Reunion Girls (21 page)

Finn laughed. "God, you're so straight. It's ridiculous. At least tell me you've jacked off with a buddy before. That would make you hetero but human."

The thought repulsed him. "No, I haven't."

"Not even in high school?"

"No!"

"You know what's funny?" Finn asked. He raised up to carefully survey Dean Paul. "I can't even categorize you as a metrosexual. You don't try that hard." He glanced down at Dean Paul's hands. "When's the last time you had a manicure?"

"I've never had one. It's a waste of time and money."

"And yet your nails are perfect. It's sickening."

Dean Paul's expression was pleading. "Can we talk about Lara now?"

"I suppose."

"Did she honestly tell you that Joaquin was the best sex she's ever had?"

Finn sighed. "You know Lara. She would never say something like that out loud. I've just connected the dots." He paused thoughtfully. "Why do you care so much all of a sudden? You didn't have me on speed dial when Garrett the manic-depressive tennis player was making her miserable."

"Joaquin Cruz is sleazy," Dean Paul said firmly.

"Why? Because he's been with the Kometani twins at the same time, and you haven't?"

Dean Paul ignored Finn's question and pressed on. "I've heard stories about him from other guys on the charity polo circuit. He's got a friend in San Antonio—Eddie Azzar. Another high goaler. These two have a contest going on between them about who can sleep with the most upscale women. They call it the Top-Shelf Club."

Finn raised up. He removed his sunglasses and used his hand as a visor to look directly at Dean Paul. "Are you serious?"

He nodded severely. "They keep up the game everywhere they play—Buenos Aires, Sotogrande, Santa Barbara . . . the Hamptons. I've heard there's a private Facebook page—a running tally of all the women, journal entries, some candid photos—but I can't find it on-line."

"Have you told her about this?"

"I tried, but she doesn't want to hear anything I have to say. I was hoping you would talk to her."

Finn looked worried. "I'll give it a shot. Lara's really got it bad for this guy, though. Do you know that she ditched me for lunch today? I think it was to meet him. I tried her cell phone for two hours, and she never picked up. In the middle of a business day? That's so unlike her. I wish we could find this Facebook page. I don't want to humiliate her, but she needs to see the truth."

Dean Paul stood up and slipped back into his shirt. "Work on that for me. Okay?"

Finn nodded, his face tight with concentration.

Dean Paul started to go. "This was fun, Finn. And I appreciate the advice on the book party tonight. I plan on following it to the letter." He winked and took off at a fast clip toward the elevator. Once there, he rang Jennifer Goldbum.

She answered right away.

"Guess who?"

He could sense her smiling over the line. "My new correspondent! I heard you were back early from Greece. Are you crazy? I would die to be there right now."

"Yeah, well, sometimes you don't have a choice."

Jennifer hesitated. "You know that we covered that story about your photos, right? We had to. It was major. But we kept things to a minimum."

"Hey,
Hollywood Live
has a job to do. I understand that. But I'm ready to be on the
reporting
end of the show for a change. What do you think about moving up my start date?"

"That sounds great!" Jennifer said brightly. "How soon?"

"Tonight. I want to cover Jake James's book party."

Jennifer fell silent. "You're kidding, right?"

"No, I'm dead serious. Why shouldn't I take the high road?"

"The story's already been assigned... to Brooke," Jennifer began, thinking out loud. "Bizzie Gruzart gave us an exclusive. We'll have the only broadcast team inside. Give me five minutes to work on this." She hung up and called back in two. "It's done. I'll meet you outside at eight o'clock."

From the SoHo House, Dean Paul walked to his apartment, a massive loft in the Flatiron District off Fifth Avenue. He owned the entire top floor—over four thousand square feet. With views exposing north, south, east, and west, the natural light was amazing. There were two fireplaces, exposed brick walls, two and a half slate baths, and four bedrooms. The place was total Zen.

A note had been taped to the stainless steel fridge. Aspen was out to see her manager. Afterwards, she planned on meeting some other
Survivor
vets for drinks. He shouldn't wait up.

