Not in the Script (19 page)

For young Hollywood, Club 99 is the most popular hangout in Los Angeles. There's always great music, good food, and if the only thing you do here is people watch, you'll have all the entertainment you need.

It's eight by the time we start mingling with the star-studded crowd. I get a lot of “Where have you been?” types of questions,
since I haven't hung out in L.A. in a while. But I'm also asked a dozen too many times about who I'm dating now that Troy and I are over—as if I
have
to be dating someone new—and everyone acts like we just barely broke up. I remind them that it's been over four months.

In dating time, isn't that like a decade?

The main part of the club is oval shaped and decorated in shades of blue, with platinum accents. About thirty semicircular booths line the walls. The center is open for dancing, but the music is low for now, and the lighting is still bright. Almost everyone is huddled around a table with drinks, appetizers, and a massive chocolate fountain.

Sara Roberts is a media darling, and seems to love it, so photographers are everywhere. I've already heard that Paddock was turned away at the door. That's a pretty good sign that security is running a tight ship, but even respected photographers can cause plenty of trouble.

“I'm surprised you didn't recognize that photog at the race,” I tell Brett. At first he was sitting on one end of our large booth, with Gabe and Aiden on the opposite end and me in the middle. But then I was scooted closer to Brett by his buddies, who reminded me that we still have to fit Kimmi and Payton in here. “Craig Paddock? Forked tongue, big red horns. No?”

Brett waves to a pair of twittering girls across the room. He's already named them Glamour and Glitter because the club lights are bouncing like lasers off their gobs of jewelry and threatening to blind us. “I can't tell one photog from another,” he says. “They always have a camera hiding their face.”

It's never hard for
me
to spot Craig Paddock. Before he snaps
shots, he usually says something snide, like, “Emma darling, why do your boyfriends keep cheating on you?” Those were his exact words a few months ago, during all the Troy fallout. In response, I gave Paddock a look halfway between mortified and fuming, and he captured it. The shot was then attached to a story with the headline: EMMA HAS BREAKDOWN! STARVING HERSELF!

Apparently, the photo Paddock took proved I was starving myself because all I had in my small grocery bag was a few stalks of celery. In reality, my aunt and I had been making a nice pot of stew when I realized I forgot to pick up celery, so I ran down to the corner market for it. But Paddock was waiting outside for me when I left the store, and that's how I became a poster child for starving children.

“Why was Paddock at the motocross, anyway?” I ask Brett, still trying to keep some distance from him. “It's old news that you guys go to those races, and you don't usually take girls. So why did he show up
today
?”

“How do you know we usually don't take chicks? You would've had to ask around,” Brett says, and then he laughs like a playground bully. “You really
did
like me.”

“Did, Brett. Keep the emphasis on
did
,” I hiss. “And I swear if you ever tell another soul, I'll shave your head in the middle of the night.”

“Emma,” he says, all patronizing, “I've already told you that you shouldn't expect to be anywhere near me in the middle of the night. Take a hint.”

I elbow him. “Get serious,” I say, whispering again so Gabe and Aiden won't hear. But they're already busy scoping out their prey for the night. “I think Kimmi might've tipped off Paddock.
She totally lit up when he asked her name, and she told him all about being in the cast of
Coyote Hills
like it was a practiced reply. So I'm sure she set it all up to get attention.”

“But isn't that the point of our trip?” Brett says. “Kimmi's definitely been leeching, though. Look how she's hanging all over Payton, and he's having to introduce her to everyone.”

It's true, but in the absence of motorcycles to get Payton's blood pumping, he doesn't seem to mind Kimmi hanging on him. “Remember how she kept making all those phone calls today?” I ask Brett.

He thinks about it. “You're probably right. But photogs are all over here anyway, so what does it matter?”

“Because Paddock sells to the dirtiest tabloids.” Brett's attention seems elsewhere when I say this last bit, so I peek around him to see what he's looking at. “Oh, it's Bethany Parke. You should go say hello.”

