be, what . . . six-three?”

“Six-two.”

“Hmm. Guess I'm shrinking, then.” She tilts her head toward Sabrina and Kris. “You realize, if this carries on, ours could be the shortest careers in Hollywood history.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone knows they were first choice for the leads. If they get back together . . .” She chuckles. “Well, then I'd have cool stories about flying first class, and this crazy party in a ridiculous house. Yeah,” she says, like she's trying to convince herself, “that'd be an okay consolation prize, I guess.”

We're not the only people watching them. The eyes that followed me just moments ago are focused on Sabrina and Kris now.

“That's not why they're here, though, is it?” I ask. “To get their roles back?”

“I don't know.”

Kris runs his hand over Sabrina possessively. She doesn't look pleased about it.

“Sabrina's beautiful,” says Annaleigh.

The way she says it makes me feel guilty for looking outside when she's standing right beside me. “So is Kris.”

“Uh-uh. He's attractive, not beautiful.”

“There's a difference?”

“Attraction is superficial. And something tells me Kris Ellis is the most superficial person here.” She takes a sip from her glass, and grimaces. “This is water.”

“Yeah. I'm only eighteen.”

“So? I'm only seventeen.”

“You want me to get you a cocktail?”

“No, it's probably best if I don't get buzzed, cut from the movie, and arrested all in one night. Water's fine. But I wouldn't mind sitting down.”

I follow her to an empty couch. Even though we're attracting glances, no one approaches us to chat. People circulate in a constant wave of motion. Sitting on a couch must be too much of a risk, I guess—no one wants to be stuck talking to the same person for too long.

Me, I'm happy to sit. Annaleigh is the least intimidating person here by far.

She puffs out her cheeks and exhales slowly. “I've got to say, prom is going to be really anticlimactic after this.”

“You don't have waiters handing out cocktails at your prom, huh?”

“Shocking, I know.” She raises her glass.

“Unthinkable.” We clink again. “So where are you from?”

“Arkansas.”

“You don't sound like it.”

“Good. I'm trying to blend in.”

I hesitate. “My mother was from Arkansas. I liked her accent.”

“I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to . . .” She makes eye contact and snorts. “What am I saying? Of course I was being rude about Southern accents. I guess I'm self-conscious about it here.” With every word, a little more Arkansas creeps back in.

“You sound more comfortable already.”

“Hmm. Just don't let me talk like this in front of that financier guy. If his first choice was Sabrina Layton, I can't imagine he'll be happy with my drawl.”

“We'll keep it between us, then.”

She bumps my arm playfully. “Deal.”