Chapter 4

I grow tense.

“I’ve been busy at work,” I argue, more tense than I’d like. My work isn’t exactly confined to office hours.

She raises her hand to indicate surrender.

“Hey, I get it, alright. I’m not telling you to go back to your old ways either.”

I wince because the truth is I slept with a lot of guys in college. Not because I was attracted to them or even because I wanted to get laid. No, I did it as a form of sex therapy, to prove to myself over and over again that despite everything I knew about myself, I could keep my feelings, reactions, and emotions locked away in a nice little box. That I could be stronger than the memories, the pain, and the nightmares. That I could reclaim my life.

Cass knows more about that time in my life than anyone. And she also knows it isn’t a topic I want to discuss.

“Don’t do this, Cass. Don’t open that jar tonight, please.”

“I’m sorry. But that’s exactly what I’m going to do tonight. You’re still vulnerable.”

I shake my head automatically, wanting to deny it even though I know she’s right.

“I haven’t had nightmares since I returned to Los Angeles.”

“And that’s great,” she says. “That’s why I’m saying it. I don’t want them to hurt you again… You’ve already suffered too much.”

“They won’t,” I say, though it’s an empty promise. “I love you; you know that.”

I catch a mischievous glint in her green eyes. She smiles and lets go of me.

“Yes, but will you come to bed with me?”

“After all the time it took me to get dressed?” I joke.

Considering how poorly my romantic endeavors with guys have gone, sometimes I think I should switch sides. But that’s not for me. And while we’ve had our awkward moments, for the most part, the infatuation that Cass has never bothered to hide has just become another ingredient in our friendship.

She laughs mischievously and glances at her watch.

“We still have a few minutes before we arrive at the theater. We can dim the lights and put on a show for Edward.”

She makes little pouts and wiggles her tits suggestively.

I burst out laughing.

“That’s so wrong on so many levels.”

“Honestly, what’s the point of going to a Hollywood party if there won’t be any sex and alcohol?”

“We have alcohol,” I remind her, refilling her glass. “As for sex, I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunities.”

“With fourth-rate actors,” she reminds me.

I think for a moment.

“Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if Graham Elliott shows up,” I blurt out. Elliott is Hollywood’s latest mega-star. Rumor has it he wants to play Steele in a feature film they’re working on, and he’s at the top of his game.

“He’s not my type. But that probably means Kirstie Ellen Todd will be there too, right?”

“I doubt it. I read online that they broke up.”

Cass winces and sighs.

“Well, at least I have a chance with her again.”

“First of all, I’m pretty sure she’s straight. And secondly, there’s the small problem that you won’t meet her in a million years.”

“Ah, minor inconveniences.”

I shake my head, amused.

“That’s you, Cass.”

“Exactly. Oh boy, look at that,” she says, finishing her glass and using it to point. “Spotlights.”

She’s right. As is typical for such occasions, two huge searchlights crisscross the sky in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, now known as the TCL Chinese Theatre. In my childhood, it was Mann’s Chinese Theatre, so for the most part, I still think of it as the Chinese Theatre in Hollywood, with the hand and footprints of countless TV and movie stars.

Edward joins the line of cars, and the limo rolls forward until our door is in front of the red carpet. Edward stops the car, opens the door for us, and as we step out, the reporters swarm, snapping photos of us. They slow down as soon as they realize we aren’t famous, though I suspect Cass’s playful antics with her kicking legs keep them shooting photos longer than usual.

Ahead of us, red velvet ropes separate the theater and its lobby from the spectators who’ve gathered along this stretch of Hollywood Boulevard.

Cass squeezes my hand as we begin to walk down the red carpet toward the iconic pagoda-shaped entrance of the famous theater.

“This is quite an entrance,” she whispers.

I’m certainly not going to argue with her, and as we walk down the red carpet, I can’t help but feel a bit like a celebrity. That feeling is only heightened when I take in the tuxedoed men and elegantly dressed women mingling in this open-air area, talking to the press and providing tourists and onlookers with plenty of photo opportunities.

Wyatt waits at the end, and as Cass and I approach, he smiles. I hope we’ll pass by and join the rest of the guests, but he leads us to a poster for the studio that financed the documentary, capturing our moment of fame.

“Thanks for getting me tickets,” I say. “I owe you one.”

“Relax,” Wyatt says, pointing his camera at Cass. “It’s just another expression of my subversive artistic personality. I’m eccentric,” he adds, making me laugh.

Cass and I link arms and follow the well-dressed guests. We head first to the Grauman’s Ballroom in the adjoining multiplex, where a reception is being held before the screening in the original theater. I lean into Cass.

“This is going to be epic,” I say, echoing her words.

And I mean it. Right now, I feel exhilarated, confident, and ready to take on the world. Or at least Marcus Steele.

Uniformed waiters stand by the entrance, offering us glasses of champagne as we enter the ballroom.

“Wow,” Cass exclaims, another sentiment I share.

The hall is impressive. It’s huge, yet not overwhelming. Golden light bathes the room, intermittently interrupted by a pattern of blue images projected onto the floor and ceiling. Red lights in some corners add to the festive ambiance. Two massive columns seem to stand guard over the space, and in between, people congregate around a circular bar, where stacked wine glasses sparkle like colored stars under clever lighting.

Behind the bar, a screen displays a photo montage: towering skyscrapers, angular office buildings, innovative housing complexes. I recognize them all as Marcus Steele’s projects, and these images are interspersed with sketches, blueprints, and photographs documenting the construction of the Amsterdam museum, which played a central role in the documentary, much like Marcus Steele himself.

Cass finishes her glass of champagne and makes a beeline for the bar.

