Scene 23

I thanked the Uber driver, took one last glance at my reflection in the untinted window of his Nissan Sentra, and hopped out of the car. The sidewalk was packed. A line of people wrapped around the building on the southeast corner of Sunset and Vine, but I'd been instructed to head straight to the front door.

"What do I say?" I'd asked Elliott.

"Nothing. They'll know."

Approaching the black and white awning, I expected to find myself sent to the back of the line, but instead, before I even said my name, the bouncer waved me through the door. A woman—wearing leopard-print pants so snug they looked as if they'd been painted on—was waiting for me.

"This way, Miss Kingsbury. Mr. Dunn has not arrived yet. Mr. Fleming is at his preferred table on the rooftop." She ushered me into an elevator and swiped a keycard, beaming us to the top floor.

Elliott Fleming had called me a few hours earlier. When I'd realized who was on the other end of the line, a portion of my soul had departed my body.

Meet him and Grady Dunn at Bartholomew's , he'd said. Something about it being a rite of passage.

After hanging up, I panicked. I'd flown around my apartment tearing through my entire closet, changing at least a dozen times. I stood glaring at my face in my dollhouse-size bathroom mirror, wondering what miracle concealer would cover the bags beneath my eyes.

I looked like hell. Dillon's abrupt departure had left me in a slump. On the days I hadn't had to meet L.R. for role discussions, or sit through hours of being taped and measured for costume fittings, I'd spent my time sitting on my couch eating peanut butter out of a jar, staring at the notes from my rehearsals.

To further celebrate my pity party, I'd canceled both the Brazilian blowout and manicure I was desperately in need of. A decision I regretted while spending an hour dragging a flat iron through my uncooperative wavy hair.

Bartholomew's wasn't just an exclusive club. It was thee exclusive club—the hottest joint in Hollywood.

As the elevator door slid open, Leopard-Print-Pants pointed me toward the furthest corner of the open-top terrace. The dim lighting revealed Elliott's unmistakable profile, accentuated by the backdrop of the Hollywood hills. He was tipped back in his chair with his feet kicked up on the marbled ivory table, spitting pistachio shells onto the glass tile floor.

"Ah." He shot me a mock salute as I approached, brushing aside an empty tumbler with the toe of his Balenciaga sneaker. "You made it."

There was still a part of me expecting to blink and find out none of this was really happening. That I wasn't standing under the stars on the string-lit patio of a members-only nightclub, meeting Hollywood's golden boy to talk about our film. That at some point, I was going to wake up back in Hawaii on the morning of Dani's wedding and find out this was all just a cruel, elaborate dream.

"Thank you for the invite."

He flicked another shell to the ground. "With pleasure."

Sitting up, he flung his feet off the table and gave me a none-too-subtle once-over. I could feel his eyes slide over the fitted cut of my dress—a favorite of mine, not too priggish, but one that required imagination all the same. It had seemed an appropriate choice for the company and locale.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Kameryn—but I know a great stylist. She'll be perfect to help you freshen up that wardrobe."

And strike me dead .

The pinprick to my ego sent me plummeting to the ground.

Don't take it the wrong way? What other way was there to take it?

But before my burning humiliation could permit me to defy the scientific laws denying the existence of spontaneous human combustion, he gestured toward the seat across from him and bid me to sit down.

"Now," he leaned forward, tapping the rim of his crystal tumbler, "on a more important note: name your poison."

I was still reeling from the wardrobe comment. I couldn't begin to connect the dots in my head fast enough to come up with an intelligent answer. Did I say something fruity? Something classy? The way he was smiling at me, the question felt like a test. I'd been expecting to find the same friendly, supportive guy who'd encouraged me through my disaster of a table read. The fellow actor who had assured me my nerves were only natural, and not to worry, we were all in this together. The man sitting in front of me wasn't that guy at all.

"Or perhaps," he continued in my silence, "you'd prefer me to guess what kind of girl you are?" He made no attempt to hide the implication behind his wordplay. There was a shine in his eye that promised he was enjoying my discomfort, aware of my glance toward the empty seat, wondering how soon Grady would arrive. "Let's see." He set his elbows on the table. "You're too cautious for tequila—you'd find it too garish. But you're not bold enough for whisky. Rum would be too sweet, and gin too… boring?" He spun his tumbler between thumb and forefinger, his smile growing smug. "The hem of that dress says more than wine, and you're too skinny for beer. So—vodka. Versatile, readily available, and packs a punch when you least expect it."

