Hollywood Girls Club (24 page)

He inhaled.
Dead fish. He hated Malibu.
The ocean was a toilet; every form of waste churned within the sea and people swam in that filth. He walked up the steps and the security guard pulled open the massive fifteen-foot doors. Charles liked things big.

The party was behind the house, even closer to the sea. Arnold wrinkled his nose at the sight of the buffet table.
A buffet? How unlike Charles. Completely tacky and gauche. Who the fuck was doing his catering?

“Arnold.” He heard the host call his name. Dressed all in white except for a bright-pink silk shirt, Charles Killion stood nearby. Charles had to be at least sixty; he’d been running around Hollywood with the creme de la creme since 1972. His hair was still a golden color although wrinkles danced around his mouth and eyes. Charles ran a lucrative import-export business (what was imported and exported no one knew for sure).

“Charles.” Arnold leaned forward on his tiptoes and gave his host a peck on each cheek.

“Where’ve you been? I was starting to wonder if perhaps you’d received a better offer.”

“Than you? Impossible. You know I love Malibu.” Arnold accepted a glass of champagne from a shirtless waiter wearing black shorts. “I’ve had the most horrific day!” Arnold continued.

“Do tell,” Charles said, grasping Arnold by the elbow and leading him to a white chaise next to the pool.

“Well, darling, what can I say. It is a problem that I inherited. A two-hundred-million-dollar problem.”

“Ah,
Seven Minutes Past Midnight
.”

“How did you know our budget?”

“Arnold, please. Everyone knows everyone’s budget.”

“No, but this is uncanny. You see, I just came from a screening, and this is
the
most atrocious piece of crap I have ever seen. I kid you not.”

“That bad? Lydia does have some strong movies under her belt, and Zymar isn’t a complete hack.”

“Ach. Are you kidding me? You know what the problem is? That bitch hasn’t had to do a day of work in her life. This is the first time that anyone has held the purse strings who she wasn’t either fucking or related to. And that person just happens to be me.” A vicious gleam sparkled in Arnold’s eye.

“It almost seems that you’re enjoying Lydia’s failure,” Charles said, a wicked smile dancing across his lips.

“Me? Never. I wouldn’t gloat over the revelation that Lydia Albright is and always has been a complete fraud.”

“Arnold, you are incorrigible.” Charles glanced across the pool. “See that beautiful young thing with the black hair and green eyes? Right next to Stanley?”

“Yes. He’s new,” Arnold said.

“Very. My caterer.”

“Ohhh, I see. I was wondering about the buffet. Never seen you do
that
before.”

“What can I say: With a package like that, how could I refuse. Rick, come over here,” Charles called, waving his hand toward the handsome young man wearing Dolce & Gabbana from head to toe.

“Charles, where have you been?” Rick said, placing his arm around Charles’s waist and planting a kiss on his cheek. “I want you to taste the lox canapes before I bring them out.”

“I’m sure they’re as savory as you.” Charles gave Rick a gentle tap on the ass. “I want you to meet one of my dearest friends, Arnold Murphy.”

“A pleasure.” Rick held out his hand.

“Likewise.” Arnold felt a flutter in his chest as he grasped Rick’s hand. Very
luscious
. He wondered if this was a serious fling for Charles or just a dalliance. This was a young man for whom Arnold would happily stand in line. “So, Rick, tell me, where did you pick up your catering skills?” Arnold asked.

“It’s something I’ve always loved. But Charles encouraged me to do it.” Rick glanced lovingly at the evening’s host. “I’m going back to the kitchen. I’ve got hot things in the oven,” he said, giving Charles a sly wink.

“I’m sure you do,” Charles said teasingly.

“So how did this little love affair begin?” Arnold asked, watching Rick saunter around the pool.

“He’s an actor and he was a barista at Coffee Bean.”

“An actor and a barrrrrriiiista!” Arnold said, dragging out the word. “Perhaps I should start drinking more coffee. Is this serious or just a little late-night rumba action?”

“He’s been around for about three months, and so far I’m not bored,” Charles said. “That’s pretty serious for me. Why? Wondering when I might step off the train?”

Arnold felt his neck flush. “Well, Charles, it’s obvious you can’t have every beautiful man for yourself. I know you like to be the first one to break them in.”

“Not ready to let this one go yet,” Charles said. “Besides, I thought you swore off men under thirty.”

“Men under thirty, men over thirty. What men? I haven’t had a man in my life in, what, almost six years.”

