Remember When 3: The Finale Part 12

Trip was saying goodbye, offering his thanks, and showing the last of his houseguests out the door. He threw the deadbolt, took his fingers off the handle, and turned to find me standing there with my hands on my hips.

"What?" he asked lightheartedly, knowing d.a.m.n well what I was going to say.

"When did you have that s.h.i.+rt made?" I asked, pointing to the tee in question.

He took a few steps in my direction and wrapped his arms around my waist. He was wearing an evil grin, those perfect, white teeth smiling down at me. "Just last week. But I adopted the motto a year ago."

"You devil! You did that on purpose!"

"It was either 'Love Will Win' or 'I love bis.e.xual women.' I thought you'd like the first one better. But on that note, is there any chance I can talk you into a threesome?"

I smacked his arm as he cracked up. He lowered his laughing mouth and kissed me, cutting off any snarky remark I was readying myself to offer.

He pulled back, just far enough to admit, "I figured after your public heartbreak, the least I could do was publicly unbreak it. Mission accomplished?"

The exasperating man in my arms was looking at me optimistically, those playful blue eyes waiting on my reaction. Just because he had very visibly announced his engagement to the underwear model didn't mean my heartbreak was public. No. That was a very private destruction which ate away at me from the inside.

But I appreciated what he was trying to do. His heart was in the right place.

It's not like anyone from CNN would bother making a fuss over what he'd done anyway. And thank goodness, because I was starting to learn how the Hollywood grapevine worked. If that interview had been with some corny entertainment show, my name would have been leaked to every gossip magazine in the country as soon as the cameras stopped rolling. And that would have been a shame, because Trip's foundation deserved to be the focus of that interview, not the woman he was sleeping with. It was a pretty risky stunt he'd pulled, but if I was able to figure out he could get away with it, he must have been dead certain. It didn't need to be a public outing. It was enough that he and I knew what he'd done.

"Mission accomplished," I confirmed, pulling his smiling face down for a kiss.

Chapter 17.

CINDERELLA MAN.

The next day, Trip had a "read-through" for Slap Shot, and he asked if I'd like to go with him. We took the Batmobile to the studio, and I can't say that I wasn't excited about it. Not only was I going to get a real insider taste of Hollywood, but I'd be seeing where Trip worked.

He stopped briefly at the gatehouse and gave a salute to the security guard, who did nothing more than salute back and say, "Good afternoon, Mr. Wiley," before raising the gate. Trip was well-known everywhere, but the familiarity vibe was definitely different on his home turf. He hadn't even turned into him yet. I guessed there was no need to amp up the Wiley just for the gatekeeper.

We drove past a few low office buildings, which Trip explained were for "the moneybags," and down a narrower street lined with trailers, for "the peons." He maneuvered around a million identical white structures that looked like airplane hangars, and I wondered how he knew just where to go. My eyes kept darting around between the buildings, hoping to see some action. I mean, this was a Hollywood studio lot! I'd never seen one in person and only had my impression of them from the movies. So, where were all the lions on leashes? The clowns walking around on stilts? The feathered showgirls and the zombies and the cowboys?

The only humans I saw walking around were a few harried-looking, but fairly normal people.

What a gyp.

We parked in the lot near a building with a big, black B 124 painted on the side, and Trip let me out of the car. He held my hand and led me through the doors. It was bitter cold!

"Why is it so cold in here?"

Actually, it was only my top half that was freezing. Even though I was wearing a pair of shorts, the nerve endings in my legs had been deadened after four winters in my St. Norman's skirt. To this day, as long as my torso is bundled, I could brave the arctic tundra in a pair of bikini bottoms and be perfectly comfortable. True story.

He smiled and answered my question. "You'll see."

We walked through another set of doors-where it got even colder-and I saw the ma.s.sive hockey rink that took over the s.p.a.ce. "Oh my gos.h.!.+ Is this the Slap Shot set?"

His smile turned into the full-force grin, proudly announcing, "Yep. All the interiors are going to be shot right here. Welcome to the home arena of the Charlestown Chiefs."

"Wow! Cool! So, you'll get to shoot it right here? No going on location?"

"Maybe just a few quick trips for the exteriors."

I snuggled against his side, trying to get warm. "Quick trips. Okay, I can handle that."

He rubbed his hand along my arm to warm me up. "It's not like you won't be coming with me, babe."

I caught the look in his eyes and was suddenly very warmed by his words. He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. It should have been.

He led us out of the freezer and across the lobby again, through another set of doors and down a hallway. The temperature was more bearable back there, and by the time we made it to a door marked "PROD," it was comfortable. It was a large, fairly non-descript room that reminded me of a gymnasium. There was a long table set up in the middle with about a dozen people sitting around it on folding chairs, getting ready to do the read-through.

An older, balding man spotted us first. "Ah! There he is now. Nice of you to join us, Mr. Wiley."

