The Gravity Between Us (New Adult Contemporary Romance) (30 page)

“Well, it’s all on you, darlin’. You’re doing this of your own free will. I don’t see anyone holding a gun up to your head, making you choose between being loved superficially by the masses or deeply by Payton. Who even knows if you’d have to make a choice? Hell, I’m a small town boy from the High Plains, and I was raised not to care whether a person is straight or gay.”

“You’re 100 percent right about one thing; loving her
should have
trumped my fear of being rejected by people I don’t know from a hole in the wall, but it didn’t—clearly. So now instead of taking a break, I’m pretty sure we’re just plain over.”

“Seeing as how you’ve been totally down in the mouth since, I think it’s safe to say you know you screwed up. Luckily, there’s a real easy fix to this predicament. Come out, be with Payton—to hell with
theoretical
adversity.”

“There’s an easy fix,” I mock him. “What alternate reality do you live in? I’m so deep in the closet I can’t see the light of day. Everything that has happened over the last month… It’s all just nails in the coffin. This is my life from now on.”

“No use trying to talk sense into you, is there?” he asks loudly. “That woman loves you so much she’s willing to sacrifice her own happiness to protect you, to help you hoodwink heaven and earth. Good Lord, people spend their whole lives wishing to find that kind of love. You have it at your fingertips, and you’re pissing it away because you’re too scared of what others
might
think to reach out and grab it. If you ask me, it’s not worth it.”

“I know you mean well, but I really didn’t ask you.”

“All right,
Honey
.” He fishes a wad of cash from his pocket and tosses it onto the table without counting it. “I’d say we’re about done here.”

“Yeah.”
I stand up. He follows.

As we’re leaving, he takes me by the hand the way a parent would take a tantrum-throwing child. “Gotta save face,” he mutters under his breath.

❄ ❄ ❄

The instant Gunner drops me off, I start calling up everyone I know who resides in the greater Los Angeles Area—well,
almost
everyone—and invite them over for a rager party. My second call is to Jason’s Wine & Spirits for what I’m sure is the single largest order they have ever received. I’d put money on it that I’ve damn near cleared their shelves. That is easily my favorite thing about living in LA: liquor stores that make deliveries and delivery guys who are more than happy to double as personal bartenders once their shifts are over.

By the time the sun goes down there are roughly three hundred people staggering around my apartment, half of whom are naked and crammed into the pool within two hours of arriving. Mark Carter is upstairs spinning sick tunes on Payton’s multi-thousand dollar equipment. He plays his signature remix of Giuseppe Ottaviani’s “Lost for Words,” and everyone starts hollering like they’re in a club. I watch people break out party favors in the form of tiny plastic zip-baggies full of white crystalline powder. Nose candy definitely isn’t my thing, but far be it from me to deny anyone else their fun.

So very many beautiful people, countless Hollywood movers and shakers, some totally average yet exceptionally cool human beings I don’t remember ever having met before—all in my penthouse because I invited them to come over and get inebriated for absolutely no reason other than I was feeling incredibly lonesome.

I stand in the center of the living room, taking it all in. These people don’t actually give a shit about me. They’re just here for the free booze. Whatever. I could use some alcohol myself.

“I need Tequila! Right now!” I scream over the music. Almost as soon as I shout it I am holding plastic shot glasses in each of my hands—I don’t even have to take a single stride toward the improvised bar near the ranch slider doors.

I down both shots and close my eyes. When I open them again, everything around me has gone from moving in real-time to slow motion. I have surpassed maximum awesome, so I pull my hair up into a ponytail, squeeze my way into the crowd of sweaty, swaying carousers, throw my hands into the air, and dance my ass off.

❄ ❄ ❄

I wake up, head splitting, to the sound of empty glass bottles clanking against each other. The last thing I remember is the cops showing up to break up a fight between Spencer St. Germaine and a paparazzo who snuck his way into the gathering.
Why the hell is my bed shaking?
Holy shit, it’s an earthquake!

I’m not fully coherent, but I know enough to get my ass to a doorway or risk being crushed by stuff falling off the walls. I sit up quickly to find Lawrence rocking my footboard.

