Falling Star (Beautiful Chaos #2) (7 page)

I
’D SEEN CASSIE bounce into Jake’s trailer earlier like she owned it, and that was all I needed to compound the humiliation I felt, and the fiery anger that had been building up since he and I parted ways. She was his
girlfriend,
and I was the piece of fluff on the side—luckily I’d put a stop to things before Humiliation, with a capital H, could take hold completely.

Jake Wild was a self-centered, egomaniac who got his thrills by having multiple women in love with him at one time. He needed his ego massaged daily to make himself feel special. Why I had fallen for his charms, I had no idea, when it was obvious he would
never
change. He was a damaged Hollywood casualty and, of all people, I should have known better than to play with faulty goods.

Leo was driving as I sat in the front seat of the studio car with my bare feet on the dashboard, singing along to the music. Ironically it was that song, “A Sky Full Of Stars” by Coldplay. Skye full of stars. Skye/Star—it was if we were interchangeable. I wanted to think that Jake saw me as a sky full of stars, thinking only of me and his movie—his movie and me—but I knew that wasn’t so and took a deep breath, willing my wishful fantasy away.

“So Jake didn’t even care, huh?” I asked Leo, “didn’t mind that I wasn’t going home with John?”

“He was busy. Irate. Told me to make executive decision. I thought we could have bite to eat, Star. Are you hungry?” He turned to me and flashed his Russian megawatt smile, accompanied by a wink.

“Sure,” I said. I
was
hungry, as it happened—eating had been the last thing on my mind earlier, when I was focused on shooting such an intense scene.

Leo had one hand on the steering wheel and his elbow casually on the sill of the open window. A cool breeze filled the smooth-sailing, shiny black Lexus, as it hummed along La Cienega Boulevard, and whipped his dark, floppy hair away from his face. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and revealed, on one forearm, a bear, and on the other, a symbol, but the tattoo was badly done—homemade.

“What’s that tat?” I asked.

“Which one? I have so many.”

“The blurry one on your arm with the bluish ink—I can’t make out what it is.”

“Nothing you need to know about,” he said with an enigmatic smile. He’d piqued my curiosity.

“You did it yourself?”

“No.”

“If you decided to get a tattoo, why didn’t you go to a professional?”

He laughed. “I didn’t decide, Star. It wasn’t like that.”

“Tattoos,” I said, “are always a choice—maybe a bad one, but—”

“Oh are they now.” It wasn’t a question but a statement. “What food are you in mood for?” he asked, changing the subject. “Oh yes, I remember, no meat, etcetera. There’s a place nearby where they sell Middle Eastern stuff—take-out, but good. You like falafel, pita bread, hummus?”

“Sounds perfect.” I glanced at the tautly strung tendons in his forearm again, where the smudgy tattoo lived. His muscles flexed as he maneuvered the car around a bend. There was something rough and raw about Leo. Not like Jake, who was classy—no, Leo was rugged and could have easily passed for my bodyguard. I guessed that’s why they had let him take me home—because he could have punched out anyone, done some damage; except he wasn’t carrying arms, of course. At least, I didn’t think so, although he did look the type to have a Colt.45 stuffed behind the waistband of his jeans.

“What’s your story, Leo?”

A ghost of a smile flickered on his lips. “It’s a long one—maybe some other day.”

“Family?”

“Kind of.”

I laughed. “Yeah, that’s how I feel.” I put my feet higher up on the dashboard and noticed him flick his glimmering green eyes at the bit of my exposed thigh where my dress had risen up, revealing the top of my stocking. Then he forced his gaze back to the road ahead.

“What brought you to LA?” I asked.

“Jake Wild.”

“Sorry, that was a dumb question. I forgot §he discovered you from that film school competition in London. “So that’s what took you to London—you got a place to study film?”

“No, my uncle had a job for me in London. But soon as I had money saved I went to film school—got hell away from job.”

“That bad, huh? What was the job?”

“Nothing good.”

“Waiting tables?”

“No, nothing respectable like that.”

“Some kind of menial job? Flipping burgers or something?”

“Had to pay back debt doing some—”—he cut himself off mid-sentence. “Please, Star, don’t ask me about my past—it’s not pretty.” He cracked his knuckles, and I suddenly got the picture: Leo was a knuckle-cracking kind of guy. No way had he been flipping burgers; his job must have been something far more underground. Dark. Dangerous. His tattoos spoke a thousand words. Not like Jake’s lion tattoo; beautifully executed, artistic, with a myriad of colors and attention to detail. No, Leo’s told a different story—what that story was, I wanted to find out.

“So you’re close to your uncle?” I asked, hoping for a clue.

“Last I heard, something went down and he got shot,” Leo said, with no emotion whatsoever.

“I’m sorry,” I offered, tentatively.

“I’m not.” He swerved the car suddenly into a parking lot. “Here we are, Star. You wanna wait in the car? while I get take-out? Or we could eat inside restaurant.”

“Is it busy? I don’t want to end up signing autographs all evening.”

“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

I watched him edge his tall, solid frame out of the car and swagger purposefully toward the restaurant. He turned and zapped the locks on the car with the remote. A nice attention to detail. Protective. I felt safe with Leo and wished he were my bodyguard for real. There was something erotic about a man who would lay down his life for you—protect you under any circumstance. My bodyguards, and John—the one they’d hired for me especially for the movie—were hardly eye-candy like Leo, though.