There was no malice in the man's voice, and Trip smiled as we made our way over. He gripped my hand a little tighter and whispered, "Brace yourself."

I didn't know what was in store for me, but I found out soon enough. As we neared the table, the Elmer Fudd guy said, "And it looks like you brought me a present," eyeing me appreciatively.

Trip snickered, "Not a chance, pal," before addressing the other people in the room. "Everyone, this is Layla Warren." He gave a warning look to Elmer and added, "And I brought her for me."

I smiled and said my h.e.l.los as the people around the table greeted me. I finally looked over at Elmer and stopped dead in my tracks. The balding old man in front of my eyes was none other than Patrick Van Keegan! I was practically weaned on his movies growing up. He was my father's favorite actor. A lot of other people's, too. He'd starred in some of the biggest films ever made. The guy was a legend, and positively the hottest thing to hit the screens post-James Dean, pre-Trip Wiley.

I was grateful when Trip directed me to sit over near the craft table so I wouldn't have to speak. I was completely star struck, and my hands had begun to shake. It was crazy. I was sleeping with the most famous actor on the planet, and I had firsthand knowledge that he was just a regular person underneath the fame. He just happened to have an irregular job that made him extraordinarily well-known. But there I was, getting all googly-eyed from being in the same room as Patrick Van Keegan. But h.e.l.l. After all, Trip was presently the actor Patrick used to be. Who wouldn't get star-f.u.c.kery around that?

But my G.o.d he'd gotten old. It broke my heart a little bit. I almost wished I hadn't just met him.

The table Trip directed me toward was completely laden with snacks and drinks, and I grabbed a bottle of water out of the iced tub, but bypa.s.sed helping myself to any food. I took a seat on one of the folding chairs nearby and introduced myself to the other two girls who were there. Amber Lynn was fairly new to town. Chrystal Lynn was not. They didn't wait to inform me that they were both "dancers."

Chrystal Lynn gave me the once-over and promptly asked, "So, you're f.u.c.king Trip Wiley?"

She asked it so matter-of-factly. Like she was inquiring about my shoes.

Ummm... "He's my boyfriend."

I saw the two girls exchange a snarky look, and it was enough to make me want to go Jersey on their mini-skirted a.s.ses.

"Our friend Marcy was doing him a while back. He's really hot. You're so lucky."

Note to self: Remember to kill my boyfriend.

Amber Lynn piped in just then. "We're f.u.c.king Patrick."

I'm sure my mouth gaped open as I asked, "Both of you?"

Amber Lynn sounded as though she were trying to impart some newfound Hollywood wisdom when she taunted, "What, did you just come here from the farm?" They both shared a giggle at that before Amber continued, "It's a whole 'nother world out here, honey. You might want to wake up and realize it. s.e.x is money out here."

Chrystal Lynn high-fived her s.l.u.tty friend and added, "And there's a h.e.l.luva lotta rich people!"

The Bimbo Twins started cackling again, and it was enough to turn my stomach. They were both unbearably stupid, and they were both there with Patrick. What kind of world was this that Trip lived in? That I was living in?

I took a sip of my water when the old, ballbusting reporter in me decided to mess with them-I was just getting ready to ask their opinion on the situation in Darfur. However, I didn't get to open my mouth, because Patrick Van Keegan had opened his. Loudly.

His booming voice yelled at the director, "You think I don't know that? I was making movies while you were still in diapers, you little s.h.i.+t!"

His voice echoed around the large room, stunning everyone into silence. He stomped over to where we were sitting and grabbed at Amber's hand as he commanded, "Come on, girls. We're leaving!"

I caught Trip's attention and gave him the wide-eyes. He gave a casual shrug and went back to work. Thankfully, the meeting didn't take very long, and before I knew it, we were back in the Batmobile, wending our way through the lot once more.

"So, what happened at the table?" I asked. "Patrick Van Keegan lost his s.h.i.+t!"

Again, Trip only offered a shrug like it was no big deal. "He wanted to change some of his dialogue in a pivotal scene. Carlos refused to budge."

"You can do that? Isn't that the screenwriter's job?"

"Normally. But a script is written long before any actors are cast. The best directors will have a screenwriter tweak a scene to suit the actors after the fact. For the bigger names, anyhow."

"So... what? Carlos made Patrick feel like he wasn't big enough to warrant the change?"

"Nah. It was simply a bad suggestion. Carlos knew that and challenged him on it." He turned the car toward the gatehouse as he added, "Don't worry about it. He's just blowing off some steam. He'll come around. The Oscars are in a few more days. Makes everyone crazy."

I'd been witness to that phenomenon over the past week. Oscar season brought out the jitters in everyone in town. Not just the actors and directors, but the boutique-owners and the salespeople at the jewelry stores. Who was going to wear who? What megastar could best show off the diamonds? It was so weird to me that stuff like that was enough to throw an entire city into such a tailspin. It seemed so... superficial.

