Hollywood Scandals (36 page)

A move that caused a groan of disgust to bubble up in my throat. I had to ditch my own car fast if I wanted to get a shot of him going in, and the valet expense was not an option Felix would let me indulge in.

I made a hard left, illegally crossing three lanes of traffic, and shot into a gas station, pulling up beside the bathrooms where a homeless guy was taking a leak. Outside. On the door.

Welcome to Hollywood.

I ignored him, instead grabbing my camera and locking the doors behind me as I dodged a taxi and two Porsches crossing the street.

Miraculously, Trace was still outside the club by the time I reached the door. He was loitering, saying hello to his pals, posing for the camera, all while trying to look natural like he wasn’t posing. It was a skill all young Hollywood perfected their first month in the spotlight, and Trace was a master.

Just beyond the bounds of the velvet rope stood a dozen paparazzi who had gotten there before me, cameras all flashing at the same time, popping off shot after shot, some even daring to come precariously close to the actor’s perfectly chiseled face.

To Trace’s credit, he neither preened annoyingly a la the Kardashians, nor got pseudo-Russell Crow pissed. If a guy could be alpha manly and graceful all at the same time, Trace was it.

I vied for position among the other photo hounds, my camera to my eye. Unfortunately, it appeared as if everyone else’s editors gave them lager expense accounts than mine, though, as all the good spots had already been taken by those who valeted. Meaning I was stuck at the back of the pack of ravenous wolves all shouting, “Trace, over here! Look over here!”

Which, of course, he was veteran enough to know to ignore. Instead he made sure his “good” side was to the crowd, his nonchalant air betraying nothing of the awareness that he was being watched by dozens of eyes, popping off dozens of shots that would likely be seen by star gazers in dozens of countries by morning.

I caught a couple shots of his elbow, but with the jostling and my craptastic position it was hard to see anything of substance.

“
Finally caught up with us, huh, Cammy?” Mike said, blocking my view with his Shamu-esque figure.

“
Shove it, Mikey.” I know, lame. But, as I said, I’m not the best at coming up with clever repartee on the spot. Besides, even if I had it would have been lost on Mike. Mike had the I.Q of a donut. Instead, I held my breath, ignoring his deodorant-defying stench as I jockeyed for position beside him.

“
I’ll shove it to you all night long, baby,” he replied, giving me another kissy face.

Ew.

“
In your wet dreams.” I stood on tip-toe, just grabbing a shot of the top of Trace’s head as he shook hands with the bouncer.

“
Trace!” Eddie shouted, shoving a red haired guy with a camera around his neck out of his way. “Trace, you sample any of Jamie Lee’s goods before the honeymoon, man?”

“
Real classy, Eddie,” I muttered.

But if he heard it, Trace was gentleman enough to ignore the comment altogether. Instead, he turned and gave the crowd one more I’m-not-posing-I’m-just-naturally-perfect smile, then slipped past the velvet rope into the club.

A collective groan went up from the crowd assembled outside. Myself included. A shot of Trace’s elbow was hardly the kind of stuff Felix put on the front page.

“
And that’s all she wrote,” Mikey said, dropping his camera to his side.

“
Hey, Cammy girl,” Eddie said. “Sorry you didn’t get a clear shot.” He snickered. Clearly not sorry at all.

“
Better luck next time,” Mikey said, his features echoing his twin’s mocking grin.

“
Say, if you want, we could let you stand in front of us when he comes out,” Eddie offered. Then followed it with a loud, “Not!” He giggled like a twelve-year-old at his joke.

“
Real mature,” I mumbled.

Only I hated to admit that unless the twins took off, they had a point. No way was I going to be able to get a clear shot of Trace. The front of the club was packed with paparazzi that had all somehow managed to convince
their
editors that valet was a necessary expense. Either that or they were chancing the parking tickets in the red zones. Not something I could do unless I wanted to see my Jeep towed. I already had seven outstanding fines. Occupational hazard.

