Hollywood Hit (9 page)

Lydia looked past the clever topiaries and hedges in Cici’s backyard to the slim line of blue Pacific in the distance.

“The press will eat you alive on this.” Lydia’s gaze darted back to Cici. “They’re already chewing you and Nikki to bits over Jeb’s death.”

“I’ve survived worse.” Cici rolled to her side and sat up cross-legged on her mat. She reached for her water bottle and took a long swig.

“Cici,” Lydia said, her voice softer her tone warmer, “it’s not
you
I’m worried about.”

 “What?” Confusion laced Cici’s voice. She swiped sweat from her cheeks. She didn’t understand their hesitation.

“I think what Lydia is concerned about”—Jessica glanced from Cici to Lydia—“what we are both concerned about, is Nikki.”

Cici shook her head and a smile gripped her face. “Are you kidding? This is a huge opportunity, and it’s all because Nikki has a brilliant eye for material.” Cici pushed herself to her feet and walked to the glass-top table where Jessica and Lydia both sat.

“You’re throwing her in the deep end,” Lydia said.

“I’ll be there.” Cici tapped her breastbone. “Plus”—she pointed toward Lydia—“you’ll be there too.”

“This is Nikki’s project, Cici. You know I love you, you know I would do anything for you”—her gaze grew sharp—“and I nearly have, but Nikki is a twenty-two-year-old girl who lost her mother, moved halfway across the country, and is now tangentially involved in a Hollywood homicide.” Lydia lowered her hand to her lap and deepened her tone. “Not to mention the trauma from her adolescence.”

Cici’s eyes narrowed with the mention of the unmentionable. Most people cowered before stars. Kowtowed, bent over backward to satisfy their every whim. Lydia didn’t. She’d been raised in the Industry. Cici was her dear friend, and Lydia wasn’t about to surrender her role as one of the few people in Cici’s life who actually confronted her with hard, difficult facts.

“I don’t want to discuss that,” Cici said.

“I know you don’t. But the press will—”

“Those court files were sealed.”

“Have you ever known a mess like that to remain private?” Lydia tilted her head to the side. “There are no secrets in this town. There are merely unspoken agreements on what not to disclose. What happened to Nikki when she was a teenager could all come out.”

Cici’s took a sharp, short breath. She might be self-involved, but she did love. She loved those closest to her.

“We’ve taken precautions… Ted has taken precautions.” Cici’s eyes lingered on Lydia. “I won’t be held hostage by Nikki’s past, and I won’t let her be held hostage either.”

Ted was formidable. He managed to dodge and weave through the gauntlet of secrets and lies—some his, some Cici’s. Lydia hoped he could pull off the same trick for Nikki.

Cici folded her hands onto the table. “This film, the ability to produce a great piece of material with JP Anderson, would be any young producer’s dream. I want to make it a reality for Nikki.”

“This is a distraction." Jessica picked up the most recent copy of
Us Weekly
that lay on the table. This one had both a picture of Adam and Nikki as well as the grainy photo of Nikki and Cici leaving Jeb’s house on the night of his murder.

“Fuck ’em,” Cici said and swigged from her water bottle again. “I’m tired of the compromises. I’ve spent a lifetime being careful with my image. I’ve covered things and run from things and played so much pretend that sometimes I’m not certain anymore who I am.” She pinned both her friends with her gaze. “I’m making this film, and I know you and you”—she pointed a finger at each of her friends—“will make it with me.”

A hard, thick feeling settled in Lydia’s chest. A resignation to the events yet to come, gift wrapped in years of loyal friendship. She wouldn’t abandon Cici.

And Jessica?

Lydia ran her gaze over Jessica’s auburn hair and Ferragamo sunglasses. She was cool and composed even with the knowledge that Cici, on set with Nikki, would be an uphill slog. Nikki wanted independence while the Cici wanted to create a family.

“She doesn’t want my help.” Cici’s voice held ice tips mixed with soft pain. “But she’s found something real, something valuable. It would be a waste of good material, a waste of an opportunity, not to make this film. A horrible waste—not only for me, but for her too.” Cici settled her palms onto the tabletop. “Look, it’s true, this is a big opportunity for me—a huge role that I desperately want—but it is also an opportunity to give Nikki what she wants and what she needs. She wouldn’t take my help before, but now it’s business. This is an opportunity to make sure she learns how to do it right. With me in the film and Lydia producing the film—”

“How many times do I have to say this? I am not a producer on this film.” Lydia flicked her gaze from Jessica to Cici.

