Cut to the Chase (22 page)

Fuck this bar
, she thought.
Fuck these women
.

Her cell phone buzzed again and she ignored that as well. It was either Michele D. or Billy, two nuisances who were now each earning 15 percent of zero dollars to harangue her into cleaning up her act.

Headlines from magazines and images from entertainment shows stomped around in her brain like schizophrenic voices—relentless and unyielding.

“Avalon Randolph’s fall from grace…”

“Another celebrity scandal that has surprised no one…”

“She can’t get a job, no one will hire the out-of-control actress…”

“Disorderly, disruptive, and dissed by Hollywood…”

The press had had a field day with her. She was suddenly a pariah in the eyes of the producers and directors in town. No one would return her calls. The global reaction had been ridiculous because many celebrities had been in the same predicament at one time or another—some even seeing their career change for the better afterward. But the previous bad press had been mounting, and then the car accident, coupled with Garrett’s very public rejection of her, had created the perfect storm. It didn’t help that it had all happened in an otherwise slow few weeks for the press. The sharks had ripped at her flesh, hungry for anything they could tear off and feast on.

She emptied her glass and pounded it on the bar top.

“No more for you, okay?”

She lifted her head. The face of the bartender was swirling like a 60s psychedelic light show of oil and water.

“Fine,” she replied, and tried to stand up. She fell against the woman sitting next to her, then pushed away, only to sway in the opposite direction, landing against two other women, who caught her in their arms.

She said excuse me, but thought the words could have come out as a grunt and began to scramble toward the bar’s entrance. She knew people were looking and she assumed others had their cell phones out, documenting her drunken state, but she didn’t fucking care.

Someone called her name, but she focused on the streetlights at the sidewalk. Suddenly, she tripped on something and landed hard on her knee. Hands grabbed her under her arms and lifted her up. She shoved them away, staggered on, and finally grabbed the ironwork fence at the entrance.

A taxi had pulled away and she swore out loud. “Where’s a fucking cab, where’s a fucking cab,” she repeated to herself.

“Want a ride home?”

She turned to see a tall butch woman whom she didn’t know.

“No.”

“Come on, let me get you home,” the woman said, and stepped closer.

Another cab pulled up to the curb and she reached for the door. It wouldn’t open right away, and she fought with the handle until it flipped up and she was finally able to fall inside.

As she closed the door, the butch woman yelled, “You’re a mess, anyway.”

*

Paige had what seemed to be a nonstop series of nightmares, all around public speaking. Unnerving and distressing scenarios pummeled her as she thrashed and tried to cry out in her nocturnal paralysis. In her last one, she dreamt that she was in front of hundreds of book buyers at a signing event where she was to speak about
Cut to the Chase
. She opened her mouth and nothing came out. As the crowd grew angry, her heart began to race. Suddenly the readers were yelling and throwing her books. She dodged as many as she could, but the onslaught was too formidable. Her heart was now pounding so ferociously she could hear it banging against her chest.

Bang, bang
—the beat of her heart became deafening.

The crowd turned into villagers carrying torches, chanting, “Talk! Talk!”

Bang, bang
—she could feel her pumping organ begin to explode.

She suddenly opened her eyes and lay still in bed.

Bang, bang
.

It was the front door.

She jumped up, alarmed. Trotting over, she opened the door quickly, afraid the apartment complex was on fire.

Avalon stood there, disheveled and drunk.

“What are you doing here?” Paige shook the rest of the sleep from her brain.

Garish streaks of black mascara ran down Avalon’s cheeks. “Can I come in?”

Paige took her hand and pulled her in. Avalon almost fell and Paige grabbed her, helping her to the couch.

“I’m so sorry,” Avalon said. “Everything’s so fucked up. I fucked us up, too.”

“Now’s not the time to talk.” The clock read three a.m. She pulled a blanket from the back of the couch. “Here,” she said as she helped Avalon lie down, which was quite easy since she seemed to crumple at her touch. She spread the blanket over her and Avalon whimpered.

