Picture Perfect (10 page)

Truthfully, though, I can’t say it was all Jennifer’s fault. She may have been the catalyst to propel him out of our home, but his spirit had left long before his body did. And if I really want to be frank, I have to admit that it was my own success eclipsing his that did us in.

Alan was never quite the same after I won my first Golden Globe. No matter how good he was at his job, he wasn’t going to win an award for it. And recognition from his peers was the one thing he always craved more than anything else.

I tried to convince him that my accolades were attributable to him, as well. That I couldn’t even have gotten on the shortlist if it weren’t for his marketing campaigns making sure that my productions were forefront on the voters’ minds. And telling him that his spousal support helped me do my job all that much better was about as effective as putting a tourniquet on a decapitated head. It only embittered him. After all, he was still a man. The kind of man that didn’t like being out-performed by his wife.

Women may have spent millennia supporting the efforts of their husbands without so much as a kind word of thanks, but most men are far too fragile to accept such a role. And Alan, a Hollywood man at that, is no exception.

I squeeze my arms tighter around Jack as he pulls up to the entrance of my building. He silences the motor and takes off his helmet. Reluctantly, I release my grip on his waist and follow suit, pulling off the spare he’d given me at the start of the evening’s adventures. It feels almost like removing battlefield armor after tonight’s events. But even though a battle was fought, a war was hardly won. In fact, it seems only to have just begun.

I hop off the motorcycle and retrieve my purse from the side compartment. I hate that I got Jack into the middle of my mess with Alan, and as much as I thoroughly enjoyed our bedroom exploits, I wish I hadn’t been so easily tempted. Now, not only does Alan have something he can lord over me in our divorce proceedings, but he’s also got a juicy bit of gossip for the rumor mill to feed on. I can’t believe Alan would be so crass as to publicly declare my illicit affair with Jack, but he won’t even need to. All it will take is an off-handed remark, and the web of scandal will weave itself.

And Jack will be little more than a pawn in Alan’s game. I might have the chops to handle whatever tawdry tales the gossipmongers choose to spin, but I’m not so sure about Jack.

Hollywood has seen its share of shooting stars rise to the zenith only to come crashing down just as quickly as they ascended. It doesn’t take much to tarnish the career of even the most established celebrity. A drunken row with a cop, a fender-bender with a paparazzo, a mental breakdown on the set, an adulterous affair made public… For an actor on the way up, any one of those calamities can lead to career catastrophe. 

I unzip the leather jacket I’ve been wearing like a spoil of war, but Jack places his hand on my wrist before I can take it off.

“Where can I park?”

“Park?”

Jack draws my attention to the “no parking” sign at the curb.

“I don’t think people would be too happy about me leaving my bike right here.”

“You’re coming up?”

“You don’t think I’m gonna leave you alone tonight? He knows where you live. What would stop him from coming after you here?”

I shake my head. As much as I’d love spending the night in Jack’s arms, I’m pretty sure it isn’t the right thing to do. Not only will we have to deal with the scandal that will most certainly come to light as soon as the sun rises on Los Angeles, but I also fear the only way to get my thoughts straight about him is to put some space between us.

Before launching heart and soul into some ill-fated dalliance with Jack, I’d like to know there’s more to my desire for him than plain old lust. Or plain old loneliness. I want to know that it’s him I want. Not just a body to lie next to me.

“Alan’s gotten what he wanted. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“That isn’t good enough. I want to know you’re safe.”

“I’m sure I will be.”

“I’m not. Now, tell me where I can park this thing, or I’m driving it into the lobby.”

The tone of his voice, the steady gaze in his eyes, tell me it’s all too likely that he’d make good on that promise. And knowing this gives me a thrill that, try as I might, I cannot suppress.

Damn it!

 How does he do that to me? Until this afternoon, I thought being bowled over by a hot guy in a leather jacket and tight Levi’s was something that only happened in movies. I never imagined that I’d be one of those silly, swooning girls who makes unwise decisions just because a bad boy’s charms titillates her in all sorts of inappropriate ways.

