Imposter (15 page)

ANNALEIGH IS TOWEL-DRYING HER WET HAIR.
The hotel bathrobe looks huge on her.

“You're early,” she says, letting me into her room. “Where have you been, anyway? I tried calling this afternoon.”

“Just out.” I wander around her room, too tense to sit.

“Is that what you're wearing? You know, for the date?” She makes the last word sound smaller than the others.

“Oh. I . . . I'll change later.”

She's not moving at all. Just stands in the middle of the room, clasping the towel to her chest. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah,” I tell her, but it's obvious that she doesn't believe me.

What am I supposed to say? Annaleigh knows firsthand how destructive a family member can be, but there's a big difference between a father who's several states away and a brother who's just the other side of the ceiling.

“You want to know the worst thing about what my dad did to us?” she says, filling the silence. “It's that I knew something was wrong and I never said a word. I just acted like everything was okay.” She walks over to the patio doors, head bowed. “I don't want to be that person anymore. I want to be honest. And I want you to be honest too.”

Annaleigh is backlit by the dusky sky, a shadowy silhouette. The L.A. evening seems to swallow her,
minimize
her, and I want to hold her so much. We've both watched a parent drift away and fought to pull the remaining pieces of our lives back together. I want us to pull together now.

I join her by the doors. We're close. So close.

She swallows. “I need to know you won't hurt me.”

“I won't.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

She reaches up and touches my cheek. Her fingertips meander across my chin and onto my lips. She gazes at me, unblinking, as if she's trying to memorize every millimeter of my face.

I touch her too. Run my fingers through her still-wet hair. Feel the delicate curve of her neck, and her smooth, soft skin. She presses her cheek against my hand, breathing faster.

“I never counted on this,” she whispers. “On us.”

I try to smile, but I'm too nervous. “What about us?” I ask innocently.

“Don't do that. Don't tease. Not now.”

She kisses my neck and my jawline. I close my eyes and kiss her right back—her forehead, her nose, her lips. Every part of me is alive and electric. She leans into me, but it's not enough.

I slide my hands beneath the robe, pulling her closer, closer, closer. The robe slides off one shoulder and then the other, landing softly in a heap around her ankles.

Everything seems to be moving faster. I'm desperate to touch every part of her, and to be touched. When she unbuttons my
shirt, I cast it aside. Her hands skate over my shoulders and settle against the small of my back, locking me tight against her.

We kiss again, but it's not gentle anymore. I feel like she might slip away at any moment. I can't let that happen.

We stumble to the bed and throw ourselves onto the perfectly made sheets. Our kisses grow desperate as we explore every inch of each other. And when she puts me inside her, the rest of the world vanishes. There's no Gant or Sabrina or Kris anymore. No photographs, and no movie. There's only this moment, and this girl.

Annaleigh is my everything.

I wake to bright sunshine. I'm coiled around Annaleigh so that her feet rest against the tops of my feet and her head nestles under my chin. The soft white sheets only cover our legs.

“Hey, stranger,” she says in a sexy drowsy voice. “I thought you were never going to wake up.”

It takes me a moment to realize where I am. It's morning, and I'm lying next to a beautiful girl, her lips creased in a smile, raven hair striking against the white pillow. I'm scared and thrilled all at once.

“You realize this is going to make losing you feel really crappy,” she says.

“Huh?”

“Well, we wouldn't exactly be star-crossed lovers if we got to live happily ever after.”

“Oh. The movie, you mean.”

She rolls over to face me, eyes wide open. “What are you saying? That movies aren't real?”

“Afraid not,” I say, kissing her. “I'm sorry to be the one to tell you.”

She bites a fingernail provocatively. “Well, I must say, this is all quite irregular, Mr. Crane,” she announces in an English accent.

“Isn't it, Ms. Ware?”

“I mean, there I was, preparing myself for a lifetime of smoldering glances, and it turns out we don't have to follow the script.”

I swallow hard. “No, we don't.”

“No, we don't,” she agrees, accent slipping. She climbs on top of me. “Not at all.”

An hour later, we sit on the bed, facing each other. Annaleigh's wearing my shirt, which is several sizes too large to count as modest on her. There's a tray of room-service crepes beside us, and I'm starving.