“And the princess awakens!” He helps himself to a seat on my bed. “I was starting to think you were dead.”

“Not dead, only asleep. And by asleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummation devoutly to be wished!”

“Thank you, Mel Gibson—that was very nice.”

“You’re quite welcome. Be sure to tell everyone you know that I can spout Shakespeare through a fucking monster hangover, and with my eyes half open, no less. Now, why are you here?”

“You haven’t answered your phone in two days,” he says calmly.

“Two days? And it took you this long to check on me? My, how you’ve changed since my spirit died. It’s nice, isn’t it? Knowing that I’ll capitulate to whatever demands you make of me without mouthing off.”

“I came over to make sure you’d be on your A-game for the Elite Awards tomorrow evening. If I had known you disappeared because you were in a drug-induced coma, I would have been here sooner. This is out of character for you, sweetheart. You’ve always been too motivated, too ‘together’ to fit the hard-partying, self-medicating Hollywood starlet prototype.”

He’s right, of course. That isn’t me. And it’s not who I want to become either. I just needed to be a lighter shade of blue for
one fucking minute
. “I swear to you I didn’t do any drugs. But I did drink a lot. I must have been roofied.”

“One spiked drink—that is how it starts. Before you know it, getting drunk isn’t enough. You start messing around with the hard stuff and then you’re caught in a tailspin. I’ve seen it happen more times than I can count on two hands.” He sighs. “Kendall, I’ve been in this business for thirty years and I have never worried about any of my clients as much as I’m worrying about you right now.”

He should be worried. If my existence is going to be this shitty from now on, I think I’d rather opt-out. Everything sucks, and it is always going to suck, no matter how many awards I win, or how many millions of dollars I make, or how many people scream my name and tell me they ‘love’ me at my movie premiers. “I have all the money I’d ever need, but it can’t buy me anything that makes life worth living, can it? All this recognition from my peers, the adoration of millions of strangers—it means a lot to me, but not as much as Payton does. I can’t believe I’m doing this to her. I can’t believe I’m doing this to myself. I mean, honestly! I love her more than I ever thought I was capable of loving anyone. Maybe I can
survive
without her, but I can’t
live
without her.”

“Then you know what you need to do?” He slaps his knees. “Put her above everything else, above your fear, above whatever judgments anyone may pass. You’re the first person to tell someone to go to hell when you need to, so go on—be the Kendall Bettencourt I know and flip a great big middle finger at any haters who slither out of the woodwork. Be you, be in love, be
happy
. I was wrong to insinuate that you ever should’ve done otherwise.”

“Even if I try the ‘being myself’ slant, it’s too late for me to be in love and happy. Payton won’t talk to me. She doesn’t even take my calls anymore. I’m persona non grata, not that I blame her for that. I wouldn’t want to talk to me either, if I were her.”

“She’s doing all of this because she thinks it will benefit you, not because she wants to. I bet she’s as forlorn as you are and not talking to you is her attempt at easing her own pain.”

“Wonderful. So, what the hell do I do about it?”

“I have an idea. It involves me intercepting information that is more sensitive than classified CIA communications, so if I manage to pull it off it has to stay between us, okay? Otherwise, I’ll be drawn and quartered.”

“Dude, if your super-secret information can help me make things right, I’ll sew my mouth closed until you hand me the pair of embroidery scissors I’ll use to open it.”

A shadow of amusement washes over him. “You’re a funny girl, have I ever told you that before?”

“No.”

“Well, you are.” He stands up and kicks a few bottles out of his way. “A funny girl who’s living in a goddamn pigsty. Praise the lord you’re going to come out—another month’s worth of you trying to party away your pain and this place would be a towering garbage heap. I’m getting a team of housekeepers over here pronto.”

“Thanks,” I smile.
For everything.

❄ ❄ ❄

A bitter chill charges down my spine as our limo pulls up to the Providence Theatre, the highly revered venue for this year’s Elite Awards. Tonight is the most crucial night of my life, and I have never felt closer to coming unglued. There’s a knot roughly the size of Rhode Island in my abdomen, and I can’t remember a time when I’ve wished for the gift of clairvoyance as much as I’m wishing for it now. I’ve rubbed my rabbit’s foot, stuffed my lucky penny into my handbag, and prayed to every deity known to humankind.
But
what if that isn’t enough?

