The Gravity Between Us (New Adult Contemporary Romance) (26 page)

“Then it’s safe to assume you haven’t noticed any of the sweaty guys with cameras lurking around outside?”

“Damn. No, I haven’t. Did they bother you?”

“Not really. A few of them recognized me as your friend and asked about your reaction to being nominated. But I didn’t say anything, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried.”
I am totally worried. Those disgusting leeches might try to use her to get to me.
I don’t want to tell her that, though. So far, we’ve been pretty successful at avoiding any unpleasant run-ins with those unfeeling interlopers. Of course, that’s only because we’ve rarely been seen alone together in public.
I really want to change the subject right now.
“Did Gunner ever call you?”

“He sent me a series of
extremely
long
texts. Let me tell you, that boy knows how to turn a phrase. I had no clue that there were fifty-two different ways to say ‘I’m sorry for being a turd.’”

“Is everything okay between you two now?”

“Yeah, we’re good. I told him that if he ever does anything like that again, I’ll take a cleaver to his balls and make
apizza gain
out of them.”

“That sounds mortifying.”

“I know,” she retorts. “Should we get dressed? It’s getting late.”

“Probably. The crew will be here soon to make us up.”

❄ ❄ ❄

My nerves decide to heave themselves into chaotic unrest just as we’re about to leave for the party. I don’t know why I’m so convinced that this whole evening is going to be a catastrophe, but the feeling takes over me as soon as the limo arrives to transport us to the Beverly Hilton. In the ten seconds it takes us to get from the lobby to the car, we have to shirk the annoying inquiries of roughly twenty paparazzi. I’m honestly too preoccupied with reminding myself not to clasp onto Payton’s hand to be bothered by the garish flashing of their cameras.

“You’re jumpy tonight. It’s weird,” she says as the limo departs. “Want to tell me what’s on your mind?”

“The massive number of rapid-fire interviews I’m slated for. Plus, I know once we arrive I’ll have to focus on everyone else in the room but you. I don’t want to leave you alone, but odds are I’ll have to.”

“Don’t worry about me. I can fend for myself. Don’t worry about the interviews either. Try to have fun and celebrate, all right? You’re one of the select few who have ever been nominated for the most prestigious award known to Hollywood.”

“It doesn’t help at all when you put it like that.”

“Nervousness looks cute on you,” she says as the car pulls to a stop in front of the hotel.

“Okay. Let’s do this.”

We step out of the limo and are immediately drawn into a whirlwind of insanity. More members of the press than I have ever encountered at once are crowded around the red carpet. I haven’t felt this intimidated in the presence of the media since I first broke into the business. I can’t decipher which direction my name is being shouted from; there’s one colossal wall of sound surrounding me.

“I need to find Lawrence,” I bellow so Payton can hear me over the never-ending whir of voices.

“I think he found us,” she points to a man jockeying his way through the crowd. I’m not tall enough to see him clearly, so I’m forced to trust that her height has not betrayed her. Fortunately, she’s right, and I soon see Lawrence hustling up to us.

“This is wild, Lawrence!” I yell.

“I know. First thing’s first. Pictures on the red carpet.” He gestures to Payton. “You know how it goes by now, right? Big smiles and all that. After pictures, we head inside to the scheduled interviews. Payton, I’m sorry, but that means I’m going to have to steal Kendall from you for a while. I’ve arranged a booth for our party in the VIP section, so you’re more than welcome to hang out there or at the bar. Are we ready to do this, ladies?”

“I’m good to go,” Payton says.

I nod. Then, we’re off.

❄ ❄ ❄

The red carpet photo session is over quickly, and I’m whisked away to the conference area. I must go through thirty different journalists before realizing that I’ve been giving identical answers to approximately the same questions directed at me by entirely different people. “How does it feel to be an Elite Awards Nominee?”

Terrifying like my blockades have been overrun and I can no longer hope to avoid being conquered.
“It’s an incredibly humbling honor.”

I sit through a few hundred more interviews until Lawrence lets me know that I’m done.

