Star Crossed (7 page)

“You’re beautiful, Naomi!”

“I love you, Luke!”

“Sign my book, both of you!”

The photographers would have blinded him if he hadn’t been used to them. He combed his gold-streaked hair with his fingers, posing more casually but just as deliberately as his companion. With perfect dramatic timing, Naomi extended her hand to him. The flurry of flashes had been ebbing, but her gesture started them up again. They were a couple tonight—she on the outs from her on-again, off-again rocker boyfriend; he, per usual, happy to appear as if no one could tie him down.

Just because Clooney caved didn’t mean he had to.

The “Listie” shippers, the ones who kept trying to make him and his costar Christie James an item, had strained his final nerve. His mouth twitched with amusement.

Maybe
Final Nerve
should be the name of their next sequel.

The funny thing was, despite the voodoo they spun on screen, he and Christie didn’t get on too well. Luke had tried, but everything he did seemed to make the actress dislike him more. Christie James was high-strung, high-maintenance, and—to her everlasting annoyance—one tenth as popular as he was. She’d arrived before them, with some studio fix-up for a date. A TV werewolf, Luke believed.

The thought of who’d be likelier to give the other rabies made his mouth twitch again. Paparazzi shouted for attention, hoping to force Luke or Naomi to make eye contact with their lenses. Mostly ignoring them, they began a slow progress toward the press stations.

Because the franchise was so successful, the premiere for
Final Death
had been a hot ticket. Earlier celebrity arrivals were having microphones thrust toward them like baby birds hungry for sound bites. Farther ahead, Luke caught a glimpse of Kevin Reyes, his producing partner, giving a reporter the usual spiel on how excited they were to finally share the film with an audience.

Naomi and Luke would get where he was eventually. In the meantime, they signed autographs side by side as they inched forward. The hands that held out items to be scribbled on seemed disembodied, countless numbers reaching through the swarm of bodies pressed against the barriers. Luke smiled without discrimination at the anonymous faces.

To his amazement, some women started crying when he reached them. That had never happened before. He guessed his agent was right. He’d reached a new level of celebrity as an actor. That disconcerted him, but it was what he’d signed on for.

Better that than stepping out to the chirping of crickets.

He patted his jacket, checking his phone was there. He planned to live-tweet the event, partly to entertain his followers but even more to distract himself from his wound up nerves. Being judged for his acting—which
was
getting better, damn it—was something he hadn’t grown used to. It was easier to make jokes in 140 characters than to actually ignore the snark.

His mind didn’t grasp what happened when it occurred.

As a speeding lump of metal glanced the right portion of his back, he assumed someone whose book he hadn’t signed had chucked it at him. Ticked by that, he went down, saved from face-planting on the carpet by one knee and both hands.

Christ
, he thought.
The media’s going to call me the next J. Law
.

A moment later, Naomi stumbled too. Luke pressed one hand to his ribs, which felt like they had a runner’s stitch. His palm came away wet and red. He stared at it. He couldn’t compute that either.

The bodyguards were beside them then, crouched and speaking in tense, slightly breathless voices into their earpieces.

“Shit,” one said, craning toward a building across the street. “There’s a sniper. I see a rifle up on that roof. Stay with these two. I’m going to check it out.”

He ran off like a wide receiver on a championship football team. Though the guy’s speed impressed, Luke was under the impression bodyguards weren’t supposed to leave their clients. Police were everywhere. Chasing criminals was their job. By this time, the crowd was screaming and trying to get away. Luke should do something too, shouldn’t he? Deciding staying crouched was a good idea, he dodged between panicked bodies toward the other guard. He’d help him get Naomi inside the theater.

Naomi’s legs were noodles, but she was strong enough to curse. She did so between gasps of pain. “Where am I hit? Jesus, where am I hit?”

Luke wasn’t sure, but the front of her dress was red.

They leaned her against a column spangled by the lobby’s big crystal chandelier. Naomi’s legs splayed out like a pretty doll. The remaining bodyguard tore off his jacket and applied compression.

“It’s a through-and-through,” he said, peeking beneath it. “You’re going to be okay, Miss Jordan.”

He was too shaken to be convincing. Probably he hadn’t expected to see action. Or maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. Maybe experiencing real life gunfire shook anyone.

