Dollhouse (9 page)

Chapter Eighteen

Kamille

“K
amille, blow a kissy face!”

“Can you two stand closer?”

Kamille snuggled against Chase and smiled for the cameras. They were walking the red carpet at a new club downtown where they were attending a charity fashion show.

They had been dating for a whole month now, but this was only their second public appearance at an event. Chase preferred to go to one of their favorite little restaurants in West Hollywood or Beverly Hills, where the (well-tipped) maître d’s helped to shield them from paparazzi, or to stay in.

Mostly, Chase preferred to stay in. In bed. Which was just fine with Kamille. Lately, they had gotten into the habit of ordering in, and making love, and drinking lots of champagne, and making love, and watching old movies or sports games on his giant plasma screen, and making love. It was heaven.

Really, her life was so perfect now. She and Chase were blissfully happy together. The Lolita perfume ad was getting a lot of attention, and she had just started shooting the Flower Power jeans ad today.
Glamour
magazine had interviewed her as part of an article on up-and-coming new faces in Hollywood.

She had been mentioned in other magazines and in the blogs, too—some of it was positive, some of it was not so positive (did that blogger really have to call her fat just because she had curves?), but who was she to be picky? It was all good. Giles had told her that by this time next year, with hard work and luck, she could be right up there with Gisele and Heidi.

“Hey, Chase? Care to make a comment about what happened at Industry last night?” one of the cameramen called out suddenly.

Kamille felt Chase’s entire body go tense. She turned to him slightly and whispered, “Industry? What’s he talking about?”

“Let’s go inside.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you when we’re alone.
Let’s go
.”

Kamille had never heard his voice take on that cold, hard edge. It was all she could do to keep smiling as she blew a kiss at the line of reporters and cameramen and headed into the club, clutching Chase’s hand.

Inside, the fashion show was in full force. The rap artist Atomic was acting as MC as various models paraded down the catwalk, dressed in funky resort wear. Kamille recognized several other celebrities in the crowd: more pop stars, actors, other models. She would have enjoyed meeting them and also checking out the fashions, except that Chase was dragging her away from the main room, toward the bar. Something was definitely wrong.

At the bar, he ordered two drinks: a Scotch on the rocks for himself and a glass of white wine for her. Then he picked up the drinks and nudged Kamille into a dark, quiet corner, out of the other guests’ earshot.

He downed his Scotch in one gulp, some of it spilling on his beautiful blue Zegna suit. Kamille stared at him, alarmed. She had never seen him like this. “What is it, Chase? What’s going on?” she whispered.

“Fucking reporters,” Chase burst out. He lowered his voice. “Zoe, my publicist, called me about it this morning. Some tabloid sleazebag took a picture of me at Industry last night.”

Kamille felt her blood go cold. “What . . . picture? I thought you were out with your teammates.”

“I was. Thing is, we got a little drunk. You know, typical boys’ night. I had this breakfast thing at seven
A.M.
sharp, though, so I got up to leave.
Alone,
mind you. So I’m at the valet waiting for my car, and this girl comes out of nowhere. Next thing I knew, she’s got her hands all over me and she’s insisting I go back to her place with her. I tell her no, thanks, but she won’t back off. I think she was high on something. I finally had to say some pretty nasty stuff to her, and she got the message. But not before some asshole reporter takes a picture.”

“I don’t understand. How bad can it be? It’s just some random fan-girl attacking you, right? You must get that a lot.”

“Yeah, but the picture could be . . . open to misinterpretation.”

Misinterpretation?
“So you’ve seen it?”

“Zoe texted it to me. ’Sides, it’s on the fucking Internet now.”

This was all news to Kamille. She had been holed up at a shoot all day and hadn’t been online. And why was Chase swearing so much? It wasn’t like him. “Can I see it?” she said out loud.

“What?”

“The picture. Can I see it?”

Chase sighed. “Fine. You’re gonna see it eventually, anyway.”

He pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and scrolled around. After a moment he held up the screen for her to look. “Here. Satisfied?” he grumbled.

Kamille squinted to see in the dim light. She took the phone from him and enhanced the image.

The picture showed Chase with some petite blonde in a black minidress that revealed way more skin than not. Slore couture. Her arms were snaked around his neck, and her head was tipped up to his.

The thing was . . . he wasn’t exactly pushing her away. His arms were wrapped around her waist. And his head was bent down low, as if he was a millisecond away from kissing her.

The headline read:

CHASE HOOKS UP WITH FAN AT L.A. CLUB

(KAMILLE: “WE’RE THROUGH!”)