“Do you need a garbage can close by?”

“Maybe…”

Paige carried a can over and left her with a washcloth and a glass of water. “Just go to sleep, okay?”

Paige walked to her room, and as she crossed the threshold, she heard a weak murmur.

“I love you.”

She turned back toward the couch but couldn’t see Avalon, who was slumped on the cushions on the other side. She began to walk back but stopped.
Don’t give that any weight
, she told herself.
She’s drunk and probably feeling lost and lonely. Sleep is what she needs.

Now wide-awake, she climbed back into bed.

In the weeks since she’d turned Avalon away at her door, she’d followed the press’s account of Avalon’s descent. Numerous drunken nights and scathing photos flooded all news outlets like candy from a piñata. She’d wanted to call her so many times, to tell her she cared so much for her and to offer encouragement, but each time, she hesitated. As much as she wanted to see her again and let her know she loved her, what good would it do? She couldn’t keep up in Avalon’s world of high-speed commotion.

But here she was, asleep on her couch. She hadn’t gone to one of her, probably, hundreds of friends. She’d come to her house. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

How she wished things were different. A Tasmanian devil of a woman had swirled into her life, and as strong as her dream was to chase tornados, this one seemed way too perilous.

She stared through the doorway, to the couch where one of Hollywood’s celebrities was passed out.

Just see what happens in the morning
, she told herself.

With Avalon only a room away, Paige could picture her stretched out on the couch. She could feel Avalon’s lips and mouth and the weight of her body. The sensations of tasting her and being inside her tormented Paige to the point of frustration. She shook from deep inside. Avalon lay so close by, and Paige couldn’t rub away or shake off her little tremors of apprehension and angst. Paige could no more control her shivering than if she were naked in the Arctic. The deep, emotional chills that shook her body were annoying and utterly maddening.
Close your eyes and get some sleep
. But the images and sensory recollections of Avalon forced slumber to dance teasingly just out of her reach.

Paige wrapped herself in a robe and tiptoed out of her bedroom. From the back of the couch, she could see part of the blanket that Avalon must have thrown off. Her chest felt heavy from staying up all night fighting to exorcise the sexy thoughts and feelings of Avalon that had possessed her. They’d swirled inside, refusing to leave. She’d spent the night crawling through a cryptograph full of riddles about jumbled logic and reason and conundrums of feelings and desire.

It took all night to break the code, but now she knew what it meant.

She loved her. She sighed at her predicament and went to the kitchen, put on a pot of coffee, and let her butt rest against the counter.

What would today bring that would be any different from the days before? Avalon was a mess. Hollywood was gossiping that her uncontrollable behavior was too much of a gamble for the director of a blockbuster movie to risk investing in.

There had been too many pictures of a drunk and disheveled Avalon floating around the Internet, so Paige stayed away and focused on her book.

Now that
Cut to the Chase
was in her publisher’s hands, she had a one-act play to finish but not much else to keep her mind off the upcoming and dreadfully frightening book tour and her frustratingly enduring feelings for Avalon.

“Paige?” A weak voice came from the couch.

She poured two cups of black coffee and made her way to the couch. Avalon sat up slowly, making room for her.

“Good morning.” Paige handed her a mug and sat. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I gargled with a dead possum.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I’ve been worse.” She lowered her head, rubbing her forehead. “I lied. This is the worst.”

“How did you get here last night?”

“Taxi.”

“I’m glad you didn’t drive.”

“I can’t. My license was suspended.”

The way Avalon carefully stood reminded Paige of a ninety-five-year-old lady.

“Do you mind if I take a shower?”

Paige gave her a towel and some sweats and a T-shirt. Avalon’s attempt at a smile looked painful. She imagined it was from the hangover, not the discontent she herself felt at the sad realization that they’d probably never get to shower together.

And that made her feel as alone as an untethered astronaut floating away from the comfort of the space capsule.

