Chasing Stars (6 page)

“Yeah, of course, um, here.” I reach for my wallet, and hand her my business card. “Give me a call. I will clear the shop.” I clear my throat. “Y’know, to avoid pictures and all that crap that chases you.”

I reach out my hand, relishing the softness of her small hand curling inside my smudged fingers. She steps closer and, before I realize, her lips brush lightly on my cheek. There is a different taste to this kiss. It is apologetic. I accept, though the last thing I want is her apology.

My arms must be disconnected from my brain because, before I process what is happening, I wrap her small waist in them, pulling her to a tight embrace. Traitor body. The hug surprises us both, and I quickly release her with an awkward smile.

“Take care.” I know it sounds lame, and I feel stupid saying it, but my brain falters, and that’s the best I can come up with.

“I will.” She smiles. Just like that, she walks out of my shop and out of my life.

I tend to the cleaning up and hope the void she left will disappear. But it doesn’t. I disassemble the airbrush machine, place the parts on the ultrasonic cleaner, and scrub the counter. After I sterilize all surfaces, I rub my eyes and debate what to do next, when the cell inside my pocket vibrates. I fish the phone from my jeans. “Hello.”

“James, this is Lauren Smith, the PA for Jason Brown. Um, we had an incident, and the tattoo you did last night was damaged. We need you to repair it.” She sounds apologetic.

“When?” I inquire sulky, remembering the actor’s unnerving demeanor. He acted like a jerk during the two hours I worked on his tat.

“Um, right after you’re finished with Portia’s,” she says.

“Well, she was early. I just finished hers, so send him in.”

“Well, we hoped, that you would consider coming to the set.” She pauses. “We are delaying filming enough as it is.”

I glance at my watch, and exhale. “Give me your address, I’ll be right over.”

Fresh air greets me as I step outside the tattoo shop. Well, as fresh as Manhattan can produce. I hail a cab. Though I am early, I head to the filming location.

My sitter Stefan, aka personal assistant/manager/spokesperson/friend, is going to throw a fit. He is a control-freak ass, who hates when I don’t tell him my whereabouts, or when I don’t use security at a filming location. Worst of all, he hates when I hop in a taxi. He has a profound dislike for cabs.

Stefan says I am too unpredictable for my own good. I disagree. I am predictably inconsistent and
that
I cannot change.

I stare mindlessly out the window, and inhale. The fading scent of Will lingers on my skin, makes my head swoon, and my heart rate elevate to an unhealthy level.

My mind goes automatically to his surprising embrace. Slowly, I open my curled fingers and stare at the business card he gave me. Disappointment crushes me at the fact that he never gave me his cell number.

I remember the electricity pounding between us during the kiss we exchanged. Raw desire permeated every touch. My lips turn into a cynical smile. Life can throw a mean curveball. I think of all the crazy, marvelous sex I have had. Suddenly, they are all inane compared to the heady passion running through my body this morning. My body prickles, craving more. Damn it, I need to forget that kiss. I need to erase from my memory his scalding heat right before his hungry lips consumed mine.

My mind returns to the memory of him answering the phone. I remember the happiness in his voice when he spoke to his wife. Right now, I passionately hate and envy this woman.

I seldom do anything to tarnish my spoiled-brat reputation, but contrary to what people choose to believe about me, I am not demanding. I never had to be, I am one of those people who never lacked for anything. My parents never denied any of my requests. Yes, I was one of those teenagers who received a $1.25 million car for her sixteenth birthday.

Mom, in spite of all her rampant drug use, managed to become one of the highest paid actresses of all times. She claims that being high enhances her performance. Whatever floats your boat is what I say.

Dad, what can I say about the man that
The New Yorker
or
Forbes Magazine
hasn’t already said? Not that I read that crap anyway. All right, I read it, but only when I have PMS and become emotional and fuzzy. In all honesty, I would rather have a big bowl of ice cream, but it would go straight to my hips and look unflattering on the big screen. So instead, I look him up and, no, I don’t care to be judged or analyzed for doing so.

Against my conscious effort to forget those brooding eyes, a spiral of images of Will floods my mind. Will is going to be an awesome father. The man who talks to his wife the way he did—and who paints her picture, capturing her soul through her eyes—is certainly a great man. Shit. Shit. Shit. Can I go back to my old self now?

For a reason beyond my understanding, the minutes I observed Will talking to his wife gave me a glimpse of the common life with a white picket fence. The unnerving man did awaken elusive thoughts that I never dwelled on before. Happily ever after is a crappy false advertisement that attempts to sell a world of fantasy. After all, we know a money-back guarantee does not apply to real-life shit.

By not parenting me, my parents taught me valuable lessons. I do not think about Mom and Dad a whole lot. Their disregard has not caused me to have pity parties. I have come to terms with them.

When I was little, I hated the taste of peanut butter. Yet Niki, my best friend, adored it and had it for lunch every day. I watched and salivated as she layered the smooth paste and purple jam on soft white bread. She munched it with gusto. I wanted to like it so much, that many times I attempted to eat it and gagged at each bite. The point being, no matter how much we try, sometimes it is impossible to like certain things or people. My parents try to like me. Really, they do. Though they do not gag when they are with me, they don’t enjoy it either.

My parents’ brief marriage ended in divorce before I was a year old. Mom claims her marriage was momentary insanity. Shortly after the divorce, Mom and I moved to LA where I was raised between prep schools and Spanish nannies.

My fancily decorated room, overlooking Central Park, is the only evidence of me in my father’s life. Priscilla, my stepmom, makes a point of going to The Hamptons every time I am in Manhattan. She tolerated me up to the day their first daughter was born. Since then, she no longer welcomes me into their lives, eventually compelling me away from the family. I cannot blame her. I did once, but now I can see it through her eyes. As my three half sisters grew, they looked up to me. Bizarre, but true. There was no way in hell, my stepmother would allow her precious perfect daughters to hang out with a twelve-year-old girl who could name all the recreational drugs, but couldn’t name all her sex partners.