“It's weird,” she says. “Even with all the stuff that's happened, I'm ready to get back to work.” She doesn't flinch as I wipe away a piece of sleep from the corner of her eye. “Plus, tomorrow's New Year's Day, and we get paid, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And there's the party tonight. Ryder says it's going be beautiful.”

“Which one's that again?”

She smacks me gently on the arm. “New Year's Eve. It's on the itinerary.”

“Yeah. I've been distracted.”

“Distracted, huh?” She swings her legs off the bed and stands. “Well, we can't have that.”

She heads to the bathroom, legs delightfully visible beneath the hem of my shirt. As if she knows I'm watching, she lets the shirt slide off just before she disappears through the door.

“Start without me,” she says.

I roll a crepe and take a bite. Unfold today's newspaper and lay it out on the bed. Sabrina, strikingly beautiful in designer shades, graces the front page, her sleek ponytail draped over her left shoulder. Familiar subject and familiar pose, but I'm not certain I have any more idea what's going on behind those shades than I did before I ever met her.

There's a headline too—
Exclusive: Teen Star Is Drug Addict.

I drop the crepe. Choke on the mouthful I'm eating. I don't want to read on, but I can't
not
read . . . about her breakup with Kris and her spiraling addiction.

With every new sentence the brutal reality hits home—this isn't gossip or speculation.

This is what she told me yesterday.

HANDS SHAKING, I PULL THE CELL
phone from my pants pocket. I call Sabrina, and go straight to voicemail. I don't leave a message because I feel responsible. The timing can't be a coincidence.

I call Ryder. He picks up right away. “I was about to call you,” he says.

“Sabrina—”

“She's okay. Just needs to disconnect while everything blows over.”

“Blows over?” I'm stage-whispering so that Annaleigh won't hear me, and the words come out as a continuous hiss.

“This is a shock for all of us, but we have to keep going.”

Keep going
. How many times have I said that over the past few years? I believed it too, but not anymore.

“Who are you talking to, Seth?” Annaleigh calls from the bathroom.

I catch a glimpse of the newspaper again, and the black-and-white image of Sabrina. “I'll be back in a minute,” I shout back.

I don't wait for a response. Just grab my shirt, retrieve the newspaper, and step into the corridor. After everything Annaleigh's
been through, hearing about Sabrina is going to completely freak her out. I need to get things straight in my head before we talk.

Ryder's still on the line as I close the door behind me. “Look, you can't beat yourself up about this, Seth.”

“Did she say anything? About how this might've gotten out?”

“No.” There's a pause. “Why?”

“Because she told me stuff yesterday . . . about being an addict.”

“Why would she tell you that?”

“She said she needed to open up.”

I wait for the fallout. For questions about what I've been doing since that moment. Who I've seen, and what I've said.

Instead, Ryder sighs. “This isn't something that just happened. It's probably been going on for months. Years, even. Lots of people would've known, and she's been making a lot of enemies recently. She dumped Kris and hooked up with you, so he's probably pissed. Same with her recently fired agent. Rumor has it she's running her mouth to reporters too. Point is, anyone could've done this.”

Kris? No. Her agent? Unlikely. But she did speak to a reporter—even told me so.

I want to believe Ryder. But still, the timing . . .

“Where's Sabrina now?” I ask.

“Someplace safe. She'll rejoin us soon enough, but right now she needs to focus on getting help.”

Rejoin us
. I want to ask what exactly she'll be rejoining. We lost Kris before he even signed on, Annaleigh's still feeling fragile, and Sabrina's out of commission for who knows how long? The whole movie is slipping away.

Conversation over, I hang up and lean against the cool corridor
wall. I can't go back into Annaleigh's room. She'll have questions I can't answer.

It's a short journey to my room. I figure Gant will be gone, but he's stuffing his clothes into a duffel bag on my bag.

“You don't need to say anything,” he snaps. “I'm leaving.”

I toss the newspaper to him. He hesitates a moment, and unfolds it. Looks at the photo and reads the text.

“Another day, another story,” he mumbles. “Still think it's all a coincidence?”

I fiddle with the buttons of my shirt. Well, not
my
shirt—the shirt Ryder gave me so that I could become Andrew. Crazy thing is, this shirt is the only thing that separates fictional Andrew from actual Seth, and it's nowhere near enough.

“After you saw me getting into Sabrina's car yesterday, we drove to Griffith Park,” I say. “She told me all about being a drug addict. Now the story's out.”