❄ ❄ ❄

Lawrence escorts me into the ballroom, and I instantly catch sight of
her
. She’s standing at the bar—drink in hand—conversing with a group of guys who are blatantly staring at her chest. She notices me coming toward her, and her eyes zero in on me. I smile, determined to keep my gaze trained on her until she looks away.
Damn it.
The longer I stare at her, the harder I have to fight to stave off the impulse to yell, “Payton Taylor, I am absolutely crazy about you!”

I turn to Lawrence. “Excuse me. I’m going over there,” I say and jostle my way through the ballroom. Without any regard for the fact that it may be a faux pas, I ignore the multitude of people who try to get me to stop and talk. The only person I give a damn about right now is Payton with her perfectly straight hair pulled back into a high ponytail and her barely made up, yet entirely spectacular face. She is decked out in that white satin floor-length dress and all of its low-cut, V-necked majesty. Payton.
Thank God for her.

I reach out to her in what feels like slow-motion, take her by the hand, and pull her away from her conversation. She holds tightly to her wineglass as I lead her through the crowd, out a well-hidden back door and into a secluded alleyway.

She looks at me confused. “Are you okay?”

“I needed to do
this
,” I say and kiss her as though all the love I feel for her has flown through my veins and culminated in my lips. The wineglass slips from her hand. I hear it shatter against the pavement. Shards tinkle down around our feet. Still, I keep on kissing her.

“We are
so
gonna get caught,” she whispers into my lips.

“No, we aren’t,” I pull away. “Look around. There’s nobody here but us.”

“Except for the ton of people inside. But hey, I don’t care if
you
don’t.”

“Right now, I don’t,” I reply and move in to kiss her again.

She presses her palms to my shoulders, halting me. “You don’t care right now because there’s no one else around. But the second someone pops through that door or wanders down the alley, you’ll care. We’d better quit while we’re ahead.”

“I don’t want to quit while we’re ahead. I don’t want to quit
ever
.”
I want to kiss you until the sun collides with the earth and chars us both into dunes of ash.

She scrutinizes me, her face a mask of uncertainty. “Okay,” she repositions her hands from my shoulders to the nape of my neck. “What are you waiting for?” She grins. “Kiss me.”

And I do—for a very, very long time.

❄ ❄ ❄

I wake up a little after noon totally disoriented, head pulsing. I roll over to find a note on Payton’s side of the bed. It reads, “Sorry for leaving without saying goodbye. I didn’t want to wake you. I caught a cab back to the house so I can get ready for school. See you at home after class. –P.”
A cab? What?

Then I remember
exactly what happened last night. Our epic alleyway make-out session got a little carried away. We ended up sneaking back into the Hilton, but didn’t return to the ballroom. Instead, we checked into a suite and had a little party of our own, apparently involving two
(now empty) bottles of champagne and lovemaking worthy of an Olympic event. I smile to myself.
That explains the headache and why this whole room smells like sweat.

I reach for my cell phone and am horrified to realize that it’s turned off. I power the thing up. The voicemail notification pings: six new messages. The first five of them are from Lawrence, each one sounding more heated than the last. He left the fifth message about an hour ago: “Kendall, how many times have I told you to keep your goddamn phone on? We need to have a serious conversation. Come down to the office as soon as possible.”
Oh, he is
pissed
.
I continue on to the last message. It’s from my dad. “Hey Pumpkin, not sure if you’ve seen this morning’s
Daily Post
, but, you know what? Give me a ring later, and we’ll talk.”

Okay?
I weigh my options. Call my dad back or call Lawrence back. Lawrence sounded much angrier than my dad did. I should let him know that it’s going to be a while before I can make it to his office anyway. I’ve got to go home, take a shower, and put on some normal clothes. I can’t very well show up in the gown I was wearing last night, can I?
It’s decided
. I distractedly dial Lawrence’s iPhone while foraging around on the floor for my dress.

“Where the hell have you been?” he says into the receiver without bothering to say hello.

“Sleeping,” I say gruffly. “Sorry, my phone died.”

“We’ve got ourselves a serious situation here, sweetheart. I need you to get your ass into this office immediately, got it?” There’s worriedness to his tone. He so seldom sounds alarmed that when he does, it piques my interest.

“Did someone croak?”

“No, but something came up that we need to address before it flatlines your career.”