*

Thirty minutes later, Avalon emerged from the bathroom feeling much better. The sweats felt comfortable and her hair was wet but clean. She found Paige in the kitchen and was offered some toast. Her stomach felt a little queasy because she’d skipped lunch and dinner the night before, prior to her imbibing. Maybe some carbs would soak up the sourness.

“You were making noises in your sleep last night,” Avalon said as she watched Paige spread blackberry jam on the toast.

“Noises?”

“Talking, almost yelling. Like you were having trouble.”

Paige handed her a plate and put her own on the counter. As she took a seat on one of the bar stools, Avalon did the same.

“Nightmares,” Paige said. “The book tour.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I’m not looking forward to it, if you want to know the understated truth. More coffee?”

“No, thank you. One cup is enough.” She tore a piece of toast and chewed it tentatively, in case her stomach had nefarious ideas. The sweet, full flavor of the blackberries was superb.

“How’s your head?”

“Okay. Maybe that means I’ve gotten used to the alcohol.”

Paige looked at her dubiously. “What’s going on, Avalon?”

She smirked at the obvious, as if being asked whether pancakes were cakes you made in a pan. “Drowning my sorrows, I suppose.”

“Do you want to know what I think?”

She kind of didn’t because she knew it would probably be the truth. “I do.”

“Those emotional bruises you’re feeling? They’re from falling off the mountain of hype you built for yourself. You kept making it bigger and bigger, and then one day, splat, you fell off.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“So who are you without the mountain? Who are you without the movies, your manager, agent, or your fans?”

It had been so long, she didn’t know.

“And where did you cross that line of acceptable behavior? It’s like the paparazzi raise their cameras and you’re granted free license to be an ass.”

“Ouch.” She found herself more humbled than she’d ever been, and for once, she didn’t fight it. Maybe it was the hangover or maybe this woman had finally gotten through to her. “You’re right.”

“I’m not trying to be mean, Avalon.”

“I know you aren’t.” A sobering realization brought an empty laugh to her lips. “You’re one of the few people who are truly honest with me.” She hung her head, ashamed of where she’d ended up. She was responsible for her predicament, no one else. “I didn’t pay attention when I started to lose myself. I willingly drank the Kool-Aid, but somewhere along the way, my spirit drained and then there was just this hollow vessel.

“Michele D., my manager, warned me about going off the rails again.” Avalon rubbed at the beginnings of an ache in her head as the truth of her behavior became increasingly clear. “When I first broke up with Jessica, I didn’t handle that well, either. She helped by pushing my buttons at the right times, like when we were in public, but the bad behavior was all me. The press just ate it up. And then I was stupid enough to accept a ‘truce’ dinner with her. I should have known it would go all wrong.”

“It wasn’t a reconciliation dinner?”

“Oh, my God, no. I hoped we could end our stupid squabbling and agree to be civil.” She shook her head slowly. “What a mess. But I’ve also been told I can’t talk to the press for a while.”

“Who told you that?”

“My manager. I’ve been gagged.”

“You can’t even respond to whatever they’re saying?”

“No. I suppose Michele D. doesn’t trust me and my mouth. I can’t disagree with her, but it’s hard not defending myself. And it seems the press wants to talk about me a lot these days.”

“I looked up the word
celebrity
online,” Paige said. “Do you know what it said? Something like, celebrity is the sole manifestation of the public’s sense of upward mobility and illusions of wealth that they, too, might obtain for themselves.”

“The American dream,” Avalon said, feeling rather foolish. Fame was as fleeting and fickle as a soap bubble.

“Holding up the American dream for all mankind is a pretty lofty burden.”

The sarcasm didn’t escape her. “Well, as you can see, I haven’t really been doing a good job of it lately.”

Normally the subsequent silence, like the one that followed a negative observation, would make her quickly fill the void with another topic of conversation. It was an obtuse diversion meant to avoid the palpable reality of her shortcomings. The stillness felt like a theater klieg light, drowning out all other details except for the pool that it illuminated. But this time, she lingered in the stinky, marshy discomfort of her predicament. Paige didn’t need to hammer it into her, and mercifully she hadn’t.