“So Sabrina Layton—A-list movie star—dragged you out to a private spot and spilled her guts.” He zips the bag closed. “Did anyone see you?”

“No. Well, except for that stalker guy. I emailed you his license plate.”

“So there's a witness that you were with her. Very convenient. Makes you the prime suspect for selling her out.”

I want to tell him he's out of line if he thinks Sabrina's behind this, but truthfully, I just don't know. There's a long tradition of Hollywood stars going into rehab and emerging more popular than ever. At a time when she's losing the spotlight, is it really such a stretch?

I slump into the desk chair as Gant slings his bag over his shoulder. As usual he has left my laptop open, and the dual images of Sabrina and me—at the beach and at the party—sit side by side on the screen.

“You still think someone was filming us on the beach?” I ask.

“I'm certain of it.”

“Then why did he only sell a grainy photo? Why not sell the whole thing?”

Gant mulls this over. “Maybe he couldn't get audio. A movie's only any good if people know what you're saying, right?”

“Then why film us at all?”

He adjusts the bag. The strap stretches his pale blue T-shirt. “Maybe he wasn't thinking . . . just saw an opportunity and took it.”

Is Gant talking about the mystery cameraman, or himself?

I close the computer. “I need to tell Ryder and Brian everything. Someone's screwing with this movie. If they don't do something about it soon, there won't be a movie at all.”

“Really? Seems to me, even bad publicity is still publicity.”

We leave together and ride the elevator in silence. As the doors open, a voice carries clear across the lobby: “Tell me his room number!”

A familiar guy with shoulder-length hair is pounding on the reception desk, and the clerk looks scared. Security guards are closing in. Movie star or not, they won't stand for this.

Kris peers over his shoulder and watches the guards contemptuously. Then he catches sight of me.

He walks toward me, slow at first, and then faster, all twisted features and gritted teeth. “Swear it wasn't you, Seth. Swear it!”

KRIS LOOKS RABID, UNHINGED. I'M CERTAIN
that he's going to hit me.

“It wasn't me,” I say. “I swear, I didn't tell anyone.”

All around us people are watching and listening. They've caught a whiff of scandal, and the scent is irresistible.

“Let's go upstairs, Kris.”

“No.” His voice is low and menacing. “My car. Now.”

Reluctantly, I follow. I have to convince Kris that I'm not to blame. Maybe then I'll get some information from him and we'll edge closer to the truth.

This is Gant's chance to leave—I tried to banish him once already—but he falls in line too. Maybe he's afraid that Kris's loyal posse is going to drag me out to a deserted location and beat me up.

He's not the only one.

Kris's Porsche is double-parked outside the hotel. Gant squeezes onto the backseat, legs sprawled across the tan leather, and wrestles the seat belt across himself. In the event of an accident, he'll be screwed. Unfortunately, our driver is probably the most distracted human being I've ever met.

Kris glances at the rearview mirror as he pulls away. “Who are you, anyway?” he asks Gant.

“That's my brother,” I say.

“What's he doing here?”

“He's been staying with me.”

“Just the two of you?”

“My dad left a couple days ago.”

Kris grunts. “You're like the Beverly freaking Hillbillies. One free hotel room, and you invite half the Valley.” He watches me from the corner of his eye. “I know you saw Sabrina yesterday. She told me you were going to meet. Said she wanted to talk to you about something.” Kris massages the wheel. “I should've done something for her a long time ago. I knew she had a problem.”

“It's not your fault.”

“Of course it is,” he snaps. “Yours too. You walk into our lives like you belong, and a couple days later you think you've got this karmic understanding of Sabrina Layton. You didn't have a damn clue about her then, and you still don't know her now.”

I won't argue. He's right, in a way. I liked her, and I wanted her to like me too, but that isn't the same as knowing her.

“Remember the first night we met?” he continues. “You'd just gotten into town. And I was only at that party because Sabrina begged me to come.”

“What?”

“Yeah. She calls me up and says she's lonely. By the time I get there, you two are talking, so I stay out of the way until you're done.” He sighs. “I knew right away she'd taken something. She wouldn't admit she called me. Maybe she actually forgot. I just
wanted to give her a ride home, make sure she didn't drive herself. But then you got involved—went all hero on us.”

I grip the armrest. “I didn't know. Why didn't you say something?”

