Hollywood Sinners

‘Nate!’ cried Chloe, jumping up and running over.

‘Great,’ the photographer said with a roll of his eyes, ‘just what we need.’

Nate Reid, frontman with The Hides, held out his arms to embrace her. Nate was the epitome of rock and roll–or at least he liked to think he was. As the hottest property in British music, he wasn’t conventionally good-looking, a little on the rangy side and quite short, but what he lacked in stature he made up for in charisma. With piercing green eyes, a fuck-you attitude and an anarchic reputation, he was, in Chloe’s eyes, everything that was wonderful in the world.

‘Hey, babe,’ said Nate, kissing her deeply. She tasted of cherries.

Chloe smiled down at him–she tried not to let the height difference bother her.

‘Are you done yet?’ he asked, a tad irritably. ‘I’ve been waiting.’

Chloe gave a hopeful expression to Emo-guy.

‘Yup, we’re done,’ he said, busy with the stills.

When she turned back she was just in time to catch Nate scoping out one of the other models, before his eyes slid swiftly back to her.

‘Let’s go,’ she said, linking his arm tightly.

Unsurprisingly, the press had caught wind of Nate’s arrival. As the couple emerged on to the street, a circus of shouting and flashing bulbs erupted. Nate held up a hand as they bustled through to the waiting car, as if the whole thing was a massive inconvenience. He parcelled Chloe away and turned to the paps, treating them to a couple of clean shots.

‘You heading out tonight, Nate?’ one of them asked. ‘Chloe going with you?’

‘Classified information, boys,’ said Nate, editing out the tip-off he’d fed through earlier. He turned to get in the car.

‘Is it true Chloe’s moving to LA?’

Nate gritted his teeth. ‘Not true.’

‘There’s talk that—’

He climbed in and slammed the door.

An army of lenses swooped in on the windows, clicking insistently, aimlessly, in the hope of catching a killer shot. The car moved off.

‘You’re so patient with them,’ Chloe said, tying her hair back. ‘I can never be arsed.’

‘’S no big deal.’

She kissed his cheek. ‘Come on, I’ve got the house to myself this afternoon.’

Nate brightened. He was a little worn out after a marathon bedroom session that morning, but he’d never been able to resist Chloe. ‘Sounds good, babe.’

Chloe gazed across at her boyfriend and felt her heart swell. Nate Reid was her hero–the night they’d met was proof of that.

So what if she caught him checking out other girls from time to time, it didn’t matter. It was her he was committed to and that was the important thing. Right? Relationships required work–she knew that from her own experience. You couldn’t just give up if you loved someone. And she loved Nate Reid. Nothing, and no one, was going to change that.

4

Los Angeles

The man on top of Lana Falcon let out a low groan as he slipped a hand between her legs. She could feel his growing hardness, hot and thick against her skin. At the sudden quickening of his breath, a rhythm she knew so well, she could tell he was desperate to be inside her. ‘I want you now,’ he whispered hoarsely, his hand diving under her ass and pulling her up to meet him. Only when his fingers found the gusset of her modesty underwear and he momentarily slipped himself in did she bite down hard on his bottom lip.

‘Ow!’ Parker Troy pulled back, a hurt expression on his face.

‘Cut!’ the director called, not noticing. ‘Lana, that was perfect. Real authentic. It’s a wrap, people.’

Lana raised her arm and the wardrobe girl came rushing over, covering her with a gown. The crew made a polite attempt not to notice her knock-out body as she shrugged on the thin material. She had requested a closed set–as she did with all topless scenes–but even so every last one of the guys was fighting down a raging hard-on.

‘That was excellent,’ said Sam Lucas, striding over. The director was a rotund, shiny-headed bald man in his late fifties with thin, very round glasses. ‘You’re bringing something exceptional to this role–that was a hard scene to get right.’

It was certainly hard, Lana thought. She tried not to notice that Sam’s eyes, disconcertingly enlarged behind the lenses of his glasses, kept darting to her breasts. Gritting her teeth, she decided to forgive the transgression–Sam was one of the industry’s die-hard movie elite and thousands of actresses would kill to be in her position. Eastern Sky, a historical romance set in 1920s China and Sam’s directorial comeback, could earn her an Award.

‘Thanks, Sam,’ she said, wanting to get dressed. ‘It means a lot to have your support.’ When he didn’t respond she asked, ‘How are the dailies?’

‘Good,’ said Sam, meeting her eyes momentarily before they slid back to the main attraction. ‘Real good.’

Lana folded her arms, mortified that her nipples were standing to attention. Couldn’t they make these gowns a bit more substantial? She couldn’t tell if it was because she was under scrutiny or whether she was still hot from Parker’s touch, but whatever it was, Sam Lucas was drinking it in. He might as well be licking his lips for all his discretion.

‘Well, I’ll, uh, be with you first thing,’ she said hurriedly, relieved to see the wardrobe girl returning with a clipboard and an efficient smile.

‘Yeah,’ said Sam, back to business. ‘Call-time nine o’clock.’ And he headed off in the direction of his assistant.

Ten years in this town and she still wasn’t used to it. Men who thought she owed them something, thought her body was a kind of recompense. She’d had enough of it to last a lifetime.

‘Can I get you anything, Ms Falcon?’ the girl asked, noticing Lana’s anxious expression.

‘Thanks, I’m OK.’ Lana gave a friendly smile as they made their way back to base camp. It saddened her to think the girl was too afraid to continue the conversation, as if Lana belonged now to a world in which people couldn’t converse without fear of tripping up. Her marriage to Cole Steel was lonely. She missed friendship, especially the easy intimacy that women shared. It was why she had embarked on the reckless affair with Parker Troy: she craved the warmth.

Lana stole a quick glance over her shoulder and caught her co-star chatting to crew, his dirty-blond hair falling over his eyes. He had a slightly pug nose and his jaw was chunky in a Matt Damon-type way. At twenty, he was younger than Lana and somewhat airheaded, but she wasn’t in it for the conversation. This was a mindless, red-hot, dangerous romance–barely a month old–and one she had to conceal from her husband at all costs. Parker had been foolish, getting carried away on set today: never mind that she was fucking him in her own time–when they were filming it had to be on her terms. All it took was one witness to bring the whole thing crashing down, and nobody would pay a higher price than her.

At her trailer Lana showered, changed into sweat pants and drank a litre of water. She checked her watch, wondering if Parker would call. Come on, baby, she thought, I’ve got pick-up in five. When her cell buzzed, she snatched it up.

It was Rita Clay, her agent. Rita was legendary in Hollywood, a tall, strikingly attractive black woman in her late thirties and one of LA’s top ball-breakers.

‘Hey, movie star, how was the shoot?’

Lana ran a hand through her hair. It was good to hear a friendly voice that told it like it was. On a sea of bullshit, Rita was one who managed to stay afloat. ‘Good. What’s up?’

‘Come to lunch.’

‘I’ll have to check my schedule—’

‘It’s done. Friday, twelve-thirty, Campanile.’

Lana laughed. ‘Fine.’ Rita talked as fast as she worked.

It had been the same when they’d first met. Lana had been seventeen when she’d walked into Rita Clay’s downtown office, had possessed the poise and determination of someone unafraid to lose. If the place she was running from couldn’t break her, neither could this big, bad industry. She didn’t talk about the past and Rita didn’t ask–it didn’t matter where she’d come from; it mattered where she was going.