Kamille realized that her hand was shaking. In fact, she was shaking all over. “What the fuck, Chase?” she cried out. Now
she
was the one who was swearing.

“I told you, Kamille. Goddamned reporters, they make this shit up.”

“But, this picture! You’re practically making out with her!”

“You ever heard of Photoshopping? Jesus, I can’t believe you’re buying this.”

“Photoshopping?”

“Yeah. They use computers to manipulate pictures. Didn’t they do that to you and that Bill Boxer dude, what’s-his-name, Miles?”

“I know what Photoshopping is. And it’s Milo.”

“Yeah, Milo. The magazines were running stories about you guys for weeks, saying you were together. Was
that
the truth?”

“No.”

“So why are you taking their side now? After all the crap the tabloids have been saying about me for months. For years!”

“I’m not taking
anyone’s
side! God, why are you putting words into my mouth?”

“You said it, not me.”

Kamille balled up her fists, feeling
this
close to bursting into tears. But why was she so upset? Chase was right. The tabloids
had
made up that stuff about her and Milo. And she had always believed Chase when he said those stories about him, from before they were dating and even the recent ones, too, were garbage.

So why was she having doubts now? Was it because he was acting so . . . angry? And self-righteous? Like he had something to hide?

“I need another drink. You want one?” Chase started for the bar.

“No. I want to go home.”

“What? We just got here.”

“I want to go! The night’s ruined, and besides, I have a splitting headache,” Kamille snapped.

“Jeez, why are you mad at me? I didn’t
do
anything.”

“Whatever. I’m going home. If you want to stay, fine. I’m sure there are plenty of fan-girls here you can hook up with,” she said before she could stop herself.

“Yeah? Fuck you!”

“Fuck
you
!”

Kamille felt as though her head were going to explode. She threw her glass of wine in his face and stormed off. As she passed the bar, she saw two girls gaping at her.

“Ohmigod, did you see that?” one of them said.

The other one held up her cell. “I got a picture! That’s Chase Goodall and his new girlfriend. That model, Kathy something. I read about her in
Glamour.
I’m totally Tweeting this.”

“Totally!”

Kamille had to fight the impulse to grab the bitch’s cell out of her greedy little hand and smash it against the wall. Instead, she began running, and kept running, out of the club and past the red carpet, the line of paparazzi. The fucking paparazzi. She heard the cameras snapping away behind her.

“Kamille, how ’bout a comment on the picture?” one of them shouted.

“Are you and Chase breaking up?” another one added.

The November night had turned chilly. Shivering in her thin silk wrap, Kamille remembered suddenly that Chase had driven them to the party. She glanced around frantically and spotted a black Town Car parked halfway down the block, its engine idling. She hurried toward it, opened the back door, and slid in.

The driver whirled around. “Hey, what are you doing?”

“I’ll pay you two hundred dollars to drive me home,” Kamille said breathlessly. “It’s not far from here.”

“What? I’m supposed to wait for my client.”

“
Three
hundred. Just drive.
Please!
”

The driver sighed. Then he turned around and pulled into the street.

K
amille wasn’t sure what time it was when the doorbell rang. She glanced up at the alarm clock—was it midnight already? Where was Kass? Oh, right. She had mentioned that she was closing up at the restaurant tonight.

Kamille tried to prop herself up on her elbows and climb out of bed. Her head hurt. Everything hurt. And where did that half-empty bottle of vodka come from? Oh, yeah, she’d poured herself a drink (or maybe several drinks) after the nice driver dropped her off . . .

Staggering to her feet, she saw that she was still wearing her sapphire-blue Valentino dress, which she’d rented for the night. It was badly wrinkled, and there was a stain on the bodice from the wine she’d thrown at Chase.

“Shit,” she muttered. “Shit, shit, shit.”

The doorbell rang again. Kamille hobbled into the hallway. She had one Louis Vuitton satin mule on, one off. Had she left it somewhere, like Cinderella? She’d better find it, since the shoes, too, were rented. She was making good money these days, but not good enough to buy the major labels. Not yet.

“Who is it?” she called out.

“It’s me, Chase. Babe, I need to talk to you.”

Hot rage welled up in her chest. She never wanted to see Chase again, ever. “Go away!” she shouted.

“Please. I’m so sorry. Just let me talk to you for a minute, okay? One minute.”

Kamille hesitated. Then she unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door.

Chase was standing there, holding a massive bouquet of cream-colored roses. Their perfume filled the air between them, heavy and sweet. She glanced up at his face, at the tears trickling down his cheeks. Ohmigod, he was crying! She had never seen him cry.

“Chase!”