But Jack isn’t really bad, I remind myself. In fact, he’s actually quite
good
. Alan is clearly the villain in this love triangle. Only instead of a leather biker’s jacket to identify him, he’s got a closet full of designer suits to conceal his evil ways. A wolf in sheep’s clothing? More like a wolf in Armani.  

“Okay,” I finally concede with some annoyance at my inability to resist him. “You can park in my spot in the garage.”

After directing Jack to the space where my BMW usually sits, we make our way up to my condo. The elevator ride is long and filled with silent expectation. With his fingers lightly wrapped around my hand, I can’t help but wonder what is going to happen when we get inside my apartment. Do we just go to bed like some long-married couple? Do we talk through what happened tonight? Do we make love again? I am desperate to know, but terrified to broach the subject.

As the elevator doors part, I step out into the hall, a tightness gripping my chest. I shake his hand loose from mine and busy myself searching for my keys in my purse. I walk with my head down, too unsure of myself to lead him to my door with any sort of command. It seems wrong somehow, bringing him here. As if what we’re doing is dishonest or improper. But since we’ve already been caught
in flagrante
by Alan once, what difference does it make?  

Oh why can’t I just relax?
I silently scold myself while digging out my keys.

As I move to unlock the door, the key ring drops to the floor. Before I can retrieve it, Jack scoops it up.

“Which one is it?” he asks, holding the bunch in his open palm.

“This one,” I say, touching the familiar metal object resting in his hand. His easiness is almost a relief. At least one of us isn’t completely train-wrecked by this whole mad business with Alan. Maybe his calm assuredness has something to do with his spiritual upbringing?

Or maybe he’s just too naïve to realize what fate awaits us tomorrow.

He closes his fingers around the key and shoves it in the lock. With a quick twist of the wrist, my door is flung open and the dark, empty place I’ve spent every night alone for the past six months is suddenly sliced in two by a bold streak of light. And all the loneliness I’ve buried under heaps of teleplays, marketing meetings, contract negotiations and reduced-fat lemon blueberry muffins comes rushing to the surface.

I stand in the doorway, my shadow darkening the bright shaft of light pouring in from the hallway, and I know if Jack comes inside with me, there will be no going back. No longer will I be able to pretend to be too busy to notice how alone I am. No longer will I be able to fill the void in my life by turning imaginary romances into small-screen blockbusters. If Jack comes inside, the illusion I’ve lived for six months will be shattered.

I will not be okay with being alone anymore.

Before Jack can edge inside my home (and my heart), I spin on my heels with the speed, but admittedly not the grace, of an Olympic figure skater and slam my palms against his chest.

He lets out a stunned yelp as he stumbles backward. “Lauren?”

“I’m sorry, Jack. You can’t come in,” I declare, my arms still outstretched as if I were directing two lanes of traffic. “It’s just better if you go.”

He straightens, clasps my hands in his and pulls me to him. “Lauren, I told you. I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”

“Alan isn’t going to hurt me,” I explain, wriggling out of his grasp.

“I know you think that, but you don’t know what that guy is capable of.”

“I was married to him for five years. I think I know him better than you do.”

Jack shakes his head. “I saw him, Lauren. I know what he’s about. And I don’t trust him.”

“He isn’t evil. He’s just an asshole. He wouldn’t really do anything to hurt me,” I say planting my palm firmly on his chest again.

There is no way I’m letting him in my apartment. If he gets one foot in that door, it’ll be hell getting him out again.

Or rather, it’ll be hell having to let go of him.

He’s all sweet and protective now, but once the drama of my divorce has subsided, there’ll be no more need for his manly presence, and it’ll be time for him to move on to someone more exciting. Someone more appropriate
.
Like a Victoria’s Secret Supermodel. Because what else could there possibly be between us? Aside from a physical attraction to each other and our mutual hatred of Alan, we really have nothing in common.

He gently wraps his hand around my wrist. “Come on, now. Let’s not do this. I’m staying the night and that’s that.”

“No, you’re not,” I say in my most authoritative voice. It must have worked, too, because he retreats, stepping away and letting loose his grip.