“Except the professionals.” Charles looked at Arnold.

Arnold was taken aback.
Who the fuck was Charles Killion to talk about his sex life?
“Yes, Charles, on occasion, the professionals. I find them to be convenient and discreet. Much easier than, say, forcing your guests to eat lox canapes.” Arnold felt his voice becoming shrill.

“Arnie, please. Calm down. It was a joke.”

“A joke? Really. About my sex life. How funny is that?”

“Stop.” Charles sipped his drink and turned away from Arnold.

“No! Really, Charles, how fucking funny is my sex life? I’d like to know. Maybe everyone would like to know,” Arnold said, waving his arms and turning toward all the guests standing around the pool.

“Arnold, stop making one of your scenes.” Charles sighed.

“My scenes?”

“Yes, you little fuck. Stop it,” Charles hissed. “This is a party. People came here to have fun, not listen to your histrionics.”

“I see.” Arnold pulled on the sleeves of his shirt.

“Go get a drink,” Charles said, gliding past Arnold toward another guest.

*

Arnold walked into Charles’s gourmet kitchen. The room bustled with shirtless men exchanging empty trays for fresh ones filled with food and champagne. Bent over peering into the oven was Rick.

Arnold checked out Rick’s ass as he pulled a baking sheet from the oven and backed away from the stove.

“Arnold.” Rick smiled and set the hot sheet onto a trivet. “Hot stuff. These are my hankie-pankies.” Rick grabbed a spatula and lifted the meat-and-cheese-encrusted bread from the baking sheet. “Want to try one?”

“They look delicious.” Arnold ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “I’d love to.”

Rick handed him an appetizer plate with a hot hankie-pankie on top.

“Charles tells me you’re an actor.” Arnold took a bite of the hors d’oeuvre.

“It’s my first love. But so impossible to get going.”

“Do you know what I do?” Arnold asked, watching Rick run water over the baking sheet in the sink.

Rick glanced over his shoulder toward Arnold. “Charles never said.”

“I run Worldwide Pictures. Have you heard of it?”

“Heard of it? Isn’t that like asking if someone’s heard of Porsche, or McDonalds’? Of course I’ve heard of it. So you run it?” Rick said, walking toward Arnold.

“Every last bit of it.” Arnold leaned toward Rick. “Here’s my card. I put my cell number on the back. I was hoping we could get together, maybe later tonight.”

Rick plucked the card from Arnold’s hand and glanced around. “Eleven. I’ll meet you at the surf shop near Point Dune. Sound good?” Rick’s eyes sparkled.

“Very good,” Arnold said. His gaze raked across Rick’s body.

*

“I need to see you,” Arnold barked into his cell phone. “Twenty minutes, at the surf shop at Point Dune.” He slammed it shut and watched as a black Mercedes convertible pulled into the parking lot. “Flash the lights,” he spat at his driver. The Mercedes flashed back. Rick exited the car and jogged across the parking lot toward him. “You know what you’re meant to do, right?” Arnold asked. He was putting way too much trust in his driver’s ability to follow simple instructions.

“Yes, Mr. Murphy.” He looked at Arnold in the rearview mirror.

Arnold heard a knock at the back-door window. “Okay, put the partition up.”

“Right on time.” Arnold pushed open the door and extended his hand to Rick. “Let’s talk about your movie career.”

*

Ray stood outside the Town Car smoking a cigarette. You couldn’t see through the partition, but it wasn’t soundproof. He didn’t need to hear what was going on in the back of the car. The slight swaying was enough evidence of the events in the backseat. This fucking job. If he didn’t have two kids in college and need the benefits, he’d walk away and leave the asshole here to find his way home. At least three times a week he had to pick up Mr. Murphy’s “friends,” wait outside the car, and then drive them home. Ray watched a Bentley pull into the parking lot.
What was the little shit up to now?

“Hey, you Arnold’s driver?” a blond older man called out from behind the wheel.

“Yeah, who are you?”

The car pulled forward and the driver cut the engine. “Charles Killion. Where is the little prick?” Charles asked, smiling. “Think I may have pissed him off tonight.” He exited his Bentley and walked toward the Town Car.

“Mr. Killion, right. Mr. Murphy is waiting for you,” Ray said, noticing that the car was still rocking. He did as he had been instructed and pulled open the Town Car’s back door.

