The Redhead Plays Her Hand

eight

I didn’t have time to ponder this possible new development between Michael and Holly.

Michael and Holly?

I couldn’t focus on those two people because things had quickly gone from strange to swagger elsewhere at the party. I circled and mingled, chatted and schmoozed, staying within an across-the-room grin of Jack, but not too close. He seemed off tonight, and while he was glued at the hip with Adam, I was steering clear. Jack tended to get handsy when drinking, and after the earlier lap powwow, I knew to make sure to keep some distance until it was time to go home.

This was new, a side to Jack I had no experience with.

It’s not like you’ve known him all that long . . .

True, but I knew Jack. Knew his head and his good heart, and this was not like him. It was, however, like—

“Adam!” I heard my Brit bellow from across the patio. Shot glass in hand, Jack stood with Lane by the bar. Lane and he had been doing shots, but I noticed Lane had wisely switched to club soda a while ago. Lane’s eyes met mine across the party, and I raised an eyebrow. He looked at his watch, then gestured for the door.

Message received. Time to go.

I picked my way through the party, finding the straightest path to the bar, trying to get there before Adam did. As I closed, I could see Jack swaying slightly, and his eyes were puffy and bloodshot. Lane had an arm draped in a friendly way across his shoulders, but as I got closer, I could see Jack was leaning heavily into his side. Lane was having to hold him up. As Jack caught sight of me, a slow grin spread across his face.

“There’s my girl. Where’ve you been?” he slurred, eyes droopy and unfocused.

I exchanged a look with Lane and nodded.

“Hey, Sweet Nuts, you ready to go? I’m kind of tired, and things are winding down.”

The party was in full swing all around us.

“Not yet, Grace. Adam and I were talking about heading over to this bar down on Sunset and checking it out. Let’s all go!” he shouted, slamming his glass down on the bar. He turned toward the driveway and Lane pulled him back, shaking his head.

“Dude, not gonna happen. Let me take you home.”

“No, Lane, it’s okay,” I said. “We drove separately. I can take him home. Come on, Jack, I want to leave. Come home with me?” I slipped my hand around him under his jacket, hugging him to me but also testing to see how steady he was. Wow, not very.

“No, I don’t want to go home yet. Adam! Hey, Adam! These guys want to go home. You still want to head over to Sunset?”

“Absolutely,” he said, sliding into our circle and smiling at me.

“Absolutely not. We’re heading home. Can someone tell Holly we’re leaving?” I asked, glaring at him. I wasn’t even trying to hide how I felt about him anymore.

“I think he can decide whether he wants to go out. Lighten up, Mom.” Adam chuckled.

Okay. That’s it.

“We’re done here. Lane, here are my keys. I’m parked not too far down the hill. Mind bringing it up for me? I don’t even want to wait for valet.”

He jogged off and I was left wearing a Jack jacket. Lane had really been holding him up more than I thought.

I tried to pull him over to a chair, but I couldn’t get him there.

“Grace, I love you. I love you so much. You know that, right? Such a sexy girlfriend. Isn’t my girlfriend sexy?” he asked some guy standing near the bar. The guy raised his glass in salute. As I struggled to keep Jack upright while he laughed and pawed at me, I saw Michael near the pool and waved him over.

“I need to get him out of here. Lane went to get my car. Can you help me get him out front without attracting a ton of attention?” I asked, turning my back on Adam. I could have asked him to help, but I’d sooner sit on an anthill.

“Sure. Of course. What the hell, Jack?” He shook his head and smiled ruefully at him. With Jack between us, we made our way to the side entrance. Several people watched, but at that point I didn’t care. I wanted to get Jack home, get him sobered up, and then we were going to take this to the woodshed.

“Don’t take the piss out, Mikey my man. Just having a bit of fun. That’s allowed, right? This is Hollywood, after all. We’re supposed to be sloshed and having a great time!” Jack yelled, planting a big kiss on my mouth at the end of his speech.

Holding him up between the two of us, I laughed in spite of myself as we guided him through the gates and toward the street.

Tan sedan.

Tan sedan.

Flashbulbs.

Yelling.

“Jack! Jack Hamilton!”

“Jack! Over here? How was the party?”

“Hey, it’s the redhead! Grace, right? Hey, Grace, look over here!”

“Jack! Jack! Jack! How much did you have to drink tonight?”

“Hey, Grace, did you get him that drunk?”

“Hey, Adam? Where are you and Jack heading tonight?”

I literally couldn’t see. I could make out images and silhouettes behind the cameras, I could tell the general direction they were yelling from, but I had no idea how many people were shouting at me. In between the shouts I could hear the clicking, the fast-speed lenses capturing everything. Jack piss drunk and hanging off me and Michael, and Adam somewhere behind us, probably smiling big.

I froze. I froze and stood still, gaping like a fish at the cameras. I didn’t know what to do, move him forward, bring him back inside, hide him in my shoe? I panicked.

Michael luckily still had his wits about him, and he herded us to the right, holding his hand up in front of Jack’s face. Now I could hear Lane calling us to where he had brought the car up, his voice rising above the loud photographers who were asking personal questions to try to get a reaction out of us. Holly had warned me before that paparazzi could and would ask rude questions to try and get a different shot. But knowing it and actually hearing it are two very different things.

“Hey, Jack, your girl’s got a sweet ass!”

“Grace, Grace! Over here, Grace! How big’s his dick?”

“Grace, how’s it feel to know all the women in the world want to fuck your boyfriend?”