I hated that he was right. Vodka was my go-to. Mainly because it was cheap—and yes, it had the fewest calories. And also because tequila and I had broken up after Dani's 21 st birthday party. But I didn't appreciate his analysis.

"Wrong," I said, hoping to regain some of the dignity I'd lost after the dig at my attire. "Vodka might do the trick when you want a cosmopolitan, but personally, I prefer whisky."

I knew from his smile he could see right through me.

"You know," he leaned forward, "we're supposed to be honest with each other. Having a drink together is the second best way to build real chemistry." He lowered his voice. "And I'm sure you already know the best way."

And there it was. The quintessential douchebag. Nothing I'd expected from him based on the raving interview I'd read in Rolling Stone from Saoirse Ronan, who had boasted about her experience working with him. She'd called him sensitive. Praised his thoughtfulness. I believe the word enlightened had been used a time or two.

Apparently, his gallantry was limited to those sharing his same pay grade. I was not Saoirse Ronan and we both knew it. It was obvious he was aware he could push the envelope. What was I going to do? Go rushing to MacArthur?

"So what do you prefer, Kameryn? A drink? A shared drive home?" He flashed me his famous Hollywood smile. "Both?"

It disgusted me that I knew myself well enough to know a few months ago I might have considered taking him up on the offer. Not because he was coercing me. Despite his inappropriate insinuation, I didn't feel like there would be consequences if I turned him down. He may have been a slimeball, but he didn't give off a threatening vibe. Instead, I would have considered it simply because he was Elliott Fleming. I doubted many girls told him no.

Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how I wanted to look at it—I wasn't about to degrade myself to two one-night stands in less than a week. I was still incredibly hung up over Dillon. She'd left with no explanation beyond ‘I need a little time to think,' and promised me she'd call within the week. Well, tomorrow was day six and I'd reached the conclusion she was ghosting me.

At least Elliott had more ethics than to pretend it would be anything more than a fuck.

"Is this little bastard already giving you a hard time?"

Elliott leisurely sat back as we both looked up to find Grady Dunn striding toward the table. He was dressed as sharply as he had been at the read-through and greeted me with the same succinct, courteous manner. "Hello, Miss Kingsbury—whatever he's said to you, ignore him. He's honestly just an insecure attention seeker."

I didn't risk a laugh, but I did offer him a smile, relieved to have his company.

Elliott did laugh, however. "Says the grown man who brings his pets with him everywhere he goes." He thrust his chin in the direction of two men in suits waiting a dozen feet away. Grady's bodyguards.

The day after the casting announcement, I read on TMZ that Grady had already received death threats from outraged fans.

In the books, there was no mention of race. Ethnicity was irrelevant to the storyline. But unshockingly, there were a gross number of readers who were furious the role of Noah had been cast as a Black man. They'd assumed a male protagonist written by a little old Caucasian lady from Iowa in the early eighties would be white. But Margaret Gilles herself had made it publicly clear she could imagine no actor better suited for the role. Grady was the apogean hero. Handsome. Athletic. Dashing. He exuded charisma. Everything the part demanded.

"The day you wake up to be a Black man in America, call me and we'll chat. Until then, shut your mouth."

"Don't get your panties in a twist, Dunn. We haven't even had a drink yet. Which reminds me," he raised two fingers in the air, motioning for a server I hadn't even realized was waiting for his signal, "I've just learned our lovely friend here is a whisky girl. Watch and learn, Kameryn. I'm about to introduce you to the life you've just stumbled into."

The waiter was instantly at the edge of the table. "Another of the usual, Mr. Fleming?"

"Not today. The evening calls for whisky, I think. Glenfiddich 30."

"My apologies, Mr. Fleming, the thirty is not a bottle we shelve. We do, however, have a very nice twelve."

" Porter's carries it."

The waiter hesitated. "I'm sorry?"

" Porter's . On Argyle." Elliott waited, expectant.

"I—" the man, twice Elliott's age, worried the cuffs of his dress shirt. "Yes, of course, Mr. Fleming. I will send a runner."

"Excellent." Elliott smiled out of the side of his mouth. "And our friend here, Miss Kingsbury, is a single malt connoisseur. She'll have a Bruichladdich X4. They carry it at Bombay on Ivar."

The waiter glanced my direction, but Elliott tapped a finger to the table, drawing his attention back to him. "That'll be all."

The man walked away to do as he was told.

