Playing For Keeps (16 page)

“How did you learn about this Italian place?” I asked, once we were buckled in his car and pulling away from the UCLA campus.

Jimmy brought his fingers casually up to my cheek for a little caress and laughed. “Just like everyone else finds out about things. Online.”

I adjusted the sheer overlay on my skirt. “So it’s not busy or popular or…”

“Full of prying eyes?” Jimmy faced me for a moment, his smile softening with concern. “I want our time together to be
our
time. There will be lots of time to be barreled down by paparazzi in the future, I can promise you that.”

“Good.”

I meant the word to be more of an acknowledgement of what he said. An agreement that I, too, just wanted privacy when we were together. But there was so much more in my voice—fear, worry, relief—that it came out forced and loud in the car.

Jimmy picked up on it immediately, as though we were tuned into the same frequency. “Everything okay?”

I thought about telling him everything: about the letters and the article, about Bea struggling, about falling behind in my classes. It felt like every component of my life outside of Jimmy was a disaster. But what could he do about it? If I complained it was all too much, he might suggest cutting back on classes or even the band. He might even call everything off until the source of the letters was discovered. For a little while, at least. If I did that, all the sacrifices I’d made over the past weeks would have felt like they were in vain. There would never be a good time to juggle all the things on my plate, so I might as well do it now.

Local Jackson had said it was normal to get weird correspondence. That was just a byproduct of living in the public eye, even if I knew it was wrong and unfair.

So I kept my mouth shut on all of that and nodded my head.

“Everything’s perfect.”

He glanced at me a couple more times, the worry in his eyebrows slowly fading under the persistence of my smile, until finally, he sighed.

“I want all of this to be okay. And I want you to stay safe and be happy.” One last, hard look. “I really want that. It matters to me, your happiness. Okay?”

I nodded again. All the doubt and uncertainty fled to be replaced by a sweet warmth over my skin. “You know what makes me happy?” I looked at him from under my lashes, glad to be flirting with him again. To be lightening the mood.

His expression changed, too. He knew we were playing a game, once again.

“What makes you happy?”

I leaned over, my lips barely touching his ear, and whispered the things I loved most about the night on the roof and about the first night at his place. His hands, his music, his confidence. Teasing him, touching him, riding him. I finished with a tiny kiss on the bottom of his ear and watched as he swallowed slowly. I could tell that I affected him from the way his body tensed up and, the part that made me smile most, from the growing bulge in his pants.

“Maybe I should turn the car and head the other direction,” he said, pointing his chin toward the hills where his house was.

“But I’m hungry.” I sat back in my seat, satisfied with myself. “They say that the longer the foreplay lasts, the better the orgasm.”

“Woman, our foreplay started the moment I met you.” He pulled into a parking space, cut the engine, and faced me. “And it’s not let up a minute since.”

Game, set, match.

He won.

The Italian place—Mama Ligiorna’s—really was a secret, little spot. It was practically hidden on a narrow street, in between a brake repair shop and a florist. The windows were so dark that at first I thought it was closed, but then I caught the tiny flicker of a tealight behind a set of lace curtains.

Jimmy held the door open for me. The comforting smell of garlic and pasta enveloped us. A short, elderly man showed us to a table and took my coat.

“I like it in here.” I watched Jimmy pull one of the thin breadsticks the man brought over from its container and snap it. He handed me half. “It’s quiet. Dark.”

“And no cameras.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Thank the Lord.”

His forehead wrinkled again. He set his half of the breadstick on the table and picked up the menu. I did the same, perusing the single sheet until I decided on the grilled octopus. As soon as we set the menus down, the old man came and took our order. When he left again, Jimmy sipped his water, thoughtfully.

“Okay. Spill,” he said.

“Spill what?”

He folded his hands and leaned slightly closer to me. The old man brought our bottle of red wine, poured our glasses, and disappeared. I played with the stem of my wine glass.

“What’s going on? What has you so flustered?”

We drank our wine simultaneously. I shrugged. “Nothing in particular.”

“Courtney. I don’t believe that. You’re shaken. I can see that.” He reached over and clasped my hand on top of the table. “Tell me what’s going on. Let me in.”

