Bombshell (Hollywood A-List #1)(17)

I was dead. Curling up and dying on the corner of Boredom Blvd. and Tedium St.

And to think, I was the guy who wouldn’t leave the club with only one girl. It was two, sometimes more, or why bother?

“They’re really progressive, and they have a ceramics studio.” I didn’t even know who was talking anymore.

The kids had the party, and I got to die of boredom, remembering the good old days like an old man. What were their names? The girls? It was something funny. I’d laughed all the way to Mike’s house, because I let them have my f*cking pants.

“No, but they give a ton of financial aid, so you really don’t know who the kids are going to school with.”

Two hot women came up to the glass doors. Twenties. One had curly hair. One with hair blown straight. One curvier than the other. They sat down in front and lit cigarettes. They couldn’t see inside. Good thing too, because I recognized them. Two years ago, they’d spent a morning fighting over my pants. I’d slipped out and gone to Mike’s place in my underwear. I smiled to myself. That was fun.

“And there’s a real drug problem. Blow jobs in eighth grade. You gotta be careful.”

What were their names? I flipped through the files in my head where I kept the clutter I was too busy to think about. The stuff I intentionally forgot so I could function.

“Unless you like blow jobs,” Ray Heywood said, and everyone laughed.

Jenn and Jennifer.

They were right there. Pants girls. I needed to say hello, at least. It was like kismet.

I tapped the window with a fingernail. Jenn or Jennifer leaned back and focused past the window, full lips opening into an O when she saw me. She grabbed her curly-haired friend’s elbow until she turned around. I waved and jerked my thumb to the side door.

I put my drink on a coaster and slipped away.

Ken caught up to me as I walked through the family room.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“Good, good.”

Jenn and Jennifer stood on the other side of the door, waiting. I remembered these two. It came back to me and I smiled a little. Yeah. They were fun until the catfight, then they were even more fun.

“You canceled the Vanity Fair shoot with Nicole?” Ken asked.

“Yeah, she’s scared of paparazzi. I don’t want to freak her out.”

“People want to see her,” Ken said, “She’s the most coveted shot in town right now.”

“I don’t need the money.”

What I needed was to get away from buzzkill conversations. Period. What I needed was to be Brad Sinclair.

“The publicity is priceless.” Ken tilted his glass to me. “Look. I’m not trying to work in social situations, but this is a crossroads for your image. It’s a golden opportunity to move from young talent who stepped in shit to seasoned professional. Let’s find a way to make it work. Okay?”

“Sure, sure.” I clinked glasses with him without connecting the dots between Nicole and my reputation as an actor. I had two girls waiting for me and if I recalled right, they could suck a golf ball through a garden hose.

And that was what Brad Sinclair was about. I wanted to be me again.





CHAPTER 14


CARA


The party was pretty standard. A team of horses and miniponies had been brought in for the kids. Nicole’s face lit up like the Vegas strip when she saw them. She was barely contained, and she spent the entire time thanking Blueberry each and every ride.

Blueberry, who was made of sugar and spice and curly blonde locks, took to Nicole almost immediately. Everybody likes being thanked.

The lowdown on birthday parties for girls named Blueberry is this.

Yes, it’s a show of money, but everyone in this world has money. So from the outside, the staff, the organic gourmet food, the trucks of décor, and world-class performers all look like a pissing contest that’s about money.

It’s not about money. It’s about showing the child how much they’re loved. Mommy’s shooting six days a week for twelve hours a day and Daddy’s on the phone during dinner, and these things needle Hollywood parents.

So, once or twice a year they shower the children with exactly the things they like. Horses. Superheroes. Princesses. And of course, their friends. Anything goes because that one day is about the kid. Once I realized the intensity of the events was about love, I got a lot less uncomfortable.

The kids, however, have parents and if they’re staying, they need to be entertained. Some parties are drop-offs. Bring us your child and we’ll show them a good time. We’ll pour them into your driver’s car sugar-sticky and wiped out. Some, like the Trudeau party, are sleepovers with a big grown-up component. Open bar. Separate buffet of complex adult dishes. Sea bass. Tri tip. Quinoa salad.

Nannies and kids ate at a separate table. We whispered news in hushed voices and made sure the little ones on the other end of the table had what they needed. I kept a careful eye on Nicole. She was new, after all, and though little girls don’t get truly awful until fourth grade, she was sensitive. I’d advised Brad to be prepared for her to skip the sleepover part of the party. Actually, I’d advised Paula, who said she’d let Brad know. She seemed more interested in making sure his work wasn’t disrupted than anything.

The gossip was good at the nanny table. A few divorces, which meant the need for help would be adjusted. A couple of pregnancies. Some rumors.