Scene 35

It was a miserable hour of the morning.

The sun hadn't yet risen and my room was washed in darkness, save for the muted ring of fluorescent light emitting from where my cell lay face down on my nightstand. I grappled for it, managing to dislodge a glass of water, an uncapped bottle of ibuprofen, and my reading glasses onto the floor.

It wasn't Dillon. Or, at least it wasn't her ringtone. But I scrambled to answer anyhow, unwilling to miss the possibility she was trying to call.

"Hello?"

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

I stabbed end call , flopping back to my pillow, disgusted.

Oh, joy . My new number must have been leaked. Again . Before I could return the phone to the table, it was ringing once more, but this time, as I swiped to hang up, I noticed the name on the caller ID.

Shit . I hit redial.

"Elliott?" I said, when I heard the line pick up.

"Let's try this again: do you have a boyfriend?"

I dug the heel of my palm into my right eye, trying to contain the splitting ache to one corner of my brain.

Last night had been the official wrap party for Sand Seekers , put on by one of the studio execs at his estate in Holmby Hills. I'd meant to stick to champagne. But how could I tell L.R. Sims no when he uncorked a Barrique de Ponciano Porfidio and handed me a shot? Certainly, I couldn't turn it down while Waylon MacArthur stood at my elbow, offering a chaser of limes.

The rest of the night was a blur. Venetian tile and crystal chandeliers, hundred thousand dollar Mulberry silk loveseats. A waterfall that spouted up in the middle of the dining room. Had I played pickleball barefoot on a private tennis court with Grady Dunn, or had that only been part of my disjointed dreams? I wasn't sure.

Of one thing I was certain, however: I needed to clear up any misunderstandings.

"Look, Elliott—I really appreciate the ride home last night. I got a little carried away. But if I somehow gave you the wrong impression, I'm—"

"—trust me," he interrupted with a derisive laugh, "you're not my type."

"I—okay." I blinked, uncertain how I could manage to find myself insulted when I hadn't started this in the first place. "So, you're calling me at the crack of dawn because…?"

"I just came from—" he stopped. "Dawn?" He was thrown off. "Kam—it's eight PM."

It couldn't be. We hadn't even left the party until after midnight. Unless—I glanced at my lock screen. 8:03 . Ho-ly shit! I'd slept all day!

"Listen, Kam. I'd say this was none of my business, but it kind of is."

"What, your choice in women?" I tried to joke.

"No." He wasn't laughing. " Your choice in women, actually."

Now I wasn't laughing, either. I went silent. My heart was so still I may as well have been interred in Cleopatra's tomb. I knew I should probably rush to a defense, but I was so stunned, I said nothing at all.

"Now that I have your attention," he continued, "I just came from the studio. I was in a meeting with MacArthur when he got a call."

I rolled to the edge of my bed, reaching down to gather two of the dropped pills of ibuprofen that had slowly been dissolving in the spilled water, and popped them in my mouth. Then I flopped back on my squeaking box spring mattress, and listened, without comment, as Elliott explained that a peon English reporter for The Sun had called Waylon MacArthur. The man had run across the video of me and Harry singing Rewrite the Stars .

This in itself wasn't a surprise. A few days after it had been uploaded to the DJ's Instagram, the video had been discovered by a Sand Seekers fan, who had shared it on TikTok. Overnight, it had gone viral—and by viral, I mean, within forty-eight hours, it had racked up over ten million views.

I'd panicked, initially, but the studio had been thrilled. Free publicity . Free hype .

The stupid cell phone-recorded sing-along had brought me more direct attention than the release of the teaser trailer that had come out the week before. I'd since been asked about it on talk shows and radio interviews during our press tour. The Today Show had extended an offer for me to sing the song live with Zac Efron, which I'd politely declined. Fans had flocked to my social media accounts, where I'd gained—literally—millions of followers overnight.

It was good for business, Aaron chastised me when I'd first called him in tears.

On a lighter note, it had been good for Harry, too, Dillon told me the evening I'd gotten home from filming Good Day LA . He'd never had so many swipe rights in his life. British Triathlon had even benefitted from the exposure, shining new interest on the sport.

But most important to me, Dillon had laughed it off. There was nothing in the video to link me to her. Blurred in the background were a few glimpses of her and Sam at the table, but theirs were just two faces amongst dozens of others. It was hardly surprising for Sam to be at one of her regular haunts with her best friend.

Only, this reporter had apparently covered Sam's birthday party, too. He'd remembered seeing me with Dillon. According to Elliott, he even had a photo that showed us standing together in the background. It had inspired the newshound to do some digging. When he saw Dillon at the nightclub, he'd drawn his conclusion, deciding the coincidences were enough that he could get away with running an opinion piece on the topic.

"Now, it's obvious," Elliott was saying, "that the guy has nothing. He was just looking for an easy payout. He'd banked on the hope that the studio would be willing to fork over some petty cash to bury the story. Even if there is no solid evidence, these kinds of articles always lead to rumors…"

Again, I was sure I should be defending myself—denying whatever it was Elliott was getting at—but I didn't have it in me. I didn't care about a tabloid speculating my relationship with Dillon—but Dillon would care, and that was all that mattered.

"What did MacArthur say?" My mouth was dry. One of the ibuprofen felt like it was lodged in my throat.

"He told the guy to fuck himself. That no one would believe it—you were too hot to be a lesbian. He said he wasn't willing to touch the topic with a ten-foot pole."