“It’s nothing,” I said, but my trembling chin gave me away. I didn’t want to appear weak and uncertain in front of him, but I couldn’t keep the fear away, either. And maybe, just maybe, he knew how to help me. I pressed my fingers against his and squeezed my eyes shut. When I opened them again, his gaze caught and held mine. I saw it, the layers of worry there. “It’s lots of things,” I admitted. “But mostly it’s these notes I’ve been getting.”

“What kind of notes?”

“Threatening ones. Telling me to stay away from you.”

His eyes widened slightly. “Or what?”

“They don’t say. They just warn me to stay away. Tell me to trust them.”

“Trust who? Who’s sending them?”

“I don’t know. They’re not signed. And the handwriting on the note and on the envelope are different from each other.”

“But the same each time?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve taken them to the police?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” We pulled away from each other and paused our conversation long enough for our dinner plates to be slid in where our arms had been resting on the table. The food smelled amazing. Or, at least, I assumed it did. There was so much churning in my stomach that everything had the scent of acridness. Jimmy arranged his silverware. “Do you have any idea who could be sending them?”

I shook my head. “Not really.”

“But there’s someone…?”

“You’ll think I’m stupid.”

“I think the person who sent the notes is stupid.”

I agreed. “What if…what about Julia? There was this article about how you two were perfect--.”

“Impossible.” He cut me off. Swept my idea away with a movement of his arm. “Is there anyone from New Orleans who might not want to see you succeed?”

I bristled that he’d so quickly brushed off the possibility that Julia could have sent them. “Not that I can think of. Besides, they were mailed from L.A.”

“One of your sorority sisters?”

I mimicked his tone. “Impossible.”

He blinked at me for a moment. Yeah, I was being snarky when he was only trying to help, but tossing random ideas out there
wasn’t
helping. I slowly chewed on a bite of octopus, then swallowed.

“So, thinking about who in L.A. could do it, I can only come up with Julia.”

Jimmy sighed and pushed his chair back. I panicked. Food lodged painfully in my throat. There must have been some real history I was dragging to the surface if two mentions of his ex made him want to leave. I set my fork down and reached around for my coat, hanging on the back of my chair.

But then Jimmy sat back down again. He had only been digging his phone out of his pocket.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Making a phone call.”

“To who?”

He didn’t answer. He’d already dialed and had his phone to his ear. I heard the soft echo of ringing. Jimmy leaned forward again when a voice picked up. A female voice.

“Julia,” he said. My insides twisted with fury. I picked up my wine glass and drained the last of the liquid, then slammed the stem down hard enough almost to break it. “I need you to tell Courtney about our relationship.”

My hands, wiping my napkin across my lips, paused. That wasn’t what I’d expected him to say to her. His face was soft, pleading. He didn’t want me to leave. He wanted me to understand something.

“Yeah,” he continued. “She’s been getting threatening notes about me…I know.” He listened for a couple seconds. “Exactly. But I know you aren’t the one doing it. I need her to know why. Hold on.”

Jimmy held his phone out to me. As though I would just take it. As though I wanted to speak about something so personal and terrifying to his perfect ex-girlfriend. As though I wanted her to know that I thought it was her. I felt like a complete idiot. But Jimmy pushed the phone at me again, and I took it.

I didn’t say hello. Julia must have heard my breath.

“Courtney? You there? Girl, I am so sorry about the notes. That shit is freaky! I don’t want to say you’ll get used to it, because that’s a horrible thing to say, but…you’ll get used to it. You’ll have this nice, thick file down at the station and the cops will pretty much just tell you to hire a bodyguard.” She sighed. “Listen. I’m not sending them. I’m not a jealous ex, I swear. In fact, Jimmy and I are just friends. Have only ever been friends. You have to keep this to yourself, but our relationship was a fabrication. Contracted for promotional purposes. It happens all the time in this industry. He got some crossover exposure in the film world and I got some in the music world. Useful for potential future projects, you know? Don’t get me wrong, Jimmy’s about the best guy out there, but we were only ever pals. He reminds me of my brother.”

She laughed. I barely heard the noise through the fog in my head. Their relationship wasn’t real? That meant…

“Courtney? You still there? I hope that explanation helps some. I know it doesn’t make the notes any easier to bear, though. I’m sorry.”

“It happens all the time?” I echoed back at her.

“Oh, sure. Dating for promo, even marriage. That’s useful for covering up all kinds of things.”