Chapter 25

Jessica and Her Givenchy Heels

Jessica was in the shower (post-power pilates) when her BlackBerry started beeping. Six forty-five A.M.? She shut off all five of the shower jets, grabbed her towel and then her phone (sitting conveniently on the commode next to the shower for just such an emergency). Glaring down at the number, she felt her heart sink. It was her office, and Jessica guessed it was about Holden.

“What’s up?” She answered briskly, wrapping a towel around her head.

“I’m hearing bad rumors,” Kim replied.

Jessica wiped the steam from the mirror. Dark bags sat under her eyes. She’d been exhausted for the last two weeks.

“Like what?” Jessica picked up her eye cream. At five hundred dollars an ounce it should give her entire face a lift.

“Holden is going to Josh Dragatsis at ACA.”

Glass splintered onto Jessica’s marble bathroom floor. “Fuck!”

“What was that?”

“My fucking eye cream. Five hundred dollars an ounce.”

“That’s more than I make in a week,” Kim muttered.

Jessica looked down at the tiny trickle of blood oozing down her leg; a fleck of glass stuck out below her knee. “Where? From where are you hearing these rumors?” Jessica sat on the closed toilet seat and pulled the shard from her leg. The floor was covered with glittery fragments.

“Holden’s attorney’s assistant dated my roommate’s ex-boyfriend. And also, Maurice told me last night.”

Jessica stopped sweeping up glass with her hand. Maurice and Holden were best buddies; one didn’t take a piss without the other one holding his hand. And they were two of her biggest clients. Jessica still held an offer from Paul Peterson at Summit for the two of them to work together, $20 million each to do a film. They also got ten percent of first-dollar gross, which meant that Maurice and Holden would each receive ten cents of every single dollar that every man, woman, and child in the world paid to see their film. It didn’t sound like much on a small scale, but when the average gross for one of Holden or Maurice’s movies was $250 million, that meant $25 million to the star (in addition to their $20 million fee) and $2.5 million plus $2 million to CTA. A grand total of $4.5 million to the agency per star. Money that might have just vanished.

“What do you mean, last night? How did Maurice tell you about this last night?”

Kim sighed. “We all went to Bradford Madison’s birthday party. Maurice and I hung out for a while.”

Suddenly Jessica felt very old. One of the many perks to being the assistant to one of the most powerful people in Hollywood was the A-list party invites. She remembered her own assistant days; she barely spent a night in her apartment. She should’ve been at that party. Or at least known about it! She’d spent the last few days dragging her ass around, barely able to crawl into bed at ten P.M., she’d been so tired. That was no way to stay on top. She had to be at every party, know every player, and have contact numbers for the entire A-list if she was going to keep her place at the pinnacle of the entertainment business.

Jessica knew that if Maurice was brazen enough to tell Jessica’s own assistant that Holden was thinking of leaving, then the ship was about to sail. She also knew that wherever Holden went, Maurice was sure to follow.

“Did you sleep with him?” Jessica inquired. Her tone belied her anxiousness.

Kim hesitated just a second.

“It’s not the first time, is it?” Jessica said.

“Jess, it’s not like…I mean, he’s a great guy—”

“Make them stay,” Jessica said, her tone hard edged.

“What? Jess, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can, and you will. If you fucked Maurice more than once, he’s interested. Shit, for an actor under thirty, that’s almost like being engaged. We can’t lose them, Kim, do you understand? And especially to that little fuck face Josh Dragatsis. Call Maurice and convince him.”

“Jessica, I don’t think he’ll listen to me.”

“If he stays, I’ll promote you.” Jessica knew she’d just said the magic words. Every assistant lived for the day when his or her boss finally said the words that instantaneously morphed them from persona non grata within an agency to a respected colleague.

“What?”

“It’s time. You’ve done two years with me. Make this happen and you’ll be the newest CTA talent agent.”

“I’ll call him. I’ll try. But he seemed pretty determined to leave.”

“Don’t try, Kim. Just do it. Get him into the office. I’ll call you from the car.”

Jessica looked at herself in the mirror. Nothing like an adrenaline rush to sweep away the tireds.

*

Jessica pulled up to the stone gate on Mulholland and entered the seven-digit security code. It was seven-thirty A.M. No one at Holden’s house would be awake, not even the dog. Jessica gunned her Mercedes through the entrance and zipped up the drive. She grabbed her Lacroix bag and walked to the door. Turning the handle (Holden never locked the door), she let herself into the house and walked straight through the foyer to the kitchen.