“Kamille, let me talk. I was so wrong to yell at you like that, at the club. I’ve been under a lot of pressure with the team. My pitching wasn’t a hundred percent this season. I want to make sure they renew my contract instead of trading me away. I want to stay in L.A., I want to stay with you.” He shook his head. “And this tabloid crap, it’s really been weighing on me. It’s like they’re trying to destroy my reputation, and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it. Zoe’s working on a counterstrategy, but she’s not a miracle worker, you know? I’m a good person, an honest person, I just wanna live my life and be the best ballplayer I can be. And, most important of all, I wanna be with you. Forever and ever. If I lost you over this, or over anything, I couldn’t go on living.”

Kamille melted. “Oh, Chase.”

“Kamille.” He rushed in and clasped her fiercely in his arms, crushing the roses between them.

She took them and buried her face in the petals. “Thank you for these,” she murmured.

“I’ll buy you a thousand roses, if they’ll make you happy. I love you, Kamille.”

“I love you, too. So much.”

He scooped her up and carried her to the bedroom, kissing her over and over, whispering her name. She nestled against him, wondering how she could have doubted him—doubted
them.
They were meant to be together. And no one was going to stand in their way from now on: not the press, not the fans, not anyone.

PART II

The Night That Changed Everything

Chapter Nineteen

Kass

K
ass hurried down South Vermont Avenue, periodically glancing at her watch. The sidewalks were bustling with students and couples on Saturday-night dates. Crap! She was
so
late for her dinner with Eduardo.

As if he didn’t have enough to be pissed about. The dinner had been her idea, so she could make it up to him for agreeing to go to San Diego with him last weekend and then canceling at the last minute. And in general playing hot and cold with him.

She wasn’t sure why he hadn’t told her to get lost, already. She hadn’t exactly been the greatest . . . well, whatever she was to him. Part friend, part almost-girlfriend? Anyway, she’d done a lot of soul-searching lately and decided (finally) that Kamille had been right when they’d had their recent heart-to-heart. It was time for the chastity belt to come off—and for the emotional walls to come down.

Her cell buzzed. It was a text from Eduardo: WHERE R U?

5 MIN, she typed back. SORRY, TRAFFIC!

Which was a lie. She was running behind schedule because it had taken her half an hour to decide what to wear for the evening. Which was not like her. But she really wanted their date (yes,
date
) to be special, and it had taken her a long time to find something that made her look sexy and not so . . .
flat.
Why did Kamille and Kyle get all the boobs in the family?

Plus . . . she’d had important errands to run, like getting the bottle of champagne, which was chilling in the refrigerator with a Post-it note saying “HANDS OFF!” in case Kamille and Ballboy were tempted to help themselves. She’d also bought condoms at Rite Aid, just in case. She’d been so nervous and embarrassed bringing it up to the counter, mixed in with a bunch of other items she didn’t even need, just to defuse the impact of the orange box with the words
TROJAN ECSTASY
spelled out so glaringly. The salesclerk had looked completely disinterested as he rang her up.

Kass turned the corner and spotted the restaurant across the street. As she headed for the crosswalk, she passed a newsstand.

Something caught her eye. It was the latest issue of
Dish
magazine, with a picture of Kamille and Chase on the cover looking tense and unhappy. The headline blared:

KAMILLE AND CHASE:

NOW WHO’S CHEATING ON WHOM?

“What the hell?” Kass said out loud.

She picked up the magazine. At the bottom of the cover was another, smaller picture, of Kamille hugging some guy.

Kass squinted. Was that Giles Sinclair? Her agent?

“Yeah, that’s hilarious,” Kass snorted, flipping through the pages. “These reporters are really scraping the bottom of the barrel.” This was obviously a “follow-up” to the “story” that ran last week, with the picture of Chase allegedly hooking up with some girl at a club. Kamille had told Kass all about it, and how she and Chase had had a huge fight about it afterward, then made up with the “hottest sex” they’d ever had (like Kass needed that detail).

Kass wondered, not for the first time, if Kamille’s relationship with Chase was entirely healthy.

“Are you paying for that?” the guy behind the counter snapped.

“What? Oh, sorry.” Kass reached into her purse and handed him a five-dollar bill.

On page 28, Kass found the story about Kamille’s alleged “torrid affair” with her “high-powered agent Giles Sinclair.” There was another, perfectly innocent-looking photo of Kamille and Giles at some event. This was too much.

Then Kass’s gaze fell on a bright red sidebar. She clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. It was a picture of her with the caption
Kamille’s dumpy older sis—or is it her bro?