“You’re okay with that?”

“It’s just business. You understand. Will you put Jimmy back on for a sec?”

I passed the phone back, without a word. Jimmy and Julia talked for another minute in low murmurs. I barely paid attention. My heart felt like a long, dull object had pierced it, then twisted slowly, slowly.
You understand
. As though I knew about fabrications…about business…intimately. It made sense now…the way Duncan never said anything about our relationship being a problem. He must have thought Jimmy and I had an understanding. But he was wrong. Everything Jimmy and I had done together, all the trust I’d put in him, the insecurity Bea had been feeling about everything…and Jimmy’s relationships were fabrications. He’d used someone for exposure. Julia thought I understood.

Because I was a fabrication, too.

Jimmy hung up. “Does that help? It was just business. Nothing more.”

Just business.
“No,” I whispered. “It doesn’t help. It opens a whole new set of questions. Like, are you using me that way, too?”

His stricken face was all the answer I needed. He fumbled for words, taking too long to assure me that I was different. This time, when I reached around for coat, I pulled it off my chair and stood. Jimmy did, too.

“No,” I said. “You finish your meal. I’ll get a cab. I need time to think.”

I needed time to hide. Until my embarrassment passed. To nurse my breaking heart. To battle the pain in my eyes until there was nothing he could see. No clues that I was in this relationship for a different reason, in a different way.

It was never business with Jimmy.

Not for me.

13.

I had to go back to the salon for a touch-up because Duncan left us all excited messages on our phones. Well, as excited as I expected Duncan could be.

Ladies, get dazzling. Our old pal Julia Wood has agreed to star in your first video. We start filming on Wednesday.

I didn’t mind that Julia would be there. At least, that’s what I told Bea when she shot me a concerned look, later that day. I didn’t believe she had reason to send the notes, even if the whole contracted relationship thing felt…gross. Mostly, I tried to pretend indifference to Julia, despite her being a reminder that I was nothing more than a commodity to Jimmy. No, I was more bothered by the possibility of seeing Jimmy, who I hadn’t talked to since I walked out of the Italian restaurant and waited in a coffee shop three blocks away for the cab I’d called to come pick me up. I refused to call him, and he, apparently, didn’t have anything to say that would change my mind about how he was benefitting from our relationship. Otherwise, he would have called to explain, right?

I hated that he hadn’t called to explain. It made all the bad things easy to believe. It made the sliver of hope that I held on to melt away, slowly as ice cream in winter.

At the salon, Rodrigo tsk-tsked.

“You look dreadful.”

“Thanks. That makes me feel better.” I didn’t want to tell him about the notes. Or about the way I felt like someone was following me to the salon, even though I knew that was impossible. The streets were mostly clear that early in the morning. It was only jitters.

“You need to take better care of yourself. You deserve that. More sleep. More visits here.”

“I have a lot going on.”

“You don’t have to spell it out. Don’t you think all my clients have a lot going on? It takes a particularly insane personality to make it in this business. You musicians and actresses are all workaholics. Usually control freaks. But, most of you also realize how important your image is. So get on that.”

I let Rodrigo drape the apron over my shoulders and tried to relax in his chair. “You gave me this lecture last time, remember?”

“And I’m giving it to you again, because obviously it didn’t sink in before.” He came around so that he was in between me and mirror on the wall. He leaned so our eyes were on the same level. “You have to take care of yourself. I’m not even kidding. This work you’ve chosen…it will kill you. Assuming the public criticism doesn’t do it, first.”

Rodrigo pursed his lips and fanned his hands, as though brushing away the horrible public criticism, but he didn’t know how my spine had gone cold at his words.

Visions of the anonymous notes floated in my head. What if someone was trying to kill me? Not just warn me, but get me out of the way?

I gripped the armrests tightly, my knuckles rounded, as though the bones would pop right through my skin. All I wanted—all I ever wanted—was to play my guitar. Now, I wasn’t sure all this was worth it.

“You okay?” Rodrigo trimmed tiny sections of my hair, but he was watching me in the mirror. I relaxed my muscles and focused, instead, on his warm hands, soothing my nerves. I breathed.

“I’m okay,” I said.

“Are you?”

“Yes,” I told the woman looking back at me in the mirror.
I am strong. I am okay.