I am not a bad person, seriously. I’m just too shallow to be a good one. I do not loathe myself. However, I am not my biggest fan either. I am a worthless being, leading a meaningless existence. My life is senseless, nothing, a shitload of nada.

I apply a layer of bubble gum lip-gloss and slide on my oversized Prada shades. I pay for the ride and step out, wearing my plastic smile that is worth millions. Paparazzi flash their cameras momentarily blinding me, which I don’t mind. I can do this with my eyes shut.

“Whew, there you are. How did you get here?” Stefan shouts, the moment I step into the film studio.

“Good morning to you, too.” I offer.

“Oh, never mind, I rather not know. The driver went for you this morning. You should try to answer your cell, you know. You got me worried.”

“Jeez, sorry.” I mean it. The usual dark circles under his eyes seem accentuated.

“I scheduled two interviews for you on Thursday. Is noon OK?” He magically produces my Starbucks vanilla latte, grande size.

“Did I ever worship at your feet?” I sip from the drink, perfection in its pure form.

“Nonsense, the Gucci bag and sunglasses you gave me will suffice. Marina says thank you, by the way.” He beams his crooked smile and his eyes crinkle at the corners.

I guess he has forgiven me. I shrug. “No biggie, I have only one lifetime to wear all the junk people send me.”

“Honey, a thousand dollar sunglasses do not
necessarily
count as junk.” He ferociously types on his smartphone. “How is the tattoo, worth the trouble? I hear the man is a genius when it comes to drawing. You know he did not budge for any of our request, right. His way or the highway. I can’t wait to see it.” He hands me the script, the fourth copy this week. Seriously? He must think I am still seventeen.

“The tattoo is glorious. No other word will do it justice.”

“Did you read about yourself today? Don’t mind me, that’s my job. Here is a copy of the possible questions I approved for Thursday.” He returns to typing.

God, the man can multitask. It gets me dizzy.

“The interviewer wants to know your thoughts about the Oscars, you know, since rumor has you as a contender.” He grins and takes a big gulp of air.

“Gosh, I just started filming and rumors are already that I’ll win and lose, and that I deserve it
and
I’m unworthy. Who gives a crap about what they say?” I focus on the latte.

“You are early, but that’s not unusual. Do you want to relax in your trailer or are you ready for makeup?” He looks at me.

“Why delay the fun, let’s get started.” I roll my eyes.

“Uh-oh, you rolled your eyes. What happened?” He sees through me, God, I should get rid of him. I was paired with Stefan as my PA during my first main role. I was still a teenager and he had just gotten married to Marina. In a sense, we’re a match made in heaven. It’s almost ten years later and he still works for me. Who am I kidding? The guy owns me. I would do anything for him, and he knows it. The bastard.

“Nothing, just tired, woke up too early.”

“Portia, you are not the eye-rolling type. Do you need me to punch someone?” He asks protectively.

I am frustrated, disappointed, my skin tingles with wanton desire, and I miss people who don’t give a damn about me.

“I’m fine, just in need of a good night out to evict some demons, that’s all.”

He shovels the cell in his pocket. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

“Nah, not worth it.” I give a halfhearted smile.

“Just come to me if you need anything, OK.”

I smile and, this time, it is genuine. Regardless of our age and gender differences, Stefan is one of my few friends.

“Thanks, Stefan, I know that.”

I scramble to the makeup chair. “Good morning, Lisa, feeling better today?”

“Yeah, I think I had food poisoning, but I’m all better.” Her small hands align the makeup brushes on a tray next to me. The sight makes my mind travel where it shouldn’t. Damn tattoo artist.

“Good to have you back. The substitute was alright, but I missed your superb touch and good vibe.” I open my bag and fish for my cell.

Six missed calls, all from Stefan, and three text messages.

I sit and reply to the messages from Niki.

Me:
What’s up?

Niki:
Finally! About time, you answer your damn messages.

Me:
Sorry, babe, busy morning in paradise.

Niki:
Uh-oh, r u upset?

Me:
Tell you later. When will you be here?

Niki:
Eight. Where are we going?

Me:
Nowhere, everywhere. That’s the plan, babe.

Niki:
Good enough for me.

Me:
Tarry called me. He leaves London tomorrow.

Niki:
Can’t believe. The three of us in NYC for a night. Fantastic!

Me:
Just like old times.

Niki:
Can’t wait. Gotta go, my plane is about to take off. Love you.

Me:
See ya. Love you back.

Closing my eyes, I lean back on the makeup chair. “Do your magic, Lisa.”

Again, when I close my eyes, the passion of when we kissed floods my mind and it bothers the hell out of me. So, I decide to stop thinking about having sex with Will and give my overactive hormones a chill pill. To hell with him and to hell with his commitment to monogamy! I won’t encourage a dedicated husband to stray. Deep down, I know that is debatable bullshit. I would not blink before giving into the crazy fantasies I had of the last few hours. I don’t mean to insult or hurt people, but when I do, I hope they cope with it. I just happen to love this little thing called sex.

I hear a husky voice that can only belong to one person: Will. Oh, well, I must be imagining things. Rejection, besides being a novelty, also made me delirious.

“Wow, who is that hottie? A part of the cast?” Lisa asks.

“Huh, who?” I sit up and my eyes fly open.

Following Jason’s assistant, Will glances my way and nods. He continues and dodges camera and light stands, until Lauren points him to Jason’s makeup chair.

My heart thumps so hard inside my chest that I worry. What is wrong with me? I have never been the blushing type.