Brett turns back. “Yeah, I probably
should
. But she can be annoying.”

“What? I thought you … liked her.” This is the polite way to interpret the type of relationship Brett told me he has with Bethany.

“I like her all right,” Brett replies. “But I can like her just as easily
tomorrow
night.”

I nudge him toward the edge of the booth. “Excuse me, please. I'm gonna go throw up.”

Brett laughs and wraps an arm around me. “Darn it, Taylor. Am I being naughty again?”

Kimmi and Payton finally slide into the booth. “Hey, you lovebirds,” Kimmi says. “Everyone's begging us to dish on the hot new couple.”

Brett and I both sit straight up. “We're just talking,” I say.

Kimmi's glossy pink lips curve into a smile. “That's not how it looks. And someone wants a minute with you, Emma.” She motions in the direction of the food. “He asked if I'd pass along the message to meet him by the back door.”

My entire body stiffens before I even dare to look. Troy's eyes lock on mine as he pops a chocolate-covered strawberry into his mouth.

On the outside, I only glance away. Inside, all power shuts off …

Total blackout.

“This should be interesting,” Brett says.

I fumble for my phone but can't get a grip on it. “I need a taxi,” I whisper.

Brett lifts one of my hands. “Whoa. You're shaking.”

I can barely speak with my heart blocking my throat. The thumping is in my neck, my chest, my ears. “It's nothing. I just … I need to leave.”

Brett reaches across the table. “Payton, keys. Now!”

I hear Kimmi and Payton whispering, sense some movement. “
Please
, I just want a taxi,” I repeat. “If Troy asks, I'm staying at the Four Seasons.”

I don't want him to find me. Anywhere. Ever again.

“Okay, okay.” Brett says. “We'll get you out of here.”

But Troy is at our table before we can stand. “Hey, guys, what's up?”

I squeeze my hands together and force myself to raise my eyes. I hate being this scared of him, but all I can see right now is his fist hitting my car window.

And blood on shattered glass.

Kimmi's voice pierces through the high-pitched static in my ears. “I passed along the message, Troy,” she says. “But Emma is with someone else tonight.
Obviously
.”

Brett speaks next. “We'll have to catch up later. Our food will be here any minute.”

“I just need to talk to her for a sec,” Troy says. “C'mon, Emma.”

Brett laughs. “That's just wrong, dude. Like Kimmi said, Emma is with me tonight.”

“Do I look like I care?”

My skin flickers between fire and ice.

Payton stands. “Get lost, Troy. Seriously. You had your chance with Emma.”

“And now Brett gets a turn?” The tendons in Troy's neck are flexed, ready to snap, as he faces Payton. My mind shouts at me to do something, stop this, but my body won't move. “Maybe you oughta tell your buddy here that Emma's
traditional values
won't exactly fit into his brand of lifestyle, you know what I mean? He'd have a much better time with one of the other ten girls he has here on tap, than with this coldhearted bit—”

Brett shoots from the booth, I scream, and Troy falls to the floor—all at once.

Cameras flash like lightning, and the entire area clears. I'm under the table before I know it, my hands over my face. The yelling and scuffling goes on and on, sounds of fist against flesh. Then the worst of it seems to be over, and someone is suddenly under the table with me. “Your face is a mess. Put this over you.” I peek between my fingers to see Kimmi holding out a black dinner jacket. “Follow me.”

I can't believe I'm desperate enough to trust her, but I take the
jacket anyway and crawl out. Bouncers have finally pulled Troy and Brett apart, but there's still plenty of noise and commotion. With my head partially shrouded, Kimmi leads me through the buzzing crowd and stops outside the women's bathroom.

She takes the jacket back. “Go in here. I'll keep everyone out.”

“What are you doing?” I ask. How does Kimmi benefit from this? “I mean, thank you, but …”

“You looked
pathetic
under that table.” She holds up the jacket. “And I ripped this off the manager, who was also being pathetic.”

Kimmi shoves open the bathroom door, and I step inside.