But I felt like Patrick's outburst was due to something bigger than a flipping awards ceremony, for G.o.dsakes. I was pretty sure he wasn't even nominated for anything. Was that it? Had his star gone so dim that he thought he'd simply fade away? It must be a bizarre transition, going from having the world at your feet to being shoved to the background, practically forgotten. It must have been even harder for Patrick to have the younger version of himself sitting right there next to him, knowing Trip's name would be above his in the credits, the hottest new thing since... well... him. At least it would explain The Bimbo Twins. It probably made Patrick feel like a big man to be nailing not one, but two cheap strippers purely for sport.

Hollywood was glamorous and exciting, but it was also the kind of place that could chew a person up and spit them out. The thought filled me with an unwarranted sense of dread: When he had ultimately aged out of heartthrob status, when the cameras finally stopped flas.h.i.+ng in his face, would Trip someday grow into the same, cynical, broken man as Patrick Van Keegan?

Chapter 18.

LIPSTICK & DYNAMITE.

We'd decided to treat our Academy Awards evening like a date and got ready in separate rooms. I spent most of my prep time in the guest bathroom-the beautiful, decorating-magazine bathroom-while Trip took over the master suite next door. I was anxiety-ridden, sitting at the dressing table, the stylist putting the finis.h.i.+ng touches on my makeup, when I heard Trip through our adjoining wall, singing in the shower.

I had to strain to hear what the song was. The evening's selection was "You Got the Touch" from the Boogie Nights soundtrack, and Trip was belting it out with as much pa.s.sion and pitchiness as Dirk Diggler. It was enough to make me forget my nerves for a minute, and I started laughing so hard that tears gathered at my eyes, enough so that Betty admonished me for threatening to ruin my eyeliner.

After she'd gone, I checked out her handiwork in the huge mirror over the sink. She did this crazy smoky thing with my eyes which looked really cool. I was sure that if I'd tried to recreate it on my own, I'd end up looking more like a heroin addict instead of a spicy vixen.

But that night, it was s.e.xy.

She'd curled my hair so that it had these great, 1920s-type finger-waves going on, one side pulled up and held with a diamond and brown-topaz comb, on loan from Harry Winston.

That's right, kids. Harry Effing Winston. I was freaking out about the whole night, but just seeing those famous diamonds at my head pretty much sent me over the edge. I mean, I was going to the G.o.dd.a.m.n Academy Awards. Me. Layla Warren. On the arm of the biggest movie star on the planet.

Wearing Harry. Winston. Diamonds.

The same flower shapes from the comb were recreated along the delicate necklace in coordinating jewels. I had politely refused the earrings, though. I could totally have seen me losing the things and didn't want to worry about them all night. It would have been too much sparkle anyway, even for Oscar Night. I opted for my own, simple, diamond studs instead.

Oh. And don't tell anyone, but I was wearing Club Monaco Glaze on my lips. You know, that Monica Lewinsky shade that was all the rage twenty fas.h.i.+on cycles ago? But it was still the perfect color for my skintone, and if it ain't broke, don't fix it, you know what I'm saying?

I stripped off my robe and went out into the bedroom to slip into my dress.

Only it wasn't there.

Hanging in its spot instead was the cream gown I had picked out at Siobhan's.

It actually took my mind a few seconds to register what was happening. When it did, my only thought was, He didn't!

Sonofab.i.t.c.h, he did.

I stormed down the hallway to Trip's room and burst through the door. "Where's my dress?"

He was standing there in just a white towel, slung low on his perfect hips. If I wasn't so angry, I would have appreciated the view a bit more. He didn't even bother to look at me, and continued to debate the neckties in his hands as he answered, "Hanging in your room."

"That's not the dress I bought."

"No, but it's the one you liked."

"Trip! I know what you're trying to do, and it's very sweet, really. But it costs too much. It's why I didn't buy it in the first place! I just can't in good conscience allow you to spend that kind of money on such a thing."

He lowered the ties and turned toward me. And when he did, his jaw dropped to the floor and his eyes bugged out of his head like a Looney Toon.

Ayooooogah!

I suddenly realized I'd been standing there in just my beige push-up strapless bra, a tiny pair of panties, lace-top thigh-high stockings... and garters. I figured it was a special occasion, so what the h.e.l.l.

Trip's tongue rolled across the floor and back up into his mouth as he regained his composure.

He perched a hip against the dresser and crossed his arms over his naked chest. He looked so gorgeous standing there in just a towel, with his intentionally mussed hair and his calm, commanding stance.

A smirk decorated his face as he said, "Lay, I don't know if you've noticed, but I can afford stuff like this now."

"It's too much."

"Not by a longshot."

"Well, I'm just going to return it." I crossed my arms over my chest. See? I could be stubborn, too.

Trip dropped his arms and came over toward me. He put his hands on my shoulders and implored, "Look. Please don't deny me the pleasure of buying you things. Besides, you can't return it. It's already been altered."