The Gravity Between Us (New Adult Contemporary Romance) (20 page)

A moment later, a second limo pulls up. Lauren’s posse hops out and she trails behind them. Right away, my attention is on her. She’s in a white spaghetti strap gown adorned with black crystal accents down the back
. Well that’s friggin’
perfect
. She looks to die for!

She enters the lobby, ropes Payton into a hug, and kisses her cheek—not a faux-kiss, an actual lips-meet-skin kiss. A violent upsurge of nausea abruptly locks my stomach in a vice. I’m not sure whether I’m going to throw up or faint, but I’m positive something terrible is going to happen. To my surprise, Gunner steadies me by slipping his arm around my waist.

“I know you told me not to touch you, but you’re looking kind of green,” he whispers.

I hold onto him tightly until I’m able to regain my composure. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

I suck it up, stutter out an overly pleasant ‘hello’ to Lauren.

“Your dress is amazing!” she returns.

“Yours too, sweetheart!” I turn to Gunner. “Please, get me out of here,” I mumble.

He answers with a wide, genuine-looking smile that causes me to second guess my distaste for him. “Okay, people,” he calls loudly. “We should get rolling. Don’t want to miss the press!”

Everyone titters in agreement. We herd to our limos like cattle, and I can’t help thinking that we’re all a bunch of desperate fame whores. I get one last look at Payton before she vaporizes behind darkened glass windows. She’s beaming.
Great.

❄ ❄ ❄

We arrive at the Beverly Regency to a choir of screaming fans. They’re penned up behind steel barricades, holding out pictures and posters. Some of my fans are clasping hardcover copies of
The Relishing
. It’s noisier and crazier than usual, and word only
recently
got out that I’ve been cast in this film. There’s a very good chance I could be trampled if I get too close. Still, I can’t stand how these people are kept in cages—how the bloodsuckers in charge of these events separate the haves from the have-nots with impenetrable dividers and beefy security guards.

As we make our way closer to the fan zone, Lawrence hands me two silver sharpies. Even though I’m a righty by nature, I’ve recently mastered the art of hurriedly signing my name with both hands simultaneously. I like to fit in as many autographs as possible, because I really don’t want anyone to be nearly crushed to death while vying for my attention.

Lawrence is ahead of me, making sure I don’t pause for too long. People with cameras keep asking if I can take photos with them. Lawrence responds, “She’s not stopping for pictures, only autographs” to every one of them. I keep moving along per his instruction, until I come across a man with a little blonde girl on his shoulders. They are wearing matching
The Relishing
t-shirts.

I’m about to sign his book when I notice that the girl has tiny braces on her thin, little legs. She’s so quiet and well behaved, it damn near breaks my heart.

“Is that you daughter?” I ask the man. “What’s her name?”

“Yes. Her name is Jessie.” He reaches up, tickles her sides. She chuckles ever so sweetly.

“Should I make this out to her?”

“Yes, please. It’s Jessie with an I-E. She loves this book so much. She wants to be just like Ciara when she grows up.”

“Do you have a camera with you?”

He nods and pulls a cell phone from his pocket. I kick off my heels and literally start scaling the barrier. The exertion sends ripples of pain down my injured arm, but I ignore the sting and keep climbing. As I ascend, the crowd roars to a deafening decibel. It’s as though these people think I’m a bona fide superhero. They friggin’
love
me. It’s fabulous!

Lawrence grabs my shoulder. Through clenched teeth, he asks, “What
the hell
are you doing?”

“Being a superhero,” I whisper and motion for the man to give his phone to Lawrence. “Take a picture of the three of us, Lawrence,” I bark. He’s so surprised by the demand that he snaps two pictures without complaint.

I jump down from the barricade, slip my shoes back on and take the phone from Lawrence. I check to make sure the photos aren’t blurry before returning the phone. “Here you go.”

The man is so stoked, he’s tearing up. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.” I wave to the girl. “It was so great to meet you, Jessie!”

Lawrence tries to hurry me away from the fans and over to the press section, but I stop him. “Get that man’s name and address. I want four VIP passes to
The Relishing’s
LA premier sent to him.”

I expect him to object, but he simply says, “Okay, I’ll handle it. Go over to the press box.”

From out of nowhere, Gunner reappears at my side. “Are you feeling better now?”