Dean Paul didn't intend to. He knew that she would probably dance on a table and come stumbling in sometime before dawn. The fact that she was in conference with her manager concerned him. After all, he wanted her to do that cheesy reality-star burlesque show in Las Vegas, and Aspen was just desperate enough to accept, if only to show her husband that she was indeed a sought-after commodity.

There was a message from his mother on the machine. He decided to put off calling her until tomorrow. The grande dame Sophia Mills could wait. She had laid out enough guilt this morning to last throughout the month. No way was he giving her another chance to light into him.

He had met his parents for breakfast at the Ritz-Carlton on Central Park South. They lived on a private tower floor in an opulent, ten-room condo that allowed them to take advantage of all premium hotel offerings, including room service.

It had been his mother's idea to grace publishing houses with her regal presence. That was her passive-aggressive way of telling them, "Don't make an offer on that slut's book about my son!" She had made quite a show about the physical and mental costs of her efforts—how tiring it was, how awful some of the editors were, how much she detested the younger agent who had taken over for her retired one.

Dean Paul had listened dutifully, and, when appropriate, he'd offered empty apologies for the whole sordid mess. But he knew better than to take his mother's bitching at face value. Sophia Mills wanted to get back out there and listen to people tell her how wonderful she was. His little scandal was just the push she needed to build excitement again for the memoirs she had been vaguely promising for the last two decades. Instead of sniping about it, she should be thanking him for showing his ass and peeping his johnson to Babe's camera.

His father had been no easier to take. Robert Lockhart started in on the tired subject of law school, and dismissed the
Hollywood Live
gig as a job more suitable for former Miss Americas. Gee, thanks, Pop. Can sonny boy get that praise on a plaque for his home office? Parents. Sometimes they could drive you up the wall.

He didn't allow the lack of enthusiasm to get him down. Would it be nice to have their support? Yes. But could he live without it? In a heartbeat. Deep down, Dean Paul knew that he stood the greatest chance of making his mark in entertainment. It coursed through his veins. Hell, growing up, he had figured out his best angles before he learned the letters of the alphabet.

He fired up a Coldplay playlist on the stereo, twisted up the volume, and hit the shower. As the song "Clocks" played, he lathered up in preparation for a shave, and thought about Gabrielle. There had been that moment today . . . she was so close to confiding in him. What kind of demons was she fighting? At least he had helped out on the publicist front.

Dean Paul felt certain Bizzie Gruzart would serve Gabrielle well. Though disliked by many, Bizzie's name carried clout, and she had instant access to connections that mattered. Anything was an improvement over Baby Bear scratching down messages from Diane Sawyer.

The phone rang.

He finished rinsing and stepped out, picking up the extension in the water closet.

It was Finn. "I found it.”

"Shit. That was fast." Dean Paul wrapped a towel around his waist.

"I just started playing around on-line. You know, it's not just gay porn on the Internet. There's a lot of straight porn, too."

"I'm shocked."

“I’m staring at Joaquin's mug right now. He and his friend Eddie are grinning like two boarding-school brats who just finished a panty raid at the sister school."

"How bad is it?"

"She'll never speak to him again. That's what you want, right?"

"Believe me, I'm not happy about this. If she were head over heels for a nice banker, I never would have bothered you."

"Lara never got over you. Are you aware of that?"

Dean Paul mulled the question. But he chose to ignore it. "She seems to have moved on quite nicely. I'm not in her thoughts right now. I know that."

"Joaquin is just sex. Once the smoke clears, she'll be pining over you again. I don't understand how you can pass up a woman like Lara to marry an Aspen Bauer."

"It's complicated, Finn."

"She would kill me for telling you this, but I think you need to know. Lara spent over five thousand dollars on a signed first edition of
The Great Gatsby.
That's your favorite book, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Does Aspen know that?"

He didn't answer.

"Lara keeps it on her bookshelf. She has this fantasy of getting back together and you finding it on a rainy Sunday afternoon."

Dean Paul gripped the receiver tightly and looked up at the ceiling. There was true ache in his heart. "I have to go, Finn. Thanks for the detective work. Send me a link. You'll break this ugly news to Lara?"

"I usually love gossip like this." Finn's voice was heavy. "But not when she's the victim. Why can't this be happening to someone who actually deserves it?"