The back of Luke’s brain, the part that wanted to be a decent actor, took notes on everything.

“I called an ambulance,” a brave female usher ran over to assure them. “They’ll be here in two minutes.”

Luke stroked Naomi’s hair from her ashen face. “You hear that, sweetie?” he said in the voice his dad used to soothe skittish animals. “Two minutes and you’ll be fine.”

“Two minutes,” Naomi repeated.

Luke could already hear sirens.

“I’ll get her a blanket,” the usher volunteered.

“Don’t leave me,” Naomi said, clutching at Luke’s hand.

“No worries,” he promised. “I’m sticking to you like glue.”

She relaxed as the paramedics bundled her onto a stretcher. They’d cut her sparkly dress across the middle and were staunching her bleeding. Naomi looked at him. “We sure made an impression for your premiere.”

They surely had. Luke started walking beside the gurney but suddenly felt dizzy. His knees weren’t holding him well at all.

“Shit,” one of the paramedics cursed. “This one’s been shot as well.”

Luke looked stupidly down at his wet jacket. Against the black tuxedo, the blood was nearly invisible.

“Sorry,” he said, allowing the paramedic to catch his arm. “I forgot to mention that.”

*

The phone rang just as A.J. sat on her couch with a Caesar salad and a cool glass of chardonnay.

“Turn on CNN,” her father said the instant she picked up.

A.J. was aware tonight was Luke’s premiere. She’d been studiously avoiding any channel that might cover it by sharing her dinner with a dog-eared copy of
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
. The odds her dad’s call wasn’t to do with Luke’s event seemed slim.

“Dad—” she said.

“Just do it,” he ordered.

She’d learned not to ignore that tone of voice. She grabbed the remote and pushed the power button.

The footage immediately seized her attention.

Professional camera
, she thought, leaning forward across her knees.
Not a civilian with a phone
. The film wasn’t airing for the first time. The words BREAKING NEWS scrolled across the bottom of the screen, followed by SHOTS FIRED AT FINAL DEATH PREMIERE.

“Shit,” she muttered automatically.

She watched Luke stumble in his tuxedo. The crowd around him reacted, but not as if they knew why he fell. The camera veered. Naomi Davis had fallen too, the red that bloomed on her dress making it clear she’d been injured. Then the crowd began screaming and trying to get away. The camera shook, jostled by the people near it or maybe the operator’s nerves. If the cause was nerves, the cameraman’s brain stayed sharp. He or she panned the other way. A muscle in a suit was sprinting across the street, one hand pressed to his white earpiece as he spoke excitedly.

“Fuck,” A.J. swore. “That’s Channing’s bodyguard. What the hell is he doing?”

First rule of close protection work: don’t abandon your client to play cowboy. You give him cover and you get him to safety. The only threats you tackle are the ones you can’t avoid.

A.J. watched the camera swing back to the red carpet, where Luke and another bodyguard were running toward the theater carrying the wounded supermodel between them. Her million dollar legs were dangling, her high heels on her feet but off the ground. Luke and the guard got her inside and A.J.’s view of them was lost.

Prevented from following by the crowd and the quickly massing police, the savvy cameraman searched the scene for where the shooter could have been positioned. He tracked up the nearby buildings. A.J. didn’t spot a gun, but
something
could have been caught on film.

“Did you record this?” she asked her dad.

“Yes. Martin’s already working his contacts to get an untouched copy from the network. If there’s anything useful in that footage, we’ll find it.”

She realized her dad was going to make another pitch for their firm to protect Channing. She also realized she favored the idea. No security was perfect, but this specific fuckup wouldn’t have happened on their watch.

“I’m calling in everyone who isn’t on assignment,” her father said. “We’re going to get this job, and we’re going to do it right.”

A.J. only half registered his words. She was distracted by the correspondent’s announcement that Luke Channing had been treated by the hospital and released. He’d been strafed by the sniper’s bullet but not critically injured. Naomi Davis hadn’t been as lucky, but her condition was listed as stable.

“I’ll be in,” A.J. said.

She’d been holding the phone tightly. When she set it down, she had to shake her fingers to loosen them.

Luke is all right
, she told herself.

She wasn’t calm enough to be embarrassed by the relief she felt.