Mascara and eyeliner are smeared all over my face. I really am pathetic. How could I have let things with Troy get so out of control? And now that Brett is involved in this, he'll also have to worry about running into my explosive ex wherever he goes.

At least twenty minutes pass while I attempt to calm down. Then Kimmi returns to the bathroom and says, “The police want to talk to you.”

The police?
Crap. Crap. Crap
. This can't be happening.

Kimmi hands me her makeup bag, and adds, “I told them Troy is a disgusting, cheating, prick of an ex-boyfriend who obviously has anger-management issues.” My mouth parts in disbelief, and she rolls her eyes. “I knew
you
wouldn't say it, so someone had to.”

I half whimper, half laugh. “Can I hug you?”

“Not a chance.” She disappears again.

I fix up my face the best I can, and then an officer leads me out to the parking lot. When I see the siren lights and camera flashes cutting through the darkness, I want to push an emergency eject button—fly away, run and hide, pay someone else to be Emma Taylor. At least for tonight.

I'll never forgive myself if Brett gets arrested. McGregor might even fire him.

I scan the group and see several people being interviewed by officers. When I finally spot Brett, I release the breath I've been holding—he isn't in handcuffs. But neither is Troy.

I've witnessed plenty of fistfights at clubs, and the police are rarely called. So why are there
six
squad cars here? I realize the answer as soon as I see the grinning faces of the reporters and photographers. One of them, at least, must've called the cops as soon as the fight broke out and made it sound like a much bigger deal than it was, so they'd have a
bigger
story to tell.

From the looks of it, the police were expecting a full-blown riot.

I answer the officer's questions—he doesn't ask me to reveal anything more than what was said to provoke the fight—and when I'm finished, Brett walks toward me. I'm so relieved to see a smile on his face that I throw my arms around him. “Are you okay? You must hate me!”

“No way!” he says. “I'll get nothing but respect for this.”

“But you said that McGregor warned you about bad press.” I take a closer look at his left eye. It's swelling fast. “I'll call him right now and explain what happened, so he doesn't have a heart attack when the news hits.”

Brett motions to all the cameras and squad cars. “Relax. I don't see a story here.”

I sense Troy watching us and dart a glance his way. His icy-blue eyes shoot shivers through me, and as usual, I cave under the weight of his stare and look away.

Pathetic
is right. Am I really going to let him keep scaring me like this?

I ask Brett to wait where he is and go over to the officer who interviewed me. I tell him I want to talk to Troy, but emphasize that he may try to get me to leave with him and I don't want to be out of the officer's sight.

“No problem,” he replies. “Just glance my way if you need me.”

When Troy sees me approaching, he ditches his arm candy and comes within inches of my face. But before he can draw a breath, I tell him, “What could you
possibly
have to say to me that was worth making yourself look like such a jealous, desperate freak?”

Troy is used to me taking whatever crap he dishes out, so my sudden aggression throws him off. “I … uh,” he begins, then his face darkens again. “I want to make sure we're clear on something: you better keep your mouth
shut
about what happened to your window.” He holds up a hand. “I have scars all over my knuckles, thanks to you.”

I've got to hit him where it hurts, and he's just provided all the ammunition I need.

“Then let
me
be clear about something,” I say, about to lie through my teeth. “I know a reporter who's dying for a career-making story, and I'd love to help him out. I've already given him a copy of the security tapes from a house that had a perfect view of my aunt's driveway—betcha didn't consider cameras
that
day, did you? And he thinks the public will be
really
interested in seeing one of Hollywood's ‘it' boys try to punch his fist through my car window. And I've also passed along your messages. You know which ones—talk of you following me wherever I go, watching my every move. Sort of creepy, don't ya think? And yeah, if you're wondering, my reporter friend is only waiting for my go-ahead, or for something else to make him trigger happy. In fact, he thinks
this story could skip the tabloids and go straight to primetime news. Then you'll definitely be a household name, won't you?”

Troy blinks a few times. “That's blackmail, Emma. And it's illegal.”