Elliott grinned. "And that, my dear, is the gift you've just been given."

"And what gift is that?" Grady demanded, unsmiling. "The license to be an asshole?"

"Come down off your high horse, old boy. Both those shops are less than a block away. Do you really want to deny this is the world we live in?"

"You mean the world where my wife can't even get the mail in her pajamas without fear of dozens of photos being posted online? Commenting on her choice of dress, the sag of her breasts after feeding our child, the audacity she has for asking them to leave her alone. That world?"

Elliott blew an exaggerative sigh. "You can't have your cake and eat it too, Dunn. You know this life is full of perks and tonight is nothing more than our normal." He looked at me. "You just learn to take it all in stride. Here's a bit of advice, kid: smile for the cameras. Make the press feel welcome. They can be your worst nightmare or your best friend. Keep them on your side and you're golden. Piss them off, and, well," he side-eyed Grady, "they'll be hashtagging your saggy titties."

I expected Grady to be outraged. I wanted him to be outraged. But instead, he just ignored him, turning his focus to me.

"Here's the truth, Miss Kingsbury. Very soon you're going to wake up and you're not going to recognize the planet you are standing on. Your life is going to seem ethereal. You are going to find it hard to breathe. Hard to think. Hard to simply be . I'm not trying to scare you, but don't listen to this idiot pretend all of it is glitz and glamour. What you need to know is—we've all been through it. We're all going through it. And usually, it gets better—or at least we grow more accustomed to the atmosphere—and life moves on.

"You'll do okay. Just focus on the work and what you want to bring to the table. We all get caught up in the bright lights and madness of this new universe, but try not to let it change you. Keep the people who matter to you close, and let the rest slide away. And when things get too overwhelming—"

"Get blackout drunk," Elliott laughed, cutting him off as he slapped his palms on the edge of the table.

Grady rolled his eyes, but as the minutes passed, the two fell into a more amicable existence, the conversation drifting to the upcoming shooting schedule, and the inconvenience of the offbeat location filming destinations.

I tried to stay focused, but despite my star-studded company, my thoughts were anxious to wander. I wanted to check my phone. There was an off chance Dillon could still call. An off chance this was all just a gigantic misunderstanding.

"And here's the man of the hour!" Elliott stood suddenly, offering the returning waiter a slow, patronizing clap, and pulled a wad of bills out of his wallet. "Well done, my friend. Well done." He tucked the cash into the man's breast pocket and swept up the two bottles. "Keep the change, okay?" As the waiter departed, Elliott filled our glasses, shoving them across the table. "To the newest member of our miserable little band." He raised his glass to me. "Drink up, Kingsbury . "

I could smell the heat of the whisky before I'd even picked up my tumbler. I wasn't concerned about holding my own when it came to hard liquor—I'd mastered that art in high school—but I wasn't a fan of sipping it neat and always preferred a mixer. It kept me from doing stupid things. But I wasn't about to ask for juice or soda.

Setting the glass to my lips, I downed a deep swig, and— holy fucking slam me in the face with a mallet! There was no avoiding the racking, gagging, sputtering cough that hit me as the brutal inferno of heat burned the lining off my esophagus. Whatever poisoned concoction I'd just inhaled certainly wasn't the typical run-of-the-mill whisky.

"Easy there, m'girl." Through my streaming eyes, I could see Elliott's cocky grin across the table. "I'd pegged you for someone who could swallow."

"You are the epitome of a tool, Fleming," Grady snapped, setting a hand on my shoulder. He waved the waiter over for a carafe of water.

"What?" Elliott feigned indignance. "We're all friends here. I mean hell, I'm going to see Kameryn naked in a couple of weeks—it's the least I can do to learn how she likes to take her liquor."

I'd been blessedly too overwhelmed since learning I got the part to find time to worry about individual aspects of the filming. The nudity scenes—something I had never done—had been only a source of low-key apprehension. Now, however, with his disparaging comments and innuendos, that subdued apprehension had turned into full-fledged anxiety. I couldn't imagine playing those scenes with him . He was so much more of an asshole than I ever imagined possible.

"See, she's all good," he gave my arm a playful slug. "Aren't you, Kameryn? That's quadruple-distilled 184-proof single malt. Strongest whisky in the world. You could power a sports car off it." He pried the glass from my white-knuckled hand and downed the remaining finger. Sweat broke out on his upper lip and he had to clear his throat, but otherwise managed to pull off the gesture with indifference. "Easy-breezy, no?" He poured another. "Your turn."