I knew I wouldn’t see Bea or Kaitlin before the video, because I’d scheduled my appointment for seven in the morning so I could at least make one class in between the salon and the shoot, and Bea and Kaitlin were going in for their style touch-up immediately before the shoot. They both looked amazing when I finally got to the studio, on the ninth floor of a nondescript building in Century City. They’d just finished makeup, and their faces were fierce rainbows of color. The makeup artist hustled me into her chair while the wardrobe designer pulled Bea and Kaitlin away. Just after Bea gave me that worried look and I mouthed
It’s fine
, to her.

Thierry swept into the studio, encased in a skintight bodysuit. “Do you remember all your moves?” he asked me, plopping down in the seat to my left.

“All of them.”

“I’m worried about Bea. She came in for an extra class, but that girl has two left feet. Or one. Or none, really.”

I turned my face in the direction the other ladies had gone and the makeup artist huffed at me. While she grabbed a cotton swab to fix the mistake she’d made, I wondered how on earth Bea was keeping up with her studies. She couldn’t possibly fit more dance and voice classes into her schedule without taking something else away. Had she completely given up on her degree?

Thierry was called away to do trial runs for lighting and camera angles. Makeup finished with me. I headed to the racks of clothes across the studio. Bea and Kaitlin had disappeared into the little dressing room to the side. While the stylist picked my outfit, I strained my ears to hear if they were saying anything. I hated feeling like things weren’t perfect with Ladies in Waiting. Especially when Bea was working so hard for this.

The stylist gave me several outfits. “Try them all on and let me see. You’ll be wearing the leotard first.”

The leotard was long sleeved and covered in gold sequins. I knew the color would make my smoky skin glow.

I took a deep breath and swung into the changing room.

Kaitlin pulled a top over her head and smiled. “Hey, Court. I hope we get to keep the clothes, right?”

I laughed, but it was cut short by Bea’s scowl. I moved next to her. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You ready for this?”

“That’s the idea. But I can’t get this zipped all the way.” Bea’s eyes swam with tears. I went around to her back.

“Push your breath all the way out.” I yanked the zipper in one, quick movement. “There. Damn, you look great.”

Kaitlin sneezed. “Ugh, I think I’m getting a cold. Or else I’m allergic to clothes one size too small.”

I thought it was funny, but Bea wasn’t amused. Her shoulders tightened. She blinked quickly at both of us. “How nice that even too-small clothes come easily to you two.”

I sighed and moved away to try the rest of my pile of clothes on.

We were called out to begin filming, then spent a lot of time hurrying up to wait. We’d shoot one set of dance moves in one outfit, then do about a million retakes, then change and get new makeup and dance again, change and dance, over and over. All the while, our song was on in the background so we could lip sync the lyrics. We were supposed to be fierce and fearless, and I’m sure Bea pulled it off, with her angry face, but I worried I was giving the camera more of a puzzled expression, myself.

The video director liked whatever he saw, though. Finally, around three in the afternoon, he let us break for lunch. I practically ran to the buffet set up in the hallway. All the dancing made me starved, and all the lip syncing dried out my throat. I grabbed a plate and loaded up on sushi, noodles, and pot stickers. I shoved a spicy tuna roll in my mouth, then turned, looking for the drinks.

I choked on rice.

Jimmy Keats entered the room, but it wasn’t his usual, confident stride. He came in slowly, surveying the scene before coming in all the way. When he caught sight of me, he stopped and tucked his hands in his pockets. Waiting. As though I was supposed to go to him.

“Move that ass,” Bea said, coming up behind me in the line. She reached across me for a napkin. Looked at Jimmy. Made a sound in her throat.

I bit back a comment. I wanted to tell Bea everything. How, at this point, I was pretty sure my relationship was the reason we’d gotten this far. Jimmy wanted a nice, promotional girlfriend and I guess I was the whore raking in the benefits. I should have clued Bea in on that one: if not for me fucking Jimmy, she’d have no burgeoning music career. It was my body being used. My heart being smashed to pieces.

My thoughts didn’t ease my frustrations. They only made me feel cruel. I could never say those kinds of things to Bea.

What I did say was, “You’ll be glad to hear, Bea, that Jimmy and I are through.” She tucked the napkin under her plate slowly, then frowned, her eyes soft and sympathetic.

“What happened?”