I observed him as he held the restaurant door open for two teenage girls as they came out. They began giggling at his gallant gesture, practically swooning as if they’d seen a rock star. I’d noticed that about him; he held doors open for women and stood up whenever anyone of the opposite sex came into the room, or got up from the table to go to the bathroom when we were in a restaurant. Unusual, especially for a man of our generation.

A diamond in the rough.

I heard the girls squeal at each other excitedly. I buzzed my passenger seat back, fiddled with the radio station and lay back, stretching out my legs. I’d have a quick shut-eye, I decided—filming, and all the Jake drama, had made me tired, especially when I reminded myself of what a dumb-ass I’d been, fooling around with a man who had a girlfriend. A movie director, no less. What a Hollywood cliché. Yes, I was exhausted and felt my heavy eyelids close as Jhené Aiko’s “The Worst” floated in my subconscious.

I AWOKE WITH A JOLT and observed a solid pair of legs standing there beside the passenger door. Leo leaned in and put the take-out bags on the floor in front of me.

“Sleeping Beauty,” he said in a low, quiet voice. “Sorry to wake you, Star.”

I put my hand over my mouth and yawned.

“There was line, sorry I took so long.” He leaned in closer and I could feel his breath on my face. He smelled of mint and some faint—very faint—earthy, manly scent, like the woods in spring after a heavy bout of rain. I thought for a second that he was going to kiss me, but he was just buckling up my seat belt.

“Oh, my God!!” It
is
her. It
is
her! It’s Star Davis! I told you so!”

I flicked my eyes up and saw a bevvy of teenage girls and a couple of young guys honing in on us, their Smartphones pointed through the open car door. Leo snapped to attention, closed the door shut and stood there, blocking me from our new audience. Luckily, the car had tinted windows, but they’d already gotten their shot, or worse, mini movie. He quickly dashed around to his side, leaped into the car, and we screeched off.

“Pain in neck, must drive you crazy,” he said, shaking his head with annoyance.

“I’m used to it. Wanna be my new, full-time bodyguard?” I half joked.

“Not chance in hell. I’d lose my temper, probably.” We shot out of the parking lot, people’s iPhones pointing at the back of the car.

“This is being fed to YouTube or Tweeted right now, guaranteed,” I said. “Step on it before they follow us.”

“Where are we going?”

“I live in Hancock Park.”

“Hand Cock? Love the name,” Leo said with a smirk.

“I know, right?” I dug a soda out of one of the take-out bags, popped the ring, stuck in a straw and took a sip. “But my neighborhood is very old-fashioned. Big old mansions, with huge backyards for people’s 2.5 kids. It was designed and built in the 1920s and it hasn’t changed much since. It’s a historical neighborhood.” I handed Leo my can of Coke but he didn’t want any.

“Not usual sort of place for young movie star,” he said.

“That’s why I chose it. I just want a discreet, normal life, you know?”

“2.5 kids?”

“One day, yeah.”

“Me too.”

“Really?
You
? You’re kidding me.”

“Why so surprised? I had troubled childhood. Want to make it right. Even guys like me with badass tattoos have dreams, right?”

We drove along in silence and I ruminated on Jake and felt bad for him that he didn’t seem to want the good things in life. Family. Kids. A stable life. Or if he did, he didn’t want those things with
me
but with someone like boring, squeaky-clean
Cassie
. I thought about Mindy and wondered if Leo would be a good match for her, now that I realized he wasn’t the player I had imagined him to be. Or maybe he was. Maybe his 2.5 kids fantasy was just talk. Men love to do that. Get women’s hopes up, just to get them into bed. Leo’s, “How loud will you scream when I fuck you?” when we first met hadn’t worked, so now he was trying a new, more subtle tactic. Smart.

We finally arrived at my house, a Spanish Colonial, approximately ten thousand square feet of pure Heaven, with six bedrooms, nine bathrooms, and an office, on a double corner lot of nearly an acre. Right now, the roof was being fixed, and I was converting the loft into an extra room. I couldn’t wait to get back. It had a theater room in the den with a state-of-the-art movie projector and screen. Next to it: a bar (now stocked with only sodas and Perrier water). The dining room was wood paneled with a butler’s pantry. There was even a wine cellar, and a kitchen that was the size of most people’s whole apartments. The garden behind (I didn’t call it a “back yard” because it was so much more) was landscaped, with fountains and perfectly trimmed box-hedges. A sparkling, mosaic-tiled pool with spa and a pergola, sat in the middle, and at the front, at the side of my house, a three-car garage, with a two-bedroom apartment above, where my full-time maid lived. I buzzed open the security gates and as we drove into the curving driveway, even
I
took a breath at its beauty (despite the temporary scaffolding), and when I cut a glance at Leo, he looked stunned.

“All this and you’re only . . . how old?” he said, his green eyes wide.

“Nineteen. I know, it’s pretty awesome.” I was thinking of my next move—my plan to stay here and shake Leo off, or persuade him somehow, that we didn’t need to go back to Jake’s. “Come, I’ll show you around,” I said. But before I could get out of the car Leo had raced around to my door and opened it. And then, something happened: he came crashing down on me as if he’d had a sudden stroke: his head knocking against the edge of the car rooftop as he practically landed on my lap. That’s when I too, blanked out.

Everything went black.