“Are you going to be sick?” Lawrence asks, his voice quivering with atypical agitation. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“She’s fine!” Gunner asserts through gritted teeth. “Jesus, man! Leave her alone. She’s nervous, that’s all. You would be, too, if you were in the running for an Ellie.”

I wish I could tell him ‘being in the running’ for an Ellie is
not
what I’m anxious about. But if I told him that, I’d have to explain what I
am
anxious about—and then Lawrence would execute me slowly with a dull butter knife.

“I’m nervous
for
her,” Lawrence murmurs under his breath.

“What was that?” Gunner questions sternly.

Clearly,
everyone
is on edge, which means tempers are running hot. It’s only serving to intensify my uneasiness. “
Both
of you shut up! Just keep quiet and let me do my thing! Okay?”

“Okay,” they say in tandem, each of them pouting like little boys who’ve been scolded by their mother.

The chauffeur opens the rear passenger-side door. “Ready to do your thing?” Gunner offers his arm. I nod, giving him the go-ahead to lead me on to the red carpet.

We step into the cool night air. The photographers begin their pictorial blitzkrieg. They remove their fingers from their triggers just long enough to bark directions at me. All I hear is Kendall, Kendall, Kendall! I’m beginning to hate my own name, if that’s even possible.

“Kendall?”

“What?” I whirl ferociously on Gunner.

“Payton is
here
,” he says, gesturing behind me with a subtle flick of his head.

“She’s
where
?” Here, as in, on the red carpet?
Oh my god, this was not part of the plan!
She’s supposed to be home watching the show on TV! Better yet, she’s supposed to be home, not watching at all! If someone were to relay the details to her later, that would be perfectly fine… but to be able to watch her reaction to tonight’s proceedings in real time? These are not things my heart can take.

Sure enough, Payton is a few feet behind me, looking superb in a black and dark maroon asymmetrical cut Westfield and posing for photos with Lauren. She’s become a natural, talking and giggling coyly with reporters as if that’s what she was born to do. She knows how to handle these barracudas better than I do—by being herself. I feel like I should be taking notes so I can learn by example.

Gunner protectively takes hold of my hand. “If you need to, we can bunk off the Press Q and A and head inside.”

He is such a good friend, in spite of how coldly I treated him the other day.
I should really apologize. “No, I’m fine. But listen, I wasn’t very nice to you
at lunch. It was uncalled for. I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“It’s water under the bridge.”

“There’s something else I need to apologize for in advance. I’m going to do something tonight that’s sure to change my life—and maybe even yours.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “That’s why we have publicists, isn’t it? We make messes, they clean ‘em up. Don’t worry about it. Just do what you gotta do.”

I throw my arms around his neck, pull him into the tightest embrace. “You’re so awesome.”

“I know,” he smirks as I release him. “Now put your brave face on and let’s go do this.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Payton

L
auren and I just finish up our first lap around the Press Q and A box when I catch my first glimpse of Kendall. She’s in a wispy, iridescent taupe gown, and she looks
sensational
. The makeup and hair people did an amazing job at faking her hallmark glow.

“You’re a real sickly shade of gray,” Lauren says.

Of course I am. It hurts me to
think
about her, let alone be physically near her. To make matters worse, she’s still the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on. “When can we go inside?” I wonder. “It’s getting a bit too hectic out here for my taste.”
I definitely don’t want to be standing here when Gunner and Kendall arrive to make their rounds.

She consults the PR guy who’s standing next to her. “We can go inside now, if you’d like. I’m done here.”

“Yes, please.”

Arm in arm, we make our way into the theater.

We’re hot on the Maître D’s trail. The deeper into the gigantic, glittering banquet hall he leads us, the wider Lauren’s eyes get—until we finally arrive at a table only yards away from the stage.

“Oh my god,” she gasps. “I didn’t know I merited a table so close to the stage. I thought I’d be lumped in with the peanut gallery.” She snatches two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and giggles. “We are
so
VIP, and I am
so
not complaining.”