Chapter 19 Lex
Lex
Mom’s face fills the phone screen as my driver pulls into the Hollywood Hills neighborhood, passing by a stream of sleek high-rise condos and modern mansions perched on the hillside.
She props the phone on something and takes three steps back, swapping two dresses out in front of her. “Which one? Champagne or red?”
“Red.”
“I don’t know. I think champagne will pair better with the red lipstick.” Her nose wrinkles as she continues to deliberate over the herculean decision of celebrity fashion choices. “Anthony said red too.”
“Champagne then.” Anthony is my mother’s new boy toy.
Shortly after we picked up and moved back to California, Mom finally had the balls to hand my father divorce papers after she discovered him piledriving his paralegal at a law conference.
Ironically, the quickie took place behind a banner advertising “Ethics in Legal Practice.”
I’ll never understand why two decades of abuse weren’t enough to kick him to the curb, yet this affair—one of many, I’d presume—seemed to be the tipping point.
Truthfully, I wonder if it wasn’t about the affair itself but about how public it became.
It was easier to live with the bruises when they were hidden.
But that was a scandal that came with an audience, and my mother would rather die than be publicly humiliated.
I can’t imagine how he’s feeling now, watching my success from the sidelines, calculating every dollar he thinks he’s missing out on.
Not that I would have shared a dime with him.
Thankfully, the cocksucker has never tried to reach out—his pride won’t let him grovel.
And severing that toxic tie is the only real peace to have come out of this new life.
Glancing out the window, I watch streaks of amber uplighting whiz by in a blur. Dusk paints the sky in gray and navy while the setting sun splashes remnants of dying light across landscaped gardens and luxury cars.
“It is Armani,” she states, glancing between the two dresses. “Maybe I’ll ask Luda.”
“Luda knows best.”
We move closer to my complex, and my attention catches on a dog sitting by itself at the curb.
It’s a little white froufrou thing with a neon-pink collar around its neck.
Our eyes meet the second before we pass, and I wonder why it’s sitting there alone, no owner in sight.
Maybe it’s waiting for the stars to appear, to outshine the faux glitter sprinkled all across this town. Relatable.
I should get a dog. A big, lazy, slobbery one.
Someday.
“Lexington?”
I blink back to the cell phone loosely tucked inside my hand. “Sorry. Busy day.”
“How did that shoot go with Billy?”
“Fine. Nothing special.”
Mom calls me every night, just as the sun begins to set.
She’s only a few neighborhoods away in Bel Air, but with my hectic schedule and work commitments, we hardly ever see each other in person.
But she always insists on these damn video calls, claiming voice calls are too impersonal.
I go with it. I’ve become proficient in the art of conforming and following orders while never being fully present.
It’s easier to just roll over these days.
Like a dog.
Adrian, my driver, drops me off in front of my building, and I shuffle out of the limousine, loosening my paisley tie when my shoes hit the pavement. “Thanks, A,” I tell him, returning the wave he sends me through the half-open window.
“I can’t wait to see the pictures,” Mom says, picking up her phone and smiling wide into the lens as she traipses through her giant closet. “You and Willa photograph so well together.”
Willa is my costar in Come What May . We’re still running around doing promotional shoots and soaking up the postshow buzz, along with the rest of the cast. My life has been a whirlwind ever since I set foot back in this town four years ago, but those early days were nothing compared to this, to right now.
I had no idea how big the show would become, how the story would resonate with millions, or how I’d rise to A-list celebrity status in under a week’s time.
It’s draining. Soul-sucking. A cold feeling hollowing out my bones.
Every day, I become less and less of a person and more of a product.
A polished, marketable image that everyone recognizes but no one really knows.
The smiles, the photo ops, the endless interviews—they all blur together into a haze of expectations I can’t escape.
I plaster on a grin and play the part, but inside, I feel like I’m fading, losing the pieces of myself that once mattered. The parts that made me real.
I hardly remember who I used to be, and sometimes I wonder if I was ever anything other than this.
Waving off a slew of paparazzi surrounding my building—some camped out with sleeping bags, pillows, and a minimart of snacks—I hightail it through the main entrance, my vision veined with flashbulbs. Another body pushes through behind me.
“Are you going to the charity event next month, or will you be in Saint Lucia?” I ask my mother, stepping into the elevator filled with a few other residents wearing tuxedos and sequined dresses.
“Of course I’ll be there. Saint Lucia will always be waiting.” She pauses. “You should come along. You could use a vacation.”
