True Hollywood Lies (10 page)

“What do
you
want?” was Randy’s greeting to me. Undeterred by his sullen rudeness, I smiled pleasantly and began, “Well, I was thinking of cutting out, and I was hoping—”

His eyes narrowed, and his mouth twisted into a knowing smirk. ”Sure, doll, I’ll give you a lift.” He put his hand around my waist and gave me a hard yank, which brought us nose-to-nose, then hissed, “
And it will be the ride of your life
.”

It had been a long day, I was bone tired, and I truly didn’t need this kind of grief. At times like this, I thanked God for Leo’s insistence that he teach me the few jujitsu moves he knew, a little something he’d picked up while overseas making two or three low-budget samurai flicks in order to pay off Mr. Tax Man.

A simple wrist flex lock brought Randy to his knees, squealing like a piggy. I told him I’d let him on his feet, but only after he promised to pass along my message. Quite meekly he agreed to do that, so I let him loose—and soon regretted it. Still in shock and awe, he started blathering on and on about how he never realized I was into the whole S&M/D&S thing, and how that made me a goddess in his eyes, and would it be too much to hope that I, like he, was also a connoisseur of B&D? If so, as a platinum-card-carrying member of the Threshold Club, he would be delighted—no, he’d be
honored!—
to sponsor me for the club’s upcoming “Mistress of Madness/Siren of Sadness” contest.

That idiotic offer was the cherry on the cake of my day.

I headed for the door.

I had almost reached it, too, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. Not in the mood for any more of Randy’s games, I stopped short and was steeling myself for another altercation when I heard Mick’s voice say, “Whoa, cowgirl! It’s just little old me. And I promise I’ll get on my knees willingly, if you promise not to hurt me.”

Turning around, I couldn’t help but cringe.
So, he had seen my little altercation with Randy!

Well, that’s just great. Now he probably thinks I’m some sort of psycho nut job who gets her jollies hurting guys, I thought miserably.

As if reading my mind, Mick said, “Let me guess. Randy was his usual gentlemanly self and said something totally endearing.”

I nodded, relieved that he’d seen the situation for what it was. “Yeah, and I’m just too tired to put up with it. Unfortunately, I think my reaction gave him the wrong impression.”

“I can just imagine. Unfortunately, I once walked in on Randy in his leather chaps and halter. Trust me, something like that is hard to forget.”

I was relieved that I didn’t have to offer any further explanation.

“So, you’re not staying?” asked Mick. “Didn’t you come with Louis?”

“Yep, but he’s a big boy. Malcolm’s on remote, so I’m sure he’ll find his way home one way or another. Which reminds me: I should call a taxi.”

“Don’t bother. I’ve got my bike right outside. I’ll give you a lift.”

I didn’t answer immediately. I had planned on going back to Louis’s to get my car. Then I was going to go home to change into some jeans before doing my stargazing, which, I’m sure, would have sounded somewhat lame to a guy like Mick.

Now he’ll
know
I’m a nut if I tell him about the great evening I’ve got planned, I thought.

I elected to stall. “Shouldn’t you stay here, for Ethan?”

“Nah, I’ve already paid my condolences. Besides, when he’s around Ophelia, he’s no fun anyway.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, I get that feeling, too. Still, the place is hopping. I think you’d want to hang around…”

The band kicked off a yowling riff that had Mick cupping his ears. “What? I can’t hear you!” Shaking his head, he gently steered me out the door with him.

The street was teeming with passersby, all dressed for a flirtatious Friday night on the Strip. In both directions, across all four lanes, cars were doing a bumper-to-bumper crawl, the better to ogle and hoot at the club-hopping crowds. It was noisy outside, too, but at least we could hear each other.

He was making it clear that I wasn’t going to lose him easily—not that I minded that in the least.

Okay, I thought, I’ll come clean. That should scare him away.

“I appreciate the offer. But I’m sure I’ll be putting you out of your way. You see, I have to go back up Laurel and grab my car from Louis’s place, then I was going to go home and change, and then head out to—well, to Griffith Park. The observatory.”

“But it’s late. Isn’t it closed?”

“There’s a platform that UCLA has set up for its new planet research. That’s my
real
job.”

