Finding Forever (3 page)

Taylor sparkled. Acting coaches had taught her to use her body as an instrument, and she was playing it. Silver body glitter shimmered on her chest, which was severely exposed by the plunging neckline of her maxi dress. Her hair swayed as her spiked heels scraped the patio to the rhythm of the beat.

Flirty dancing in a dramatic black dress was the most scandalous thing about Taylor this evening. Despite the rumors, Taylor didn't drink alcohol or do drugs—or sleep around. She'd only had one boyfriend—ever. And the only thing she snorted was the occasional silly laugh that emanated from her narrow nose, which, according to a press release from the Association of Plastic and Cosmetic Surgeons, had become the most sought-after by young women going in for nose jobs this past year.

Taylor had seen the roadkill of former child stars flattened by fame. Substance-abuse sloppiness, an arrest, court-ordered rehab and/or community service, a redemptive PR campaign. Then, in some cases, a career comeback. The meltdown cycle had become a rite of passage, but Taylor had vowed not to fall into that trap.

She couldn't, however, control what the media spread.
Taylor Prince's Diva Demands Fit for a Queen! . . . Taylor Prince's Royal Drug Problem!

Taylor had five blockbuster movies, too many magazine covers to count, a namesake clothing line and fragrance, a Golden Globe, a BAFTA, and an Oscar nomination. She had an agent and a manager who signed on after she made it big from the YouTube casting reel she uploaded when she was in middle school, and she had her mom, who was now back in
Arizona caring for her little sister—a fact her phone reminded her of when it bleeped alive.

                      

Happy birthday, tay! Penny and I wish we could be there! X0—mommy

But before Taylor could tap out a reply,
he
appeared.

Boyish grin framed by scruffy five o'clock shadow.

Retro-style Ray-Bans that matched his buzz-cut dark hair.

A white T-shirt that likely covered up a sexy six-pack.

Faded blue jeans were draped casually from just below his hips, held up by a thick brown belt that coordinated perfectly with his weathered cowboy boots.

Intricate sleeves of tattoos twisted around his taut forearms.

He reminded Taylor of the kind of guy whose pictures she used to cut out of magazines and tape onto her bedroom wall when she was, say, eleven. Or fifteen. Or, apparently, just minutes from turning sixteen.

A cross. The silver necklace dangled from her neck.

Brooklyn lifted the tiny crucifix and kissed it before starting her silent prayer. She didn't come for help coping with the mean girls who called her a nerd, a loner, an emo, and worse. She heard the snickers in the hall about her wearing her boyish T-shirts and favorite L.A. Kings hat every day. She saw the Instagram posts from parties her supposed friends hadn't invited her to.

No, she had long ago opted to focus on decidedly more adult-ish concerns, namely
DeadlineDiaries.com
.

Rather than just breaking the Big Three of celebrity “soft” news (hookups, breakups, and personal life screw-ups) that populated most Hollywood-focused websites and blogs, Brooklyn had a nose for harder news—castings, on-set gossip, contract negotiations, box office projections, script leaks, and studio and network insider gossip. She regularly published exclusives on the hottest young celebrities. But trying to compete with experienced bloggers and corporate media sites brimming with professional staff reporters and editors and photo budgets beyond her reach was at best daunting, and at worst entirely demoralizing.

Brooklyn liked that no one bothered her at Saturday night Mass. No well-intentioned neighbors assuring Brooklyn that she remained in their prayers. No leering looky-loos sneaking their puppy-dog glimpses at poor, fatherless Brooklyn Brant. And without the pressure to come looking her Sunday best, she could worship comfortably alongside the mostly senior citizen congregation in her favorite jeans and sneakers. She always showed respect by taking off her baseball cap and placing it next to her on the pew.

To Brooklyn, the Bible could be a lot like the juiciest tabloid stories—filled with a lot of truth, insight, drama, and useful information, but not necessarily a 100-percent-accurate historical record. Nor did it espouse a belief system without its flaws when put through her modern-day, post-feminist lens. Brooklyn approached religion with the same take-the-good-with-the-bad philosophy that her father had taught her. As he often would say, “Don't throw the Bible out with the bathwater.”

Here she could focus solely on the centering sensation she got from spending an hour just being alone, listening to the priest, praying to God, looking for inspiration that might motivate and inspire. She also enjoyed the moments of silence that allowed her to talk to her dad.