Sipping cocktails on sandy beaches with my mother and this week’s boyfriend sounds like the opposite of a vacation. “Maybe.”
I’m vaguely aware of heels clicking behind me as I exit the elevator and swerve down the white-walled hallway to my condo on the thirteenth floor.
The moment I enter, a pitchy voice rings out behind me.
“Oh my God. This view!”
Shit —I forgot there was a woman with me.
Long blond hair bounces mid-back as she runs over to the expansive window and peers out through the glass.
Oops.
My mother distracted me, and now there’s a girl in my condo whose name eludes me. “Mom, I gotta go. Text Luda about the Gucci shit.”
“Armani.”
“Yeah, that guy.”
She says three words before I disconnect. “I love you.”
“I know.” I click off the video call and pocket my phone, glancing up at the random chick flitting around the room like a frantic butterfly. “Uh, sorry. You can go now.”
My date for the evening turns to look at me from the floor-to-ceiling window, her expression steeped in bewilderment as backlight silhouettes her tall frame. “What?”
“I said you’re off the hook. Have a good night.”
“Off the hook?” She gapes at me, a scoff-like sound skating past her lips. “But I thought—”
“Oh, here’s some cash.” I pull a wad of money out of my wallet and toss it on the coffee table before collapsing onto the sprawling graphite-gray sofa that faces the window. Reaching for a cigarette, I light one up and inhale a deep drag.
“You’re paying me?” Her gaze pans around the opulent space, then settles on me. Scorn fills her eyes. “I’m not a prostitute.”
Well, we never fucked. Therefore, she is not a prostitute.
Her deduction skills are on point at least.
“Okay.” Smoke billows from orange embers as I tip my head toward the ceiling of my high-rise. The adrenaline dies out with each puff of nicotine as I close my eyes and wait for her to leave. Maybe she’s looking for a thank-you. “Thanks, Lindy.”
“It’s Mindy.” A beat passes before I hear stilettos click across the luxury stone tile, followed by an angry huff. “Elise warned me about you. Said you were a complete dick.”
“How am I a dick? I said thank you, and you’re getting paid top dollar for minimum-requirement work.
” There is no easier job than being someone’s eye candy for a night.
Squinting through the smoke, I pull in another drag.
Elise must have been last week’s date that went nowhere.
“Adrian will take you home. He’s the guy in the limo. Dark hair, mustache, pushing fifty—”
“I know who he is, asshole. He’s been driving us around all night.” She stomps over to the rectangular coffee table, as much as one can stomp in high-ass heels. Shoving the pile of money into her purse, she flips her hair over her shoulder and sends me a scathing glare. “I hope your show tanks.”
With that, Lindy disappears out the door, slamming it shut.
I frown.
Maybe it was something I said.
Blowing out a thick plume of smoke, I watch as it warps the contemporary light fixture above my head. Foggy glimmers zigzag across my vision as my eyes start to fall shut.
Finally. A pocket of peace.
But nothing good ever lasts, and I’m jerked back to reality when my phone pings in my pocket. Fishing it out, I sigh when I glance at the name lighting up the screen.
Rudy.
My agent.
He teeters the line of obnoxious and endearing, often giving me whiplash. Considering it’s pushing midnight, I can only assume obnoxious will win out tonight.
Rudy: Big ideas going down at my office. Get your ass over here.
I was right.
Groaning, I type out a reply.
Me: Fuck off. It’s almost midnight.
Rudy: What, like you sleep? Also, can you make a stop on the way over and pick up this very small coffee order for me and the crew?
I inhale another cigarette while I wait for the follow-up text.
Rudy: Jill: one large soy latte with extra foam, two pumps of vanilla, and a dash of cinnamon. Carla: one medium iced oat milk mocha, extra drizzle, no whip. Mike: one large flat white with coconut milk and a hint of cocoa powder. Me: one large caramel macchiato, half sweet with almond milk.
Rudy: Please.
He tops it off with a heart emoji.
Me: Circle back to my initial text.
Rudy: I said please.
Kill me now.
After a week of pandemonium filled with photo shoots, premieres, interviews, charity functions, and stuffy dinners, I’m fucking exhausted. But Rudy knows that, just like he knows I’m always awake, always moving, a vortex of endless energy. Doesn’t matter how tired I am; the show must go on.
I send back a quick text before hopping off the couch and stabbing my half-charred cigarette into the granite ashtray.
Me: This better be good.