“If Cici wants to star in
Boundless Bound
," Jessica said, "then Worldwide will pick up the project contingent on Bikram accepting you as a producer on the project which means—”

“I am producing it.” Lydia sighed.

Both Cici and Jessica smiled.

“With you producing alongside Nikki, and me in the film, and Mike as the studio exec, and Jessica playing backup for anything we need, I
know
we can give Nikki exactly what I wanted to give her when she got to LA,” Cici said.

 “And you might get a nice piece of hardware as a bonus,” Lydia said. The left corner of her mouth hitched upward. There wasn’t room for complete selflessness in the Hollywood game.

“Indeed, I might,” Cici said.

“I guess we’re making this film,” Lydia said. She pulled the edge of the tabloid and turned the copy of
Us Weekly
toward her. “Poor Nikki.” Lydia shook her head. “That girl has no idea the freight train that is about to hit her.”

The drive through Malibu Canyon with its rolling hills, tight turns, and deep ravines was beautiful, but it was kicking Christina’s ass. Today was the third time in two weeks she’d driven to Clarity, high in the hills of Malibu, to see Bradford.

No friends or family visited. The revelation that Bradford didn’t have anyone else to check on his progress or to care about his well-being cut a hole through Christina. His aloneness sealed her close to him and fastened her to his recovery. Christina turned into the private drive and pulled past the guard booth and into a parking space. She’d brought lattes and cigarettes—the two things for which Bradford always asked when she inquired if he needed anything from the outside world.

The Clarity rehab facility was plush. Sunlight streamed through two-story paned windows and cast bright squares onto the terra-cotta stone floor. The downstairs housed a library, a sitting area, therapy rooms, and giant nooks where a patient might curl up and read or journal. The Clarity vibe rebelled against any institutional appearance of rehab and instead “catered to the overstimulated, overstressed creative artist who might find the deeply tarnished bit of their true self that had survived their addiction.” The entire facility could pass for a luxury spa and not the place addicts came to get clean.

Christina walked out onto the lanai. Giant palm trees brushed the blue sky and the ocean glimmered in the distance. Adam sat on a crimson-colored couch near the pool with an overlook of the Pacific. He stood and kissed both her cheeks. A scruff of a beard decorated his cheeks and his smile was fuller today. He’d regained some of the weight he’d lost. His cheekbones were no longer skeletal protrusions nor was his skin the gray pallor of the walking dead. He looked healthier. Happier. Stronger.

“Thanks for coming,” Bradford said. “I know it’s a long drive.”

Christina tucked her skirt beneath her and sat across from Bradford. She’d visited him twice since dropping him off. The first visit he’d been quiet and remote. It was as though the act of being present at Clarity, the admission itself, had sucked every bit of energy from him. His expression had been glazed. They hadn’t talked.  They had sat side by side, staring at the expanse of the ocean. She’d left and once in her car, she’d fallen into tears, certain the Bradford she’d once known—the ebullient, funny, charismatic man—was dead and gone forever.

The second visit he’d been agitated and paced like a caged cat. He never sat and again barely spoke except to express frightful thoughts about death and addiction that burned like a hot fire through his mind. His eyes had seared into her. Eyes filled with anger that caused a distortion to his face. That day she feared he’d ask her to take him away from rehab, away from this place. She’d left quickly. She’d ducked her head and exited, not wanting to absorb the fury that seemed to course through him.

Today, looking at Bradford, she was thankful that he hadn’t asked to leave. The reawakening of the jovial Bradford that she remembered peeked out from behind the clouds of his addiction.

A lightness filtered through her chest. A buoyancy that lifted her heart and lengthened her breath as her eyes lingered on Bradford’s sure smile. Today she was hopeful he could reclaim the happiness that flowed through the man she remembered.

“You’ve been better than a good friend,” Bradford said. He took the latte from her and a smile teased his lips. “I suspect you have loads of questions that you’d like answered but were afraid to ask.”

Heat flooded Christina’s neck and she wished the sunglasses that sat atop her head now covered her eyes. Of course she had questions. Of course she wondered what had happened. Of course she wanted to know when the trajectory of Bradford’s life had taken the dangerous turn. Did he see it coming? Did he try to avoid the crash? Did he know? But this was his life. The way he’d gone to rehab indicated how private this was to him.