"Things are rarely that balanced." Dean Paul hung up and dressed quickly, choosing a lapis blue shirt that brought out his eyes. He dismissed the idea of a tie and left the top three buttons undone.

The book party was going down on Lafeyette Street in Greenwich Village. Dean Paul saw the
Hollywood Live
van and went straight to it.

Jennifer embraced him warmly and offered platitudes about how much she looked forward to working with him. Then she introduced Thumper Thomas, an athletic black cameraman and a dead ringer for Usher
.

She got down to business and discussed the plan of attack. Jake James might be a name on the rise, but he was no Matt Lauer. Originally, the coverage had been budgeted for a thirty-second tease. But the fact that it was now Dean Paul's debut boosted the story to feature status and two minutes. Jennifer wanted crowd shots of beautiful New Yorkers, an interview with the guest of honor, and maybe a sound bite from an A-list name in attendance. When she finished, Jennifer parted Dean Paul's shirt so that more of his chest was revealed. "And I want to show lots of you."

He just smiled at her. It didn't make him feel uncomfortable, because the gesture carried no sexual import. It was simply a good television maneuver. A jolt of inspiration hit him. "Can we try something outside? Right here in front of the door. I've got an idea for an intro."

Jennifer looked intrigued. "Sure. Why not?"

Thumper positioned himself on the sidewalk.

Dean Paul took possession of the microphone outfitted with the
Hollywood Live
logo. It felt good in his hand. Then he grabbed a copy of Jake's book.

The area bustled with activity. Party invitees were still streaming through the entrance, and a gaggle of spectators had gathered to watch the TV crew in action.

Dean Paul didn't have a script. The words were floating somewhere in his head. He just hoped they found their way out of his mouth.

Thumper gave him a signal.

And then he jumped off the proverbial cliff. "This is Dean Paul Lockhart reporting for
Hollywood Live
." He could feel the energy infused in each syllable. The realization was instant. This was his destiny. "I'm here outside a Manhattan nightspot for a party celebrating Jake James's new book,
Put Up Your Dukes."
Dean Paul raised a fist in mocking tribute to the title. "He's the host of MSNBC's
In the Ring with Jake James.
Just between you and me, I don't have my TiVo programmed to record that on a season pass. I went to college with the guy. Let's just say we ran in different circles. Maybe you've heard about those semi-nude pictures of me taken by my ex-girlfriend that he plastered all over his show? I'll admit it—at first, I was embarrassed. But then I remembered something J.R. Ewing once said on
Dallas.
'Never get caught with a dead woman or a live boy.' I was alone in those pics, so the way I figure it, I'm safe." He winked. "Now let's move past the velvet rope and find out who's here and what they're saying." He held up the book. "By the way, chapter seven really beats up on me. Jake James knows how to throw a punch, I'll give him that. But you won't catch me in a rumble." He pointed to his perfect nose. "Does this look like it's ever been broken? I'm a lover, not a fighter." He flashed his killer smile, the one that could get any woman he ever wanted into bed. "Follow me." And then he opened the door and disappeared inside. A few seconds later, he doubled back.

Jennifer was holding her head between her hands. "That was amazing. You did it in one shot. And off the cuff! It was brilliant."

Dean Paul grinned.

"I think I'm going to come," Jennifer said.

Thumper howled with laughter.

Dean Paul cracked up, too. "It's that easy? You must save your boyfriend a lot of effort.” He opened the door and motioned them through. "Come on. After we wrap this, dinner's on me."

The club resembled an indoor tree house with its wood-paneled walls, chairs carved out of timber chunks, and the gigantic birch forest photograph that commanded an entire upstairs wall.

Bizzie Gruzart rushed them upon entry. "Dean Paul! I never expected to see you here tonight." She gave him a faux scolding with her index finger. "This is my party. You better be good."

Dean Paul raised the peace sign. "Scout's honor." He put an arm around the homely Bizzie and led her away for a confidential conference. "Thanks for taking Gabrielle Foster on. She really needs someone in her corner right now."

Bizzie beamed up at him.

"I'd consider it a personal favor if you gave her situation your very best effort. She's being shot at from all sides." He paused. "That's a poor choice of words considering the incident on Park Avenue. But you know what I mean."