Truthfully, all those people shouting my name and showing me so much adoration made me blank over that I haven’t seen a shadow of Payton since arriving. “A little bit, yes. Thanks for asking.”

“No big deal,” he murmurs. “Now, let’s look happy for the cameras.”

We smile and pose for pictures—first together, then separately. I’m showing off the back of my gown when I hear the crowd behind me boom. I glance toward the penned-up area. Lauren is there signing autographs. Payton is standing beside her, looking completely overwhelmed and unnerved. She only gets worse as Lauren guides her down the red carpet. While Lauren jokes with the photographers and adopts perfect poses like a seasoned pro, Payton is stiff and tongue-tied.

Well, that was the briefest respite in history. So much for feeling better!

The cameras keep flashing. Reporters are hollering, wanting to know all about Lauren’s mysterious companion. Lauren tells the world her name, says she’s a musician, and then points to me. “She’s also best friends with the lovely Miss Kendall Bettencourt,” she says. Like a shot, everyone in the press box is yelling for Payton to strike a pose and comment on her gown. She’s a statue; she doesn’t move an inch.

Gunner hitches his head toward Payton. “I think she needs some help.”

I consider being spiteful and letting Lauren deal with it, but my heart won’t let me leave Payton in the hands of someone who doesn’t know her well enough to understand how to disengage her from panic mode. I sneak over to her and take her hand into my own. “Twirl for me,” I say at the top of my voice. She smiles and snaps into action, whirling in a series of slow turns. Cameras capture picture after picture as the photographers ooh and aww.

“And who are you wearing tonight?” I ask, lightly prodding her with my elbow as a hint to target the reporters with her answer.

She steps closer to the outthrusted microphones. “I’m wearing Victoria Westfeld. Isn’t it beautiful? I feel like a princess.”

Lauren leans in close and puts her hand on Payton’s back. “And you
look
like a princess,” she says in earshot of the reporters.
Sure, Lauren, throw out a lifejacket after your date has already been saved from drowning.

I’m starting to feel sick again, and it
couldn’t come at a worse time. Lawrence and Stacy indicate that we should move into the ballroom, but I’m not ready to let Payton out of my sight. I don’t trust that Lauren can handle her with appropriate kid gloves. They’ve both got a few minutes left with the press. If I lose them now, there’s no way I’ll be able to find them once they’ve gotten inside. I’m sure to be preoccupied with mandatory mingling and requisite dancing.

“Come on,” Gunner says. “I think she’ll be okay, now.”

“Okay,” I sigh and turn to Payton. “Try to have fun. I’ll track you down later.”

She nods. “All right. See you later.”

As I move to follow Gunner into the banquet hall, I realize that Payton now seems much more relaxed. She’s talking animatedly with a few reporters. Her hand is knotted with Lauren’s.
It figures.
I
talk Payton out of her fit of anxiety, and
Lauren
reaps the benefits.
Don’t think about it, I tell myself. Go inside, converse and dance.

“I hope you like to dance,” I say to Gunner once we’ve made our way into the ballroom. “I’m going to keep you on your feet most of the night.”

“I like to dance.” He pauses. “I’m sorry about being an ass this morning. I’m bad at flirting and worse at being rejected. Can we start over? It would be cool if we could be friends.”

He seems so sincere. Plus, he’s been such a good sport about my mini-meltdowns this evening. He hasn’t once asked me to explain myself, or looked at me like I’m a total headcase. Yes, I think we can be friends.

“Forget about this morning. Let’s have a good time tonight.”

“Cool. How about we make the rounds and then we can cut a rug.”

“Cut a rug?” I chuckle. “Despite your use of archaic phrasing, you’re on. Let’s get some drinks first though.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Payton

T
his whole evening is way too much for me. As if talking to reporters and having photographers take a boat-load of pictures of me wasn’t enough, Lauren introduces me to practically every celebrity in the room. I meet actors, musicians, designers, everyone save for the freaking President of the United States. All anyone says to me is “your dress is gorgeous” and “you ought to get into the fashion industry.” They don’t seem to care about anything unless it’s pleasing to the eye. I’ve overheard conversation upon conversation about clothing and sports cars and jewelry, but not a single mention of the sorry state of the planet, the struggling economy, global politics, the friggin’ destruction of the rainforest—nothing that actually matters. It makes me wonder whether these people are truly shallow, or if they’re simply ignorant to the world’s problems thanks to the well-to-do bubble they live in.