Christina shook her head and reached for her coffee. “I…” She looked at Bradford and met his gaze. “Of course I want to know, but this is your business, and I guess I thought that whenever you wanted to talk about it, you would.”

Bradford leaned back into the cushions. His gaze darted upward and raked against the overhang that provided shade and shelter. He closed his eyes.

“How did I fuck up so badly when it came to you?”

He opened his eyes and focused his bright blue gaze on her. His ragged expression pulled at Christina’s heart. The corners of his lips pulled down and lines of remorse rimmed the edges of his eyes. “You were the best thing that could have ever happened to me, and I completely fucked it up.”

“You didn’t fuck it up; as I remember, you fucked Bree Ellison.” Christina took a sip of her latte.

“Ouch,” Bradford said. His hand clasped the spot over her heart. He smiled but his eyebrows crinkled tighter. “I did indeed.” His smile, the bit of joviality, the hint of good-natured teasing that had passed from her to him was a sign of Bradford’s recovery which she savored.

Bradford reached for the pack of cigarettes on the table between them. A habit, Christina now knew, that was one of his constant companions.

“I’m sorry,” Christina said. “I shouldn’t have brought that up. It was forever ago and we were kids. I mean, you were the hottest star in town at the time. It was crazy for me to think…” Christina let her words drift off. It had been crazy for her to believe that there could be a relationship between them. That Bradford, a huge male star in his twenties, could be monogamous. But she’d hoped and she’d fallen and she’d wanted him in a way that she’d wanted no man since.

“Don’t be sorry,” Bradford said. “I deserve it. I’m afraid I deserve much more than that.”

His voice was thick and a memory weighted his brow. He dragged on his cigarette and exhaled. His gaze trailed after the smoke as it drifted upward into the sky. “It’s drugs.” His eyes returned to hers. “Heroin.”

Her heart shattered. Her eyes skimmed across his bare arms.

“I’m smarter than that.” He scrubbed his left hand, the cigarette held between two fingers, across his right arm.

A giant lock clamped in her throat, and she wanted to scream at him and yell at him and shake him until his teeth rattled from his head and clattered across the slate lanai. Silence hung between them. She didn’t know what to say or how to say it. His half-crooked grin ate up his face.

“I couldn’t get myself here on my own,” he said. “I knew I needed to come. I knew I was headed to a bad place. This irreversible place from which I wouldn’t return. I could feel the slide, but that day, when I asked you…” Bradford’s eyes drifted past Christina and he squinted. He caught her in his sights again. “Thank you.”

Christina nodded. The lump in her throat, the hard tears that pressed against the backs of her eyes, caused words to lodge in her throat. Words she couldn’t break free.

There was a path that each person walked, and you could shout to them, but somehow the wind that whistled through their ears on their own path always seemed to drown out the words of advice and wisdom. The best you could do when your paths met was reach out and give them your hand.

Hacking an iPhone took little talent. With the access provided by her billionaire step-uncle, Ted Robinoff, there was little about Nikki Solange’s life that Rush didn’t know.

He leaned back into the teal-blue, tufted-leather booth at Soho House. He knew where Nikki and her roommate, Christina, would be today at one p.m. He knew at what table the hostess would seat them. He knew that Nikki would sit within his sight line. A C-note into the palm of the doe-eyed hostess ensured that Nikki would be placed in the exact seat that Rush wanted. Rush also knew from her physical response at the club Dresden1 that a memory of him was seared into Nikki's brain. A permanent memory that Rush had implanted and that Nikki didn’t yet realize she harbored in her neurons. A memory of heat and sexuality. A memory that Rush could now, with one look into her eyes, trigger a response in Nikki.

And Nikki’s eyes, that night, had triggered a response within Rush. She had beautiful eyes. The luminescent blue had punctured the darkness of the nightclub. But it wasn't only the color of her eyes that had pierced Rush through the darkness. Her eyes conveyed sincerity laced with uncertainty. Uncertainty, Rush knew from his research, was a part of the girl’s character. A part that she tried desperately to hide. She utilized the typical tools—bravado and nonchalance mixed with insolence. All of the emotions feigned in a veiled attempt to appear confident in her brave new Hollywood world. Rush speculated that the majority of the time Nikki felt as if her new Los Angeles existence spun like an out-of-control top, weaving and rolling and dangerously dipping. Nikki had more to fear than she let on to her roommate, perhaps even to herself. Rush and Ted might be the only two people, aside from Nikki, who truly understood the badness that could charge from her past and harm her.