"You do not have to drink that—" Grady started, but I swept up the glass and downed the measure.

Fuck Elliott Fleming.

This time I managed not to choke, even as the equilibrium of the rooftop swirled around me.

"Atta girl. What a pro. I knew you could take it."

"You're taking this too far, Fleming!" Grady launched to his feet, his own drink untouched on the table. "I will not tolerate this!"

"Did I miss an or else ?" Elliott's eyes shined with malice. There was nothing about him that resembled the charismatic boy in the posters filling the cinema halls, or the smiling headshot currently plastered across the entertainment news announcing his role in Sand Seekers . All he looked like was a thorn in my side I was going to have to bear for the indefinite future.

Once again, he refilled the glass and pushed it toward me. He was leaning close enough that his aftershave was beginning to make me sick to my stomach.

"Do you know, Kameryn, that this is my third film with MacArthur? He and I have done some incredible things together." He moved the glass into my hand. "You might not realize it, but I spent weeks watching film tests with L.R. as we combed the globe looking for a suitable actress for the role of Addison. Were you given that same opportunity, Grady?" He held up a dismissive palm. "Save your breath, I already know the answer." His steely gaze returned to me. "You don't need a knight in shining armor, do you, Kameryn?"

I may have responded with a shake of my head, but I couldn't be certain. I was already seeing double. I knew behind his veiled threats he wasn't bluffing. He had history with MacArthur. He had clout. He'd put his own money into the project. Grady may have been the more decorated artist, but Elliott was the draw. All three of us knew it. But I was the only one in jeopardy of losing my job. I realized suddenly this was why he'd asked me here. He had a point to make. On this production, he was king. He wanted to make sure I knew it. Grady, too.

I picked up the whisky. This time it didn't burn going down. Beside me I could feel Grady's rage, but he didn't say anything.

I couldn't remember if I'd eaten this morning. It may have been last night. My stomach felt like it was disintegrating from the inside out.

"What a champ you are, Kingsbury! Way to put it down!"

Standing, I steadied myself with the table as Grady leapt to take my arm. I suddenly didn't care if I lost my job. I had to get home. I was going to puke. "I—I have to go."

"Oh, c'mon, Kameryn, we're just getting started—"

"Fuck off, Elliott!" Grady hissed over my shoulder as I staggered across the glass tile. Their voices sounded far away, despite Grady still holding my arm. "I'm going to take you home."

"No, no, thank you…" I'd made it to the elevator, my fingers desperately searching for the down button. "I can Uber." I was vaguely aware he'd waved off his security as he guided me through the sliding doors.

"You really shouldn't—"

"I promise, I'm fine!" My voice broke and I was sure I was going to cry. "Please, just…"

Just what? What could he do?

"Let me have your phone." Without waiting for permission, he reached into my purse. "Type in your passcode."

We were on the ground floor by the time I could put the four digits in the right order. I handed my phone back to him and he ordered my Uber.

There were bursts of light and raised voices. It took me a moment to realize they were camera flashes from the waiting paparazzi. Grady pulled me away from the front door, sheltering me through a crowded room into a darkened hall, until he'd shouldered his way through an unmarked exit leading to a quiet back alley.

"I'm sorry," I choked, leaning against the brick wall. "I don't think I ate earlier, and, the whisky—I think it just went to my head…"

It wasn't what I was sorry for. I was sorry for being a pathetic, wilting, spineless coward. A jellyfish who didn't have an ounce of courage to stand up for herself when it really mattered. Grady had tried to stand up for me, and I'd just pushed him aside.

"It's going to be okay, Kameryn." He gave my arm a squeeze. I was grateful he didn't ask me if I wanted him to talk to L.R. or try to approach MacArthur. It would have done no good and just made the humiliation all the more acute.

When my Uber arrived, Grady opened the door and poured me into the back seat. "Gallon of water and something greasy. I'll see you at the studio. You have my number if you want to talk." He closed the door.

On the short drive down Melrose, I stared out the window. I don't know how it was possible, but my thoughts were back on Dillon.

Tomorrow was New Year's Eve. I wanted to text her, but refused to give in.

What a clown I'd been.

Tonight. Last week. All the days in between.

I pressed my cheek against the cool glass, praying I wouldn't barf. That was all I needed in the headlines. Kameryn Kingsbury Might Swallow, But She Can't Keep It Down .

It would be the perfect start to the New Year.