In the picture, Kass was wearing her “ugly sweats,” the ones she usually threw on if she had to run a quick errand and everything else happened to be in the wash. They made her look even more flat-chested than she already was, and were definitely not flattering. Her long hair was back in a ponytail, but the angle of the shot made it appear as though she had a mannish crew cut. Her face, devoid of makeup, was contorted, as though she were trying to suppress a burp.

Kass tried to think. She remembered wearing the sweats on Wednesday when she had to drop off some dry cleaning. Had some paparazzi followed her there and taken pictures of her? How
dare
they? And how dare they imply that she looked like a
guy
?

Fighting back her rage, she took a deep breath and read the paragraph next to the photo. It said that Kass was twenty-one, a junior at USC, a part-time employee at her mother’s restaurant, and single. It went on to say that according to an “inside source,” she was a closet lesbian in a hush-hush relationship with a fellow USC student named April Jansen.

“What . . . the . . .
fuck
?” Kass yelled. Even if she
were
a lesbian, closet or otherwise, she would never, ever hook up with that pompous little bitch April, who was in her small-business-management study group.

The guy behind the counter stared at her nervously. “Uh, you want your change? Magazine’s only two ninety-five.”

“No!”

Kass ran to the intersection, just barely catching the
WALK
sign, and crossed the street to the restaurant. Eduardo was waiting for her at one of the outside tables. His beer glass was almost empty.

“You made it.” He stood up and kissed her on the cheek.

“You wouldn’t
believe
what just happened!”

“What’s wrong?”

She slapped the magazine on the table between them, practically knocking down the flickering votive candle and the tiny vase of pink sweetheart roses
. Oh, yeah.
She’d picked this restaurant because it was supposed to be romantic.

She stabbed her finger at the story about her. “
This!
I’m so
furious
! I think I’m gonna call a lawyer. Do you think I should call a lawyer?”

“Whoa, wait a sec. Sit down, Kass. Let me get you a drink.”

“I don’t
want
a drink, I want these people to burn in hell!”

“Kass. Please.” Eduardo sat down and read the sidebar quickly. Kass sat down across from him, drumming her fingers on the table, waiting for his reaction.

“Yeah, this is pretty idiotic,” he said after a moment. “But this is what tabloids do. I’d let it go if I were you.”

“But how can they invade my privacy like that? I’m not the celebrity in the family! Kamille’s the damned supermodel, with her famous baseball-player boyfriend and all that. It’s one thing for them to write trash about her, about the two of them. But I’m just a regular citizen! And they
lied
about me!”

Eduardo reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “You’re Kamille’s sister, and that’s enough. Look, I know this sucks. But don’t let these media scumbags get you down. Let’s just enjoy our evening, okay? I’ve missed you,” he added softly.

“Enjoy our evening? How
can
I?”

Eduardo smiled patiently. “You said you had a big surprise for me. What is it?”

A big surprise? Right. This was the night Kass was going to apologize to him for stringing him along. And take him back to her house and ply him with champagne and invite him into her bedroom, where that brand-new, bright orange box of Trojan Ecstasy condoms was waiting . . .

But she wasn’t in the mood anymore. She felt so ugly and unsexy. And pissed off.

“Look.” Kass yanked her hand away. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. This . . . this
thing
has given me the mother of all migraines. Not to mention the fact that I want to
kill
someone right now. Can we reschedule?”

Eduardo frowned. “Kass. You keep ‘rescheduling.’ I’m beginning to think you don’t really want to be with me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not that I was so sure to begin with. You’re like the queen of mixed signals, you know that?”

“I’m really not in the mood to psychoanalyze our relationship right now, okay?” Kass said irritably.

“Fine.”

“What does that mean, ‘fine’?”

Eduardo stood up and put some money on the table. “I hope you figure out what you want, Kass,” he said quietly.

With that, he was gone. Stunned, Kass stared after him as he headed down the sidewalk. “Eduardo! Wait!” she called out. But he didn’t hear her. Or if he did, he was pretending not to.

Had he just broken up with her? Not that they were together, as he had (sort of) pointed out. But still . . .

Kass slumped back in her chair, trying to sort out her jumbled thoughts. This evening, which had started out so well and so full of promise, had taken a nosedive into hell. She was supposed to be having a romantic dinner with Eduardo. Instead, she was all alone at their table for two with nothing but a crumpled-up, hateful, lie-filled magazine. A magazine that had just ruined her life.

But she couldn’t really blame the magazine, could she? Maybe she had overreacted . . . and then taken the whole thing out on poor Eduardo.

Kass buried her face in her hands and did something she never did.

She burst into tears.