“Fine,” he says, backing down the hallway. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry, Jack,” I call after him as he presses the call button for the elevator. I feel as rotten as an old cucumber left in the crisper so long it’s begun to liquefy. I hate myself for getting Jack mixed up in my divorce and I hate Alan for taking things this far. Whatever affection I once had for him has all but evaporated. Jack is right. I don’t know what he’s really capable of, but I hope that much like his aggressive business tactics, he’s all bark and no bite.

The car arrives and Jack steps in looking as dejected as 1950s housewife on a diet of cigarettes and anti-anxiety pills. But before the doors slide shut, I hear him say, “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

Chapter 8

The sound of a loud banging sends my heart leaping into my throat. I peel open one eye, my nerves rattling like the coins strung across a belly dancer’s torso. Six-thirty-three, according to the alarm clock that isn’t set to go off for another half hour. Somehow I managed to get six hours of sleep, though I don’t think I moved a muscle all night.

The banging continues, and I realize it’s someone at my front door. Again. For the second morning in a row. This can’t be good.

I slide out of bed, grab my robe, tie it closed, and stumble out to the foyer. I peer through the peephole, and this time, instead of a Sheriff’s badge and brown hat, I see two men in dark suits. They look like tax accountants, but I have a suspicion they’re not here to go over last year’s write-offs.

“Who is it?” I call through the door.

“Los Angeles County Sheriff, ma’am,” one of the men replies.

“God, what now?”

“We’d like to talk to you about an altercation that took place at your Malibu home last night.” 

***

“You!” I screech at Alan, my finger pointing at him accusingly as I barge into his office. A trail of gossipmongers who’d been right on my heels halts at the open doorway, their heads rimming the edges of the door jam like some poorly-conceived holiday garland. I slam the door shut on their prying eyes and press my palms against it as if trying to hold back a tidal wave. 

Fortified with a few deep breaths, I turn to face my tormentor.

“Lauren,” Alan regards me coolly from behind the pages of a
Hollywood Reporter
. “I see your boyfriend’s assault charge hasn’t hit the papers yet. But I’m sure the internet’s buzzing by now. I did a lot of work yesterday getting his name out to the press for his role in
A True Heart
. Too bad it’ll all be upstaged by his run-in with the Sherriff’s Office.”

“You,” I hiss through clenched teeth as I march around his desk and tear the paper from his fingers. Tossing it against the bookshelf lining the wall, I knock over a photo of him and Robert De Niro. A prized possession from his early days as an actor, or in this case, as an extra.

He swivels around in his chair to face me, purplish bruises coloring his cheekbones. “You might want to think about your next move very carefully.”

I lean over him, my hands gripping the back of his leather chair, my nose inches from his. “You have gone too far. Leave Jack out of this.”

“You brought this on yourself.”

His icy gaze is no match for the fury boiling in my belly. Looking into his smug face, I want nothing more than to bash another set of bruises into him. But I also know that’s exactly what he wants.

I back off, hoping that there is still some small part of his brain capable of rational thought.

“What happened, Alan? When did things get so out of hand?”

“I’d say it was when you brought that pretty-boy of yours into our bed.”

“
Our
bed? We haven’t shared a bed in six months.”

Alan shrugs, and I suppress another urge to pop him in the mouth.

“Five years, Alan. We were best friends, lovers, partners for five years and all you can do is shrug?”

“It was a long time coming, and you know it.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t act like mature, responsible adults.”

“You’re the one being irresponsible, Lauren. As soon as I filed for divorce, you ran off and fucked the first man to cross your path.” He taps the side of his chin, as if pondering. “But I’m wondering if it was just revenge sex, or if you two have had a thing going on for a while.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “When are you gonna stop playing the cuckold? It’s getting really tiresome. And it’s only going to end up hurting you when the truth comes out.”

“What truth is that?”

“That you’ve been having an affair with Jennifer, and that you falsely accused Jack of assault with a deadly weapon. I mean come on, Alan. This is a man’s life we’re talking about. His career. This,” I wag my finger to and fro, “is between me and you. Be a grown up. Leave Jack out of it. Drop the charges against him.”