I laugh. “Calm down. If it’s a naked picture of me, it’s fake.”

He doesn’t do the same. “I’d rather not discuss this on the phone. Get here when you can,” he replies and hangs up.

I’m so not in the mood, I think as I slip into my dress and embark on a very long walk of shame.

❄ ❄ ❄

“What’s the problem?” I ask as I stroll into Lawrence’s office.

He slams a copy of today’s
Daily Post
onto his desk. “Open it to page thirteen.”

I flip through the paper until I reach the thirteenth page, where I find a huge photo of Payton and me in the alley behind the Hilton. I’ve got my arms wrapped around her neck, and she’s kissing me while dipping me backward as though we’d been dancing in the moonlight. It’s actually a really beautiful picture of us—or it would be a beautiful picture, if it weren’t printed in the gossip section of some second-rate national newspaper with the caption “Kendall Bettencourt Celebrates Awards Nod with Lesbian Lip Lock” slapped across the top of it.

Who took this picture? I didn’t see anyone around us!
Get real, Kendall. Like you were paying attention to what was going on around you! It doesn’t matter anyway. You’re busted.
Oh my god, Dad saw it! Which means Mom also saw it! I have a shit load of either lying or explaining to do.
Okay, stay composed. One thing at a time.
“I see the problem here. The page eight column is on page thirteen. That’s confusing. We should definitely notify someone about that.”

“That isn’t funny, Kendall! How am I supposed to spin this to the press? ‘She was so drunk that she stumbled into a poorly lit back alley, tripped over her own feet and collided lips-first with her friend?’ Tell me what you want me to say! Illuminate me in ten words or less, because that’s all you can get when it comes to the short attention span of the media!” he yells then takes a seat on the corner of his desk and folds his arms.

Oh no, he did
not
yell at me
. “Okay, you incredible asshole! Here it is, in ten words or less!” I shout and count the words on my fingers. “I think I’m in love with her.
Is that clear and direct enough for you, or do you need a complete oral history of where, when, and how it happened?”

“No, that will do,” he says, his tone suddenly and surprisingly sympathetic. He taps his fingers on the glass desktop. I can practically see the cogs of his brain turning in time with his drumming. “I wish you would’ve told me about this sooner. Now we have to do damage control. ‘Kendall Bettencourt, the Lesbian’ is such a salacious gossip column headline. We are in for a shit storm of media hassle.”

“Christ!” I manically flail my hands in his face. “You’re so focused on the ‘lesbian’ thing. You’re totally missing the ‘I think I’m in love’ thing!
Why
does the label matter?
Why
can’t I just be a girl in love?”

“Because you’re not
just a girl
at all!” He sighs. “Listen. I know you’re young. You’re falling in love, and you feel like you’re on top of the world because of it. If you were any other kid in America, you’d be able to be a girl who happens to be in love with another girl and remain gleefully invulnerable to anyone’s opinion. But you are not the average kid, Kendall. You live in the limelight! You are universally
adored
and looked up to! Every decision you make will be analyzed whether you like it or not, and it’s possible that the opinions of others
can
hurt you. You have to think about Payton in all of this, as well. She’s going to be subjected to the same kind of unpleasant attention that you will be: the paparazzi, the incessant hassle of reporters, the celebrity stalkers.”

“You’re a little late to the party, Lawrence! I’ve already thought about all of that—what it could mean for my career to live my life out in the open, what it could do to Payton to have her every move publicly examined.”
All I’ve ever wanted to do is give our relationship a chance—on my own terms, without anyone’s intrusion. But now, intrusion is inevitable, isn’t it?

And then, like an idiot, I start to cry. “I don’t hold Payton’s hand when we’re walking down the street. She isn’t the person by my side on the red carpet. We hardly ever leave the house because I know we’d be hounded by the media, and I don’t want to lie about who she is and what she means to me, but I’m scared to tell the truth! I’m caught between a rock and a hard place. I feel guilty because I’m
not
being honest and ashamed because I don’t think I
can
be honest! The whole planet wants me to be someone I’m not. Some days I feel like I’d rather rip my own heart out with a pair of pliers than live up to these stupid standards.”