“You were right. I never should have mixed business and pleasure.”

“That’s not what I meant…I mean…”

“It’s okay,” I said softly. “This is easier for everyone. Let’s just move past it.”

Bea walked away, leaving me standing alone, stupidly, holding my plate. Jimmy came over. He looked at my pile of food. Raised his eyebrows at me.

“I’m hungry,” I snapped.

He frowned, but I spun away before he could comment.

The director called us all back to work twenty minutes later. My mood was dark. Everyone’s mood was. Was this how it was always going to be? It was possible none of this was worth it. I was watching my best friend traumatized by her struggles, failing classes, losing my marbles.

We danced, like we were told to, but it was a disaster. Bea knocked into me and I swatted at her, before realizing she hadn’t done it on purpose. Kaitlin tried to smooth things over, but even Thierry was losing his patience and he yelled at Bea in front of everyone. Her chin trembled.

“Don’t talk to her that way,” I said to Thierry.

“I can stick up for myself!” Bea hollered at me.

“She was only trying to help,” Kaitlin said.

“Bullshit.” Bea ripped the beaded headpiece we were wearing in those sequences and threw it to the ground. A thread snapped and beads exploded over the floor. “She thinks I’m a child who can’t handle anything.”

“I do not! All of this has been for you!”

“Oh, I should just be grateful, then? I’m the one busting my ass, going crazy. This comes easy for you.”

My mouth went dry. “We’re all working hard.”

“Stop treating me like I’m made of glass!” Bea kicked the headpiece.

“Those are handmade!” The stylist threw up her hands.

“Clean up this mess,” the director yelled at no one in particular. When no one came running immediately in, he kicked over a chair. “Forget it. I’m done.”

Kaitlin panicked. “You can’t be done.”

Jimmy stepped in. “It’s okay. We have a lot of footage. If there’s not enough, we’ll try again later.”

“How do you know there’s enough?” I said. “This is our video, not yours! You can’t have it. You can’t do everything you think you can!”

The room went quiet, then. As though everyone knew exactly who their paycheck was coming from. No one challenged Jimmy Keats. Well, I was sick of the power imbalance. And I wasn’t his—or anyone’s—whore.

I took my own headpiece off, carefully, and stepped away from the white walls and lighting we’d been dancing in. I handed it to the stylist, disappeared in to the changing room, put my street clothes back on, and got the hell out of there.

*

I took the long way home, driving through L.A.’s wide streets to kill time and cool off. I still wore my video hair and makeup, but this was L.A. We all were dressing up, at least a little. By the time I felt chill enough to return home, the sun was setting over the Pacific. I always loved the way the sky went golden at that time of night, especially with the shadowy high rises of downtown in the skyline.

Diya was pacing in the living room when I came in. She rushed to me. Looked me square in the eye.

“Don’t be mad at me,” she said.

My stomach clenched. I did not need one more person to be mad at. And I didn’t have the slightest idea why I might be mad at Diya, who never did anything terrible to anyone.

“What’s going on?” I said, cautiously.

She bit her lip and looked toward our room. I went down the hall. There was a tall figure at my desk, bent over something and reading it. I knew that body.

“What are you doing in my room?” I asked Jimmy Keats.

He turned, slowly. Another note in his fingers. Something like a rock lodged in my throat.

“I let him in,” she explained. “He came to talk to you and the note had just arrived and…I want him to help stop this…he’s so scared for you, Court.”

His fear was nothing, compared to mine. “He can’t be scared. I’m nothing more than useful.”

“Dammit, Courtney,” Jimmy said. “That’s nowhere near the truth. But you refuse to let me explain.”

“What’s to explain? You have a history of using women, so why not me?”

“It was a mutual understanding, not using. It was publicity. Neither one of us was harmed.”

“How lucky for both of you.”

“Do you think maybe the reason I didn’t tell you everything was because I wasn’t proud of it? Of pretending?”

He wanted to say more, I could tell by the way his eyes flicked to Diya, then back to me. I slipped my arm through Diya’s and gave him a challenging look. She would stay. I didn’t want to hear his lies.

I held out my other hand. “Give me the note.”

Jimmy shook his head. “No. This has gone too far.”

“I’m taking it to the police.”

“Why? So they can do nothing about it? Have you felt even a smidge safer since involving them?”