A smile touched at the corners of her lips as she saw, through the fronds of palm trees, the Hollywood sign mounted high on the hills. Illuminated, its white letters stark against the night, the iconic sign was a silent reminder of her mission. And what she had to do next.
She was the one who should have been the star.
She was the one who should have taken Hollywood by storm, been adored by a million fans.
Fame was yet to be hers.
She turned and once more studied her wall where she’d remounted the disfigured poster of Jenna as Zoey Trammel. Wincing, she forced herself to stare at her handiwork. Maybe she’d learn to control herself. The torn print was a harsh reminder of her thin grip on reality.
Slowly, she turned and focused on another poster. This one of Allie.
In the poster for Wait Until Christmas, Allie was a vision, like a damned angel. With her face upturned as if she were actually glimpsing heaven and a divine light shining upon her, she was the picture of innocence and virtue.
Yeah, right.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
Worse yet, Allie had been horrible in the film. Horrible! Wooden. Like a damned marionette on a string. Hadn’t anyone else been able to see Allie’s lack of talent?
How had Allie Kramer’s name ever been whispered for an Academy Award?
Fortunately, cooler, smarter heads had prevailed and Allie hadn’t been nominated.
“Too bad.”
CHAPTER 25
She was late. So late! Consumed by her whirling thoughts and a darkness she didn’t want to consider, Cassie arrived at the bar over an hour later than she’d planned. Once she’d snapped to and seen the time on her car’s clock, she’d texted Brandon.
He hadn’t responded.
No surprise there.
The good news was that at this time of night Orson’s was quiet.
Good.
The lighting was dim, soft jazz playing from hidden speakers, only a few customers sprinkled at the bar and even fewer at the surrounding tables. Cassie figured McNary had picked this spot specifically because the patrons were sparse so there was less of a chance of someone recognizing him. Maybe. With all of the publicity surrounding the release of Dead Heat, and the scandal surrounding the movie, anyone associated with the film was under the constant watch of the paparazzi. Didn’t she have the phone calls, texts, and e-mails to prove it? Fortunately, there were fewer members of the press in Portland than LA, but that would change quickly with news of the premiere party that Dean Arnette had scheduled, here, in the City of Roses for this coming weekend. And these days, everyone had a cell phone, pocket camera, or iPad on them at all times. Any Tom, Dick, or Harriet could snap a shot and sell it to the tabloids, or post it on the Internet. No big deal.
The odd thing was that usually McNary didn’t avoid publicity. He ate up all of the media attention and with Dead Heat about to be released, it seemed out of character for him to want privacy.
So something had to be up.
She glanced over her shoulder, but no one seemed to pay her any notice as she walked into the restaurant. Her hair was pulled away from her face and hidden beneath her hood. She’d wiped off all of her makeup to be less recognizable. A scarf, ostensibly to fight off the cold and damp of April in Oregon, hid her chin, but she didn’t wear dark glasses. At night they would attract more attention than they would deflect.
As she picked a path through scattered tables, she sensed a couple of passing glances sent her way, but no one stopped to stare or interrupt their conversation as she made her way to a corner booth. She ordered a glass of wine, and still fighting a headache texted Trent while her cell flashed its irritating “low battery” warning. For now she ignored it, but she’d have to be careful. She needed the phone in case of an emergency.
In Portland. McNary said he had info on Allie. We’ll see. Back soon.
Then she waited. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Sipping her merlot she checked her watch. God, it was late. Her fault. Still, she was annoyed that McNary wasn’t showing. Avoiding eye contact with the patrons and waiter, she did a slow burn as she told herself she’d been stood up. She was an idiot, a fool for trusting the likes of Brandon McNary. She should never have left Trent’s house.
Suddenly McNary swung through the door and headed straight to her table.
Smelling of rainwater and cigarette smoke, wearing a hooded jacket not unlike her own, and with four or five days’ beard stubble and tinted glasses, he was barely recognizable. He looked more like a strung-out junkie down on his luck than a Hollywood star who could command millions to be a part of a movie. “About time you showed,” he said.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Just pay for that,” he said, motioning toward her drink, and when she was about to argue, he pulled out his wallet as if agitated, left a couple of bills on the table, then grabbed her hand. Before she could protest, he bent down and whispered, “Don’t argue,” then quietly led her down a short hallway and through a side entrance to the street, where beneath the awnings several men and women smoked cigarettes, the rain coming down in a steady drizzle.