LUKE hated hospitals. He spent a week in one following his escape, being treated for malnutrition and emotional distress. The day his parents sprang him was the first he felt free again. He’d faced challenges after that, but his folks had helped him through them.

As was
de rigueur
for high profile celebrities, Naomi was admitted under an assumed name. This would keep off the paparazzi—provided staff weren’t susceptible to bribes. Thanks to Luke’s no-limit Amex, Naomi had a private suite in which to recuperate. The bodyguard who hadn’t run off was posted outside the door.

Given the seriousness of what happened, Luke was pretty sure he needed to upgrade that arrangement.

When his cell buzzed, Naomi was still doped up and unconscious. Luke patted her arm, rose from the guest chair, and walked to the big window. A glance at his phone revealed the caller was Jerry Talon, his longtime agent. This was Jerry’s fourth call in the last hour. Because he wasn’t simply a colleague but a friend, Luke didn’t banish him to voicemail.

“Hey, Jerry,” he answered quietly.

“Jesus, Luke,” Jerry burst out first thing. “Why don’t you give me a heart attack?”

“I’m okay,” Luke said, realizing the man must have been worried. “Didn’t the media say?”

“Sure, but who can tell what those idiots know? They get half their stories off Instagram. Is Naomi all right? Have you seen her?”

“I’m with her. She’s recovering from surgery. She’ll have a scar but otherwise she’s fine.”

“Good,” Jerry said. “Christ.” His sigh was gusty and genuine. “You should know the studio’s going nuts. The suits can’t decide whether to postpone opening weekend for
Final Death
. I mean, the violence seemed aimed at you two, but they’re worried theatergoers will stay away and depress the box office. On the plus side, you’re breaking the internet. Not that I think that matters as long as you’re okay. Screw money anyway.”

Luke laughed in spite of the situation. Jerry was a Hollywood animal. He could only suppress that so much. “I’ll call the studio later. We’ll work out a strategy together.”

“You’re better than they deserve. Speaking of which, I reamed them a new one over those bodyguards. Turns out they rejected a bid from a superior firm so they could save a few bucks on those bulgy boy yahoos. Much as I’d like to bleed Galaxy’s coffers, you should probably hire your own protection.”

“I’ll look into it,” Luke said. “Did you get the name they rejected?”

“Hoyt-Sands. They’ve got branches in LA and New York. Good rep. I hear Jennifer swears by them.”

Luke didn’t ask which Jennifer. The hair prickling on his arms arrested his attention. “
Hoyt
-Sands?”

“That’s right. I’ll text you their details. And the sources where I checked them out. Listen, kid, I’m really glad you’re okay. I don’t like a tenth of my clients half as well as I like you.”

“Aww,” Luke joked. “You’re gonna choke me up.”

Jerry cussed at him and rang off.

Luke rubbed his forehead with the back of one tingling arm. What were the chances the Hoyt in Hoyt-Sands wasn’t the Hoyt he knew? What if—after all these years—A.J. had decided to make contact?

Unsure how to proceed, he glanced at Naomi. His call hadn’t disturbed her. The model lay like Sleeping Beauty without her prince, bereft of makeup and custom wig. As a rule, Naomi didn’t like being seen
au naturel
, but to him her close-shorn curls and clean features were beautiful. Her unconscious state aside, if Luke were going to call more people, he probably should step out. At the least, his PR firm needed instructions if—as Jerry claimed—they’d broken the internet. Luke had already called his parents. Convincing them not to leave the farm was a challenge, but they’d promised to contact Naomi’s folks in Yorkshire.

Come to think of it, he should also check in with Kevin. For various reasons, financial and personal, Luke had ended up the more dominant partner in Two Dudes Productions. Kev deserved a call all the same . . . if only to head him off nudging Galaxy in an ill conceived direction.

Luke grimaced. Kevin was a first-rate director, but when it came to public perception he could sometimes be tone deaf.

That reminder made up his mind.

When Luke stepped into the hall, the remaining bodyguard rose from his hard chair. A cop had joined him. Luke guessed the NYPD was equally unimpressed with the studio’s security choice.

Then again, the uniform might be there to question him. As the cop stepped forward, his expression seemed eager over more than encountering a celebrity.