“Why should I have to? You think I owe everyone in L.A. an explanation for why my ex-girlfriend is acting weird? Think none of them would sell the story?” He smacks the wheel so hard I'm sure he's going to break it. “You're lucky I can't think of a single good reason why you would do this, 'cause all signs point to you.”

“I just swore, didn't I?” I want to keep him talking. Want to keep the questions coming from my side, and the information from his. “What if she leaked the story herself?”

“Why the hell would she do that?”

“A cry for help.”

“That right there shows you don't know the first thing about her. One, Sabrina doesn't want help. Two, she'd be killing her career.”

“Going to rehab won't kill her career.”

“I'm not talking about rehab. Sabrina's about to flake out of
Whirlwind
for the second time in three months. She has a documented drug problem. Who's going to insure her now?”

I hadn't thought about that—how movies need insurance for stuff like weather delays or injuries to a cast member. An actor who can't be insured is a difficult actor to cast.

I haven't been paying attention to where we are, so it's a surprise to see the coffee shop ahead of us. Kris checks his mirrors, slows down, and idles just outside. He peers through the driver's-side window.

As I unbuckle my seat belt, he pulls away. “I guess today's not a coffee day,” he mutters.

I'm confused. “What happened?”

“The barista and me, we've got a code. He knows I like my privacy, so he gives me a sign: Stay, or go. Today was go.” Kris turns on the stereo, and promptly turns it off again. “We've got to find out who leaked the drug story. Everything that's been going down, it started when you arrived.”

“It wasn't me.”

“Then help me find out who it was. I've got friends asking questions too. It won't be long before we know the truth.”

My heartbeat is racing. “These friends of yours, did they find out who leaked the story about you and Tamara?”

“No, because I didn't ask them to. I know damn well it was Sabrina, and I don't want anyone else to find out she can be that vindictive.” He waves the thought away. “Anyway, start asking Brian and Ryder who else is connected with this project. The way things are going, they're going to want to find out who's screwing everything up too.”

“They're already on it,” I tell him. “They've got an investigator working for them.”

“What?” Gant's voice drags me around. I'd forgotten he was in the car.

“That's what Brian told me last night when he called about . . .” I stop myself in time. If Kris finds out that Gant sold a photograph of Annaleigh and me, he'll assume my brother has been up to other stuff too.

“Told you about
what?
” demands Kris.

When I don't answer straightaway, he pulls to the side of the road and stops. Stares at me, waiting.

“They said those photographs of Sabrina and me aren't photos at all,” I tell him, using Gant's line. “They're, like, movie stills, or something.”

“So what? If someone's been filming you, they're stupid. Paparazzi can sell photos, but no one can secretly film you and release it. Not if they want to make money off it. They'd need you to sign a waiver. Give them permission. And there's no way you'd do that.”

Kris rejoins the traffic. I ought to be relieved, but the words
waiver
and
permission
take center stage in my mind. They conjure memories of my audition, and the job offer that followed, and an agreement to be filmed at all times.

At all times.

I'm sweating. My breaths are quick and shallow. “When Ryder offered you a role in the movie, you never got around to signing a contract, did you?”

“What, last week? No. I signed one four months ago, but we blew it up when I left the movie.”

“Was the new one going to be the same?”

“I don't know. I pulled out before they sent it through.” Kris eyes me suspiciously. “Why are you asking?”

Like a key turning a lock, everything is clicking into place. Only Annaleigh and Sabrina and I signed contracts, and Sabrina fired her agent before he could check it. What if it was slightly different from the earlier version? What if all three of us have agreed to be filmed at all times?

I imagine a gigantic movie set—a beach, say, or Griffith Park. The camera catches the action from afar: Sabrina and me talking, arguing, touching. But like Gant said, a movie without audio is no use at all. If we were really being filmed, our voices would've needed to be recorded from close range on an external microphone. A boom mic, most likely.

But boom mics are obvious. No, it would need to be smaller. Portable. Wireless.

I inhale sharply.

“What?” Kris is watching me.
“What?”

“The audio.” I look back at Gant. From his expression, I can tell he's putting the pieces together too. “I think I know—”

My cell phone rings. The sound is like a punch to the gut, silencing me. I ease it from my pocket with shaking hands. Check the screen, even though I know who's calling.

Brian's voice is quiet but clear. “Time to stop talking, Seth. I'd sure hate for you to say something we can't undo.”