He gave me an incredulous look. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m very serious. But since taking this job with Louis, I’ve been so busy that I haven’t been able to keep up my research. So, it’s now or never.” I sighed. “Hey, I understand perfectly if you want to bow out on your offer to give me a lift. Don’t feel obligated to stick around.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a cab pull over and disgorge a drunk, giggling couple. “See you when we get back from London, I hope.”

“Look, I’ll make you a deal,” said Mick. “You quit trying to brush me off, and I’ll give you a ride up the hill. In fact, if you let me, I’d like to tag along on your little stargazing expedition.”

“Well, sure. But why would you want to do that?”

“Because I—well, I feel like a fool admitting this now, but, okay, I’ll say it. Just don’t laugh at me: although I’ve lived here for the past twelve years of my life, I’ve never been to the observatory.”

I did laugh. Hard. And so did he. “I’m sorry,” I gasped, “but I
can
believe you’ve never been there. Most of L.A. doesn’t even know it exists, which is a shame.”

“Then you won’t mind being my guide tonight?”

I smiled. “I’d be honored. It’s a fair swap for the lift—and the gas.”

And (hopefully) your friendship.

* * *

While I was changing in the bedroom, Mick—keeping a gentlemanly distance in my small, cramped living room—peppered me with questions about planet searches and my interest in astronomy.

“What kind of telescope do you use?”

“A TeleVue NP-101. It’s portable, but still bulky—about twenty-five pounds. It has a four-inch APO refractor. On it, I use a Carl Zeiss Monocentric lenspiece, which is around fifty years old but considered a classic among astronomers because of its two-lens design—as opposed to many modern telescopes, which have as many as nine lenses. This gives it a narrower field of vision, which means it takes in more light transmission from objects farther away, which the newer multi-lens scopes can’t see.”

“Wow. I’m impressed. So which star will we be watching?”

“Gamma Microscopii. It’s about 220 light-years away from Earth.” I answered, and “it’s called ‘Mic’ for short. I also explained that scientists both at UC Berkeley and in Australia already suspected that a planet that is somewhat larger than Jupiter and three times farther from its star than the Earth is from the Sun, is orbiting Mic somewhere within the expansive disk of dust emanating from it. Bets are that this mysterious planet was somewhere within the first three or so AUs (astronomical units) closest to Mic. The goal now was to verify their findings, and that called for around-the-clock observation by amateur astronomers like me.”

“Mic, huh? Like me. Pretty neat,” he exclaimed. Then, somewhat embarrassed at the pride in his voice, he continued, “How can you tell if a planet is orbiting a star?”

While there were several methods, amateur astronomers such as myself used the Doppler Wobble method, which noted wiggles—or “wobbles”—made by the star as it pulls planets with a magnetic field. I don’t know if he heard this explanation, though, because at the time, my head was buried in a too-tight La Via 18 silk sweater that was caught on an earring.

“That means the star needs constant surveillance, and there just aren’t enough scientists to do it—which is why they welcome us volunteers to pick up the slack. If we’re able to confirm their theory, we all win.”

“How long should the whole project take?”

“It’s hard to say. It may take months or years,” I said.

That brought a low whistle from him. “If you don’t find it, will you feel as if you’ve wasted your time?”

I paused, both to collect my thoughts on that question and to zip up my favorite pair of old, faded jeans. Because I wanted to see his face when I gave my answer, I grabbed a jacket out of my closet, opened the bedroom door and walked out into the living room, where I found Mick peering into my telescope—which was pointed directly through the bedroom door’s keyhole.

Caught red-handed, he looked up sheepishly. “Wow, this thing
is
powerful!”

I snatched it out of his hand and headed out the door. “To answer your question: sure, it’s a crap shoot, with lousier odds. I guess that’s exactly how you feel after writing a script, waiting for some producers to option it, watch them sit on it, have it go into turnaround, only to have it put back on the shelf. Then, if a movie actually gets made, first it’s totally rewritten, or in fact could be rewritten two, three or more times, so that it’s
really
not your script anymore. And that process may take a very long time, maybe even a decade or longer, soup to nuts, right?”

He nodded, chagrined. “You’ve got a good point there.”