For Lauren’s sake, I maintain my composure while wading through the ever-flowing stream of mindless dialogue. She must gather that I’m having difficulty containing my contempt for these people, because she continually apologizes for their vapidity. “I’m so embarrassed,” she says. “I swear, I think everyone is afraid to be themselves at these events. Most of my friends are really cool human beings when they’re not all huddled together in a group.”

“I’m sure it’s difficult having to keep up appearances and all that,” I agree, trying not to let my skepticism rear its ugly head. I want to ask her how she can possibly stand it. She’s such a
normal
person. She’s so
real
. At least, that’s how she seems.

“I’m going to grab another glass of champagne. Would you like one?”

“Why not?” I know I should probably slow down
.
I’ve already had more than my fill of alcohol tonight. I hope I don’t get so hammered as to discover tomorrow morning via the
LA Times
that I’ve done something stupid like streaking down Sunset Boulevard.

“Okay. When I get back we’ll dance?”

“Sure,” I nod and watch her retreat toward the bar.

In her absence, I am roped into a discussion about nothing of consequence with some annoying, self-obsessed pop singer. I notice that he is wearing a watch and interrupt his ridiculously implausible story to ask the time. It’s 11:20. I haven’t seen Kendall since the party began. She said she’d find me, but obviously hasn’t made much of an effort to do that so far. Maybe she’s off having an excellent time with Mr. Blonde-haired, Green-eyed, Perfectly Buff Hollywood Hottie, dancing the night away, or laughing with him in a quiet corner somewhere.

“Payton, your champagne.” Lauren returns and hands me a glass. I drink it quickly and place the empty flute on a nearby table. “Wow,” she says, sounding impressed. “Okay, ready to dance?” She smiles a sweet, heartfelt smile. I all but completely blank over the irritation I’m feeling.

I strain to hear the music over the dull rumble of chatting. It’s up-tempo and thick with synths. “Yeah, I can bust some moves to this song.”

“Great!” She grabs my hand, leads me through the sea of show biz aristocrats and onto the hardwood dance floor.

She sways gracefully in perfect time with the beat, changing her rhythm slightly to suit every passing track. Her smooth, hypnotic movements draw me in. She pulls me closer, slithers down my body and back up again. I can feel the warmness radiating from her skin, the wet-hot balminess of sweat bleeding through her pores. “You’re good at this,” she whispers. Her breath tickles my ear.

“So are you.”

She wraps her arms around my neck. As if on cue, the music slows. The sudden variation throws me off, and I nearly trip over my own feet. “Want to take a break?” she asks, concern in her eyes.

“No. It’s just been a long time since I’ve slow-danced with anyone. I’m not sure I’m fit to lead.” I admit, feeling totally inept.

“Sure you are. Let the rhythm guide you.”

I suck in a lungful of air, place my hands on her hips, then close my eyes and tune in to the song. The musician in me takes command. My brain sends signals to my feet, telling them to move in stride with the bass drum. Lauren follows step for step. I open my eyes to find her smiling widely. “There you go. It’s kind of like riding a bike.”

“Dancing with you is much better than riding a bike.” I hadn’t intended to make her blush, but her cheeks go rosy. She looks away and grins. Once she recovers from reddening, she rests her head against my shoulder.

It’s an interesting feeling, being pressed against someone without having to worry if I’m reading the situation wrong. It’s completely uncomplicated. She likes me. I like her. We’re dancing and touching and having a nice time. There is nothing more to do than bask in the simplicity of the moment.

The song seems to go on for hours. When it ends, Lauren pecks me on my cheek. “Thank you. You’ve been a lovely date this evening.”

Before I can reply, the DJ cuts the music. He lets the crowd know that midnight is upon us. The huge projection screen behind him flickers to life. A pre-recorded video of the Times Square ball drop rolls, and he begins the countdown to the New Year at thirty.

Lauren takes my hand, looks at me and shouts “twenty-nine” along with the rest of the crowd. By twenty-eight, I am giddily counting, too. “Twenty-seven! Twenty-six!”