It was clear if I wanted to get any shot of Trace worth printing in tomorrow’s edition, I needed a new angle.

I left the gruesome twosome arguing over whether they thought Jamie Lee liked it on top or on bottom (seriously, what were they, fifteen?), and decided to case the rest of the building. If I was lucky, there was a window or balcony that lead to the VIP area. Any place I could get a glimpse of Trace inside.

I rounded the corner of the building, coming into an alleyway housing a pair of green Dumpsters, a mound of empty Bicardi boxes, and one emaciated cat. I ignored the hissing from the cat, pressing around to the back of the club. The building jutted up against a chain-link fence and parking lot beyond. No windows. No balconies.

Shit.

At the rear of the building stood one metal door with a rectangular window atop it, the glass painted out black so that no one uncool enough to be denied entry could spy on the ultra-cool happenings inside the club. It was also pretty good paparazzi repellent, I decided staring up at it. I squinted, trained my lens on it. Couldn’t see a damned thing.

Okay, I had three options. One - I could go back around to the front and pray for an opening between the blob brothers big enough to fit my Nikon and get a semi-decent shot of Trace. Two - I could concede defeat and call it a night, hoping for a better photo op tomorrow. Or three - I could set up camp here on the off chance that Trace decided to sneak out the back way. I did an einie meenie miney moe. But really, it was no contest. Going back out front meant enduring inane chatter form Mike and Eddie for possibly hours on end. Not my first choice. And going home meant a lecture from Felix in the morning. Again, not high on my list. So, while the alleyway wasn’t the prettiest of places that I’ve spent an evening, waiting for the back door to open finally won out. What can I say? I’m a girl who believes in long shots.

After surveying the alley for a good place to hunker down, I settled on a wooden staircase snaking up the side of the building next door. It was dark, out of the way, and afforded me a place to sit down. Perfect.

I climbed up to the second-floor balcony, hiding in the shadows behind a billboard advertising the latest season of
Heroes
on DVD, and found myself a clean(ish) corner with a clear shot of the back door and sat down on the wooden planks to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I waited so long my foot fell asleep. I counted the number of stairs on this side of the building fifteen times. I ran through the names of all fifty states, all forty-four presidents, and all seven dwarves. I made a mental grocery list, composed a thank-you letter to my grandmother for the fifteen-dollar birthday check she sent last month, and made up one dirty limerick involving Mike, Eddie, a goat and a bag of ho-hos.

Two hours later, the only action I’d seen was a delivery truck pulling into the alley by the dumpsters. I was about to give up and call my night a bust, when the back door of the club finally opened.

I rocked forward on my toes, put my camera to my eye, and held my breath as the door pushed open…

…
to reveal a waitress in a tiny cocktail dress lighting a joint beneath the billboard.

Swell.

I leaned back again. Clearly, my gamble wasn’t paying off tonight. I waited until Smoky was done, crushing the butt beneath her two-inch heels and disappearing back into the club, before standing up and stamping some feeling back into my right foot. I was just working out the pins and needles before descending the stairs, when I heard the back door swing open again. I was about to chalk it up to another smoke break, when a familiar head of golden blond hair emerged.

Trace.

My breath caught in my throat, and I did a mental “in your face” to the
Entertainment Daily
boys. I silently lifted my camera lens to my eye. I popped off three shots of Trace walking into the alleyway and stretching his arms above his head. He leaned leaning against the side of the building, his usually perfect posture slouching. He tilted his head back against the stuccoed wall and closed his eyes.

Despite my journalist instincts telling me that a full body shot was what readers wanted to see, I zoomed in close on his face. I could see faint lines surrounding his eyes – evidence of fatigue that was usually carefully airbrushed away. His jaw was slack in the dark, his features blissfully unaware of being watched. A rarity. For a brief moment, he wasn’t a movie star, just some guy trying to get a moment’s peace in the whirlwind life of his own creation.