My face flaming, I kept my head down and followed Michael as he led us in the direction of Lane and my car. Oh my God, how were we going to drive away in this? My heart beat fast, and I was legitimately in over my head.

How had they known we were here?

Once near the car, Michael and Lane put Jack into the front seat, and I managed to get around to the other side. But I couldn’t drive. I was petrified. I pleaded with Michael with my eyes. I needed help. I didn’t want to speak. I didn’t want anything I had to say to be heard by these people. Luckily, Jack was quiet. But he had heard everything, and his eyes met mine. They looked dead.

Michael came around to my side after whispering something in Lane’s ear and taking my keys. Adam stood near the car—close enough to make sure he was in the shot, I noticed. Michael opened the driver’s side and ushered me into the backseat. The photographers were on my side now, so I made sure to keep my dress tucked around my legs, not wanting to flash anyone. Once inside, I looked back at the house and saw Lane walking up the sidewalk, making sure Adam came with him.

My instinct was to reach out for Jack, but that would make for a better story, so I sat back, low in the seat, my hands over my face as I was on the verge of tears.

As Michael got in and turned the ignition on, Jack spoke into the back of his hand. “I fucking hate this.”

Two hours later, and I mean two solid hours later, the three of us made it home. Jack sat in the backyard, slouched into the love seat under a thick cashmere blanket, coffee in hand. I kept sneaking a peek at him from the window off the kitchen. He hadn’t moved or spoken since we got home.

We called Bryan after we left, because we didn’t know where to go or what to do. I didn’t want to lead them back to the house, even though at this point I was pretty sure the press knew where we lived. Michael didn’t want to keep driving around up in the hills. The hairpin turns at night were sharp enough without a legion of tan sedans keeping pace. Finally, after speaking with Bryan, we arranged a switch. We drove to a parking garage over by the Beverly Center, where he was waiting with his Suburban, the dark-tinted windows making it difficult to see inside. The ride had sobered Jack somewhat, and we were hurried into the SUV and back on the road within moments, leaving my car behind to pick up the next day. We had managed to lose the photographers just long enough to get our cars switched. As we were pulling out I saw tan sedan after tan sedan drive in, looking for my car.

They were good.

Now Bryan had gone, Jack was bundled on the patio, and Michael and I were nursing cups of coffee, which had been nicely complemented by a heavy splash of Jameson. A very heavy splash—essentially it was Jameson with a shot of coffee and not the other way around. As the Irish whiskey hit my tummy, I warmed considerably, beginning to unwind a bit and let my body process everything that had just happened. My hands finally stopped shaking when it became almost impossible to get the cup to my mouth without spilling. My hands knew never to waste Irish whiskey, so they behaved.

I leaned against the counter, sipping and staring but not really seeing anything in front of me. All I could see were those flashbulbs, hear those terrible things they were shouting, and then Jack’s words as we pulled away.

“How’re you doing?” Michael asked, raising the bottle once more and adding another substantial splash to my cup and his own.

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.” I sighed, holding my head in my hand.

This was Jack’s life, my life, and how we chose to deal with this now would dictate how we handled things in the future. It was so easy to think this kind of thing would be something you could easily get past, that the money we were making and the spoils this kind of industry provided made up for it. But no amount of money, no amount of special VIP treatment and swag-bag goodies justified the treatment we had just received. Jack had already been in one accident. So was I being dramatic when my brain went to the worse possible scenario? No.

I loved this life, however. I loved the work and the opportunity, the high that I got performing again. And the paycheck was nothing to sneeze at. Jack was right: we could take what he had already made and the money I had in savings, plus my new income, and we could disappear. Seychelles? Sure. East end of London? Of course. Farm in Iowa where I could grow my own salads and put up jars of jam and beans for us to survive the hard, lean winter?

Okay, you’re not Laura Ingalls . . .

Regardless, Iowa had its own appeal, and there’s no question Jack would look fantastic in overalls with a pitchfork.

But realistically we wouldn’t do any of those things. Because I had fought to get back here, and I wasn’t letting some slimeball with a telephoto lens run me out of anywhere. So we would deal. But how?

“I was not prepared for that. Next time I will be,” I muttered, looking past Michael’s concerned eyes to my bundle on the patio, who still hadn’t moved.

Michael called a cab and left a little while later, promising to check in tomorrow. I didn’t ask him about what might or might not be going on with Holly. I would let her squirm for a bit before I put on the real pressure. It was rare I had something juicy like this that I could press out of her, and I was going to enjoy getting her to tell me.

For now, I headed outside and poked Jack with my toe. He was still wrapped up. Wordlessly, he unfolded his arms and let me sit on his lap, sharing his blanket with me. He held me tight, cradling me into his chest and letting our breathing sync. In. Out. In. Out.

We sat in the quiet night, interrupted only occasionally by a coyote howl. Laurel Canyon was magical, especially at night. I could understand why so many musicians and artists set up shop here so many years ago. It was inspiring at every turn.

He sighed heavily, his arms tightening, bringing me as close as he could. I let him, his entire body was craving contact, and I wanted to be that for him, his contact. I threaded my hand through his, breathing in his scent, which was concentrated thickly at my favorite spot on his neck, just below his ear. Every limb intertwined, the blanket covering us from the world, I sat with my sweet boy, listening to his heartbeat.

“Can we talk about this tomorrow?” he asked quietly, his body tense.

“Yes, but we will talk about it,” I replied, squeezing his hand.

“I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Not bloody likely.”

Every time I closed my eyes I saw those damn flashbulbs.