“I need another drink, and you need to drink more to gather your courage,” she says.

“Not true,” I lie, but Cass orders a glass of Cabernet for both of us anyway.

I pick up mine and ignore the small voice in my head that whispers I shouldn’t be even slightly tipsy around Marcus Steele. To achieve what I’ve set out to do, I need a clear head, to be professional and cold, very cold. Those are sensible words, but I send them for a walk when I raise the glass to my lips and take a long, slow drink.

“To the victory!” Cass says, raising her glass.

We clink our glasses, and I take a small sip. What do they say? That I have to drink more to gather courage? Yes. After all, it might be a good idea.

I look around, grounding myself and scrutinizing the faces. The lounge, as elegant as it is welcoming, has tablecloth-draped tables interspersed with plush designer sofas and chairs. Almost all of them are empty because the guests are standing around chatting with each other. I recognize a few. A reality star in a corner, an agent I once met at a party… But I don’t see Marcus, and I start to get nervous. He must be around here, and I’m afraid that if I don’t find him before the screening, they’ll take him away afterward before I have a chance to talk to him.

“You never told me until today that your Atlanta date had become a terrific celebrity architect. It’s great, isn’t it?” Cass says, approaching me with another glass.

“Yeah, kind of.”

I hesitate for a moment because how would you describe perfection? But I don’t continue because I have it right in front of me. Not him, but his image, projected onto the screen behind the bar for all to see.

“Geez,” Cass says, looking at it. “Damn! That dude is spectacular.”

I nod, eyes glued to the screen, a lump in my throat. I thought the magazine cover did him justice, but I was wrong. On the cover he is immaculate, his rudeness softened by Photoshop magic. But this image, this image is unretouched and sharp. It is genuine, amazing, and overwhelming.

It’s Marcus, standing on two parallel iron girders, at least thirty stories above the ground, in a city I don’t recognize. He wears jeans, a white long-sleeved T-shirt, and a white helmet. He clings to a gigantic hook that dangles in front of him and seems unaware of the camera, which I imagine is pointing a telephoto lens at him from a safe distance.

The shadow of his stubble is as unmistakable as the deep blue of his eyes, which seem to catch fire in the white sunlight. With the other hand, he shields them while he contemplates the construction around him. Behind and below him is the city, but Marcus is the focus. And, with this image alone, there’s no doubt that Marcus is a man with the power to make the planet whatever he wants. And right now, all I can hope for is that what I can offer him is something he wants to own.

I wrap my arms around my body and step back as the image fades to black and is replaced by another construction site. I turn around and see Cass staring at me. She sighs and slowly shakes her head.

“Fuck, Gabriela… I can see it in your face.”

I look away from her, but she grabs my arm.

“This project is not worth it. It’s going to tear you apart again. You’re almost done.”

“No!” I take a deep breath. “No, it won’t break me… It hasn’t broken me. And besides, he didn’t destroy me. I destroyed myself. All he did was—”

“Leave?”

“All he did was what I asked him to do.”

“Okay-okay. But are you sure you don’t want someone watching your back? At least I can stay with you until you find him.”

“I’m fine. Go mingle. Who knows, maybe Kirstie Ellen Todd is here.”

She hesitates before nodding. “I’ll say hello for you.”

She gives me a quick hug and goes back to the bar to order another glass of wine. I, on the other hand, leave mine half-full on a passing waiter’s tray. It’s definitely better to have a clear head.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m already regretting my sobriety. I’ve walked around the room twice, spotting several almost-famous actors and more than a hundred unfamiliar faces. I see Cass trying to flirt with anyone she can, a waitress from my favorite restaurant telling me she’s making some extra money, and Wyatt running around with his camera.

But I haven’t seen Marcus.

He must be around, though, so I decide that the best strategy is to head upstairs, glance into the gallery, and scan the guests from above. I start walking in that direction, my head slightly down as I take the opportunity to check my office email and text messages on my phone when something catches my eye—a familiar silhouette.

I look up, ignoring the sudden weight on my chest, and scan the room, searching for his face. But Marcus isn’t there, and my chest tightens even more, this time from the disappointment of not seeing him.

I take another step, tucking my phone back into my small red bag.

And that’s when I spot him.

He’s coming down the stairs; his attention focused on the distinguished-looking man beside him. Clean-shaven, he wears a smart collarless jacket and a cotton sweater. I expect him to be in a tuxedo, but I can’t deny that these clothes suit him much better. They give him a dark air—somewhere between sexy and unpredictable. I might even go so far as to say he looks like an important man. The kind who can defy convention and have everyone follow suit.

He’s the man who lives in my memories. Those crystal blue eyes, that sensuous mouth, the pronounced eyebrows, and the chiseled features.

He descends two more steps and turns his head slightly in my direction. That’s when I notice he isn’t exactly the same as I remember him. Now, he has a scar that crosses his left eyebrow and arches across his forehead, disappearing into his hairline. It wasn’t there in Atlanta, but it healed well and seems several years old.

Yet, that scar doesn’t diminish the sensuality of this man whose presence exudes undeniable authority. If anything, that imperfection adds to his mystery and gives him a dangerous and enigmatic aura. Still, I know there must be pain behind it, and I long to touch it, to trace it with my fingers. To hold him, reassure him, and provide comfort in the face of the malevolence that dared to leave such a mark on such an incredible face.

However, I’ve relinquished that right, and I’m acutely aware of it as I glance around and notice that all the women near me are looking at him the same way. I clench my fist, possessiveness surging through me, even though he no longer belongs to me. I gave up on him. I sacrificed him to save myself.

A wave of melancholy washes over me, and I admonish myself, thinking, Enough, enough, enough!