"So he didn't… care?" I asked carefully, trying to sort the situation out.

"Oh, don't be ignorant, Kameryn—of course he cares. He cares a lot if his prized romantic lead actress suddenly pops up as a full-blown lady lover! He just knows he can't get involved. If word got out he spent studio funds on hush money to squash a story like this, it'd be a one-way ticket to labeling him a homophobe." Elliott paused. "And he is a homophobe, Kam. Make no mistake."

I swallowed, unable to find the outrage I knew I should be feeling. "So why are you calling me?" The pill rattled around, forcing me to cough. I wanted to tell Elliott that he could be the one to fuck himself. That I wasn't ashamed of who I was. That he and MacArthur could ride their bigoted locomotive on the fast bus to hell.

But I was scared, actually.

Not about what it could do to my career—that came secondary. I was scared of what Dillon would do. How it would make her feel.

"I asked MacArthur for the guy's number. I've already been in contact with him. One of us is going to pay him off, Kam—be it you or me."

"You what— !" Now I was angry. Not because it wasn't the sensible thing to do. It was. Not for the reasons Elliott thought—because I did need this to go away—but because Elliott had taken the liberty of making the decision for me. "She's a friend , Elliott! How dare you—"

"I'm not your enemy, Kam." He didn't rise to my anger, remaining completely even-keeled. The same way he had on the cliffs above Stonehaven. It was infuriating. "Honestly, I don't give a shit what you do in your personal life. But that's beside the point. If this story runs, it will change things for you. I'm not talking about our film—the franchise is too big, the fanbase too loyal, to be thrown off by these kinds of things. That's why MacArthur won't step in. It won't affect his bottom line. Hell, it might even help things. But for you, on a personal level… Kam, this industry is brutal. On the surface, it may be all love-is-love kumbaya, but I promise you, it's not. Rumors start floating around about your deviating love life, and I guarantee you, the big, starring roles dry up."

Deviating love life . I thought I was going to throw up.

I couldn't tell him I didn't care about the starring roles. I just didn't want my girlfriend to leave me.

"What am I supposed to do?" I whispered.

"First, we're going to get this guy twenty grand—"

" Twenty gra— !" I started, appalled.

"—he wanted fifty, but it's not worth it. The Sun wouldn't even give him a quarter of that, not when it's nothing more than speculation." Elliott went on as if this were just daily business. "I've already got my lawyer drawing up a contract. This guy breathes a single word after payment, and he's finished."

"Elliott, I don't just have twenty grand to…" It was ridiculous to be embarrassed. But the way he talked about the money, it was like he was discussing chump change. He and Grady had been paid more than ten times what they'd offered me for the first film.

"I'll handle it, Kam. I'll get him paid off, the story goes away, the picture disappears, and then," he paused, and the weight of the pause was enough to distract me from arguing that I couldn't possibly allow him to spend twenty thousand dollars on my behalf.

I waited.

"And then, Kam," he resigned to continue, "we have to find you a boyfriend."

Oh, yeah, no. This was where this madness ended. I'd heard of the beards of Hollywood. I wasn't about to allow myself to give in to that deception.

"No way. Out of the question—"

"Get a grip, Kam! You don't have to fuck him! But you need someone to stand in!"

To stand in… like my life was in need of a stunt double. Like this was a lighting test or blocking rehearsal.

"Don't you have a friend—someone you trust," he asked, "who'd be willing to go to functions with you? Someone you can take on holidays, plaster their face on your socials? If you don't, I know some guys—"

"No!" I ended that offer abruptly. I may have needed his twenty Gs, but I didn't need him to find me a pseudo-boyfriend. "I… I know someone." I coughed again, the pill burning a slow progression down my esophagus. "I… I'll call him."

"Good."

"Why are you helping me?" I asked, filling the silence.

It was his turn to clear his throat. To dally on the other end of the line. "You have a huge career ahead of you, Kam," he finally said, as uncomfortable as I had ever heard him. "You're more than… you deserve more than playing the quirky best friend. The class clown. The serial killer next door." He tried to laugh. "It's bullshit, that that's what it comes down to. But it's the truth. Take it from someone who knows. We're worth more than that—people like us—but this industry's not there yet." He exhaled. "Look—I have to go, I have some calls to make. Just hold up your end of the deal and this will all go away." Again, he forced a laugh. "Oh, and make sure he's cute, okay? No one's going to believe a girl like you has hooked up with an ugly dude."

And with that, the line was dead.

I stared at the blinking amber charging light on my computer across the room.

People like us . Had he really just said that?

Had he meant…? I shook the rabbit-hole train of thought from my mind. There were other things I needed to handle first.

Like calling Dillon.

But I didn't want to scare her. Not until it was handled. Then I could explain it all.

FUCK ! I wanted to scream. I had the urge to leap from my bed and tear the curtains off my windows for no other reason than to be destructive. To take out my fury on something that couldn't talk back.

Instead, I pulled myself together and scrolled through my phone. I hovered over the first name that popped up under the letter C . Was this really the right thing to do? If I was just more careful… If we were just more discreet…

But I'd thought we had been careful. I'd thought we were discreet. And the thing that mattered to me above all else was protecting Dillon. She couldn't go through this again.

I punched the number. Two rings later, a familiar voice came on the line.

"Hey, stranger! Long time no talk."

I swallowed, already hating myself. "Hey, Carter."