His long lashes made dark shadows on his cheeks, giving him a boyish look that made me wonder what Trace had been like before he became “the Trace Brody.” Rumor had it he’d grown up in a small town in the Midwest somewhere. I wondered if he didn’t secretly miss small-town life once in a while.

A sound down the alleyway broke into his respite, and his eyes popped open, his posture suddenly stiffening into a pose again.

I followed his gaze to the delivery truck parked at the mouth of the alleyway. Two guys emerged, both in nondescript gray coveralls. They were both about average height, one with jet black hair slicked back from his forehead, the other wearing a crew cut. Crew Cut was beefier looking, like he’d spent a fair amount of time either in a boxing ring. Or prison gym, if the litany of tattoos on his arms were any indication. The other guy reminded me a ferret, all slim and slinky in a way that would make me wary of touching him.

Ferret stuck his hands in his pockets, coming around the front of the truck and looking over both shoulders as if scanning the alleyway for other inhabitants. The cat stuck his head out from behind the Dumpster, but luckily, I had this invisible thing down to a science. Ferret looked convinced they were alone.

At first I wasn’t sure the two guys even saw Trace leaning back in the shadows. But as they passed the back door to the club it became clear they weren’t here on a beer run. The movie star was their real target.

I could see the actor’s “on” face sliding effortlessly into place, more of a reflex than a conscious effort at this point. I put my lens to my eye, popping off shots as the delivery men approached, envisioning the caption for tomorrows pics as:
Trace signs autographs in alley – what a guy!

Only, as I watched the two guys approach him, I had to rethink that caption. The skinny guy pulled his hand out of his pocket, but it didn’t emerge with a Sharpie for Trace to sign his John Hancock with.

It emerged with a gun.

I sucked in a breath, my body freezing in place. I willed myself to remain silent and inconspicuous on my perch as the guy pointed the gun straight at Trace.

Holy shit. What was going on here?

Was I witnessing a mugging? Instinctively I looked left, then right for help. Only the emaciated cat stared back at me.

So I did the only other thing I could think of. I kept shooting, keeping the telephoto lens to my eye and popping off shot after shot in the dark.

It took Trace a second longer than me to see the gun, but when he did, his reaction was much the same as mine. I saw his eyes go wide, his shoulders lock up, his gaze shoot from side to side instinctively looking for an escape route.

But the two guys had any chance of escape blocked off, coming at him from both angles, their truck blocking the alleyway.

They advanced on him, the skinny guy moving in gun-first. Trace put both hands up in a surrender motion, backing up until he was square against the wall again. He said something to them, his lips moving rapidly.

After years of watching people through a telephoto lens, I was beginning to learn the fine art of lip reading. I squinted my eyes and tried to follow along. I’m pretty sure Trace said, “My chicken is under the bus.”

Okay, so I hadn’t perfected my skill yet.

But whatever Trace really said, it didn’t seem to appease the guys any. The big guy moved in closer, saying something. Which, even though it looked a lot like, “Your mother ate the washing machine,” I’m pretty sure it wasn’t. Trace shook his head side to side in the negative to whatever Crew Cut had asked. Only that didn’t seem to be the answer they were looking for as Ferret waved his gun in Trace’s direction in response.

Trace threw his hands up higher, a frown creasing his forehead as he let out a rapid stream of words, again shaking his head. Ferret stepped forward, shoving the gun into Trace’s ribs. Painfully, if the wince between the actor’s eyebrows was any indication. He held his hands up higher, his gaze pinging between the two men in what, even at this distance, was so clearly marked with fear that I could almost smell it.

Crew Cut leaned forward once more. All I could see was the back of his head, but I could tell that whatever he was saying wasn’t pleasant as the color drained from Trace’s face. Again, he shook his head, protesting, but whatever he was saying, the two men weren’t buying it. The big guy grabbed Trace by the arm and shoved him toward the delivery truck. Considering guy number two still had a gun on him, Trace didn’t have much choice but to stumble along.