I pointed in the direction of the Beetle. “I’m driving tonight. Hop in.”

* * *

Here is what I learned about Mick as we took turns watching Mic twirl and flicker:

He was originally from a small town in Missouri, which, he claimed, had absolutely no skyscrapers. Because of that fact, I pointed out, it was more than likely his hometown had a great sky for stargazing.

He was allergic to cats. (Which made me glad I didn’t have one.)

He preferred writing for film over TV, and although he had done both, he’d probably be richer by now if he had stuck it out in television.

His mother worried that he wasn’t eating enough. (If she had been around for the boxing party, her mind would have been put at ease, because he’d been eating nonstop then!)

Like me, he couldn’t stand Ophelia and was praying that Ethan would figure her out before she conveniently forgot to take her contraceptive pill and played on his natural instinct to “do good by her.” (“No one really pulls that act, do they? I thought that went out with
An Officer and a Gentleman
,” I said, horrified. “Oh, you’d be surprised how popular that trick is...and, for that matter, the movie’s DVD rental,” explained Mick.)

Here is what Mick found out about me (and believe me, that’s
only
because he asked):

How much I already missed Leo.

How angry I was at Leo for leaving me before we could clean up the crap between us.

How much I regretted not having been able to tell Leo what I really needed from him when I’d had the chance.

How proud I had hoped to make Leo of me by doing something like this—
particularly
something like this, which had nothing to do with the “industry.”

Neither of us mentioned Louis.

By five o’clock, enough light was piercing the sky to convince us that we had strained our eyes—and our voices—enough for one night. The ride back to my place was made in silence. Mick insisted on walking me to my door and lugging the telescope for me. I thanked him, then informed him that I now knew it was worth taking the time to put putty in my bedroom’s keyhole.

When he leaned over to kiss me, I didn’t try to stop him. Nor did I object when he moved us out of the doorway and, very gently, pulled me through the living room into my bedroom and onto my bed.

And I’ll admit it: it was I who ripped the button off his shirt while pulling it out from under his belt. Granted, we took turns peeling off each other’s jeans, but I’ll give him full credit for how quickly he can unsnap a Victoria’s Secret Second Skin Satin unlined demi bra, and definite kudos for his gentle touch while slipping off my lace low-rise Brazilian tanga, and for the tender way in which he explored every nook and cranny of my love-charged body. . .

Until the phone rang.

Reflexively I grabbed it, while Mick groaned.

Love hurts.

Unrequited love is an even bigger bitch.

Of course, none of that mattered to Louis, who was in full-fledged crisis mode.

“Love, where the
hell
have you been? I’ve been calling your goddam cell all evening!”

“I wasn’t expecting you—I mean, I shut it off after I left the club. I’ve been—well, I—Louis, it’s
Saturday
. Didn’t Randy give you my message?”

“Randy? No, Randy said nothing. Look, something—something terrible has happened—” There was an ache in his voice, which broke before he could finish the sentence. “I need you.”

“
Right now
? But it’s—it’s not even six o’clock yet!”

“Please, Hannah. Look, I’ll—I’ll explain when you get here.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the ceiling, weighing what meant more to me: my obligation to Louis or my lust for Mick.

Mick made the decision for me. He got up, got dressed, and left me with nothing more than a kiss on the forehead.

And a broken heart.

It took me exactly 38 minutes to hightail it from my place to Louis’s.

In the meantime, Louis had somehow found the strength to pull himself together. He was fully dressed, shaved and humming one of T’s rap ditties as he munched a Zone-approved low-carb scone along with his glass of grapefruit juice. He didn’t even look up from his
Variety
as I ran in.

“Change of plans,” he said, smiling brightly. “We’re leaving for New York immediately.”

“Oh . . . ’kay.” My mind went in a million directions. Suddenly I had a headache. “I’ll have to call the jet service and let them know. And change the Ritz reservation. And the tulip order, I guess. Uh . . . may I ask what happened? You seemed pretty upset when you hung up forty minutes ago.”

Could he tell by my tone that I was a bit peeved? I hoped so.

“I suddenly realized how badly I missed Tatiana. You know how it is when you’re in love, right? And you can’t bear to be away one more second?”