Chapter 2
In another Cosmic Conspiracy, Hayden Hargrove lives in LA as well.
He doesn’t disclose what part of the city he calls home, but he doesn’t argue when I pitch meeting in Hollywood. The wonder of LA is that each neighborhood has a personality of its own. Silver Lake is for the hipsters. Santa Monica is where the popular kids from high school live. And I’m not sure anyone actually lives in Century City. I’m fairly certain it’s just office buildings and ostentatious fountains.
I’m not sure what neighborhood lends itself best to the local Bigfoot hunters.
Although the Skroll offices are in Hollywood, I try to spend as little time here as possible. It’s a neighborhood full of strip malls, the occasional way-too-fancy-for-Hollywood bar, and terrifying gift shops. The sidewalks look like the San Andreas Fault has buckled through them and are filled with people in dirty superhero costumes selling overpriced photos to tourists.
Hollywood is a necessary evil of living in LA.
It is also the only place that would naturally have an alien-themed pop-up bar.
“Earthling, can I get you anything?”
The bartender, wearing a tinfoil hat and antennae, hovers in front of me. I eye the sticky menu. All the cocktails have space-themed names, and I’m too flabbergasted by the titles to dig into what is in the drinks. I panic and order something called a Space Oddity.
I receive a neon blue drink that might earn me a lecture at my next dentist appointment, but tastes fine enough that I’m not as mad about paying seventeen dollars for it. I turn around and skim the crowd. Unsurprisingly, there are not many people in an alien-themed bar on a Wednesday night, but none of them seem to be Hayden.
I told him to look for the girl with the blue hair.
I seem to fit in at a place like this, with the glittery walls and floating UFO mobiles above, even if I don’t believe aliens are real.
“Oh my god, you’re that guy!” the bouncer says behind me. Somehow, I feel like I already know who he’s talking to. “My girlfriend and I went to your panel at CON-Spiracy last year—the one on alien autopsies—man…That was unreal.”
“Uh, thank you. Can I…can I have my ID back, please?”
Less than twenty-four hours ago, I’d heard the same silky and spooky voice spew ridiculous conspiracy theories as a guest on a late-night docuseries. No wonder the guy went into podcasting. Who wouldn’t want to spend hours listening to him? In fact, listening to him was how I spent my day.
The Out There is surprisingly engaging for someone like me, who does not believe in monsters or aliens or ghosts. My producer brain knows ghost-hunting shows are bullshit, and if aliens are real, how come they haven’t made contact or killed us all yet? But Hayden presents information clearly, and he makes the most outlandish theories feel normal.
Hayden makes me wish I believed.
Somehow, his voice is even nicer in person.
“Hallie?”
As I turn around, I realize he is even more attractive in person, too. Hayden towers over me with a lanky but muscled build, hidden underneath a well-fitted plaid button-down. A few days of scruff coat his cheeks and jaw, his chestnut hair longer than it was on TV. The early February chill turns his cheeks pink and windblown beneath the frames of his glasses. This man is way too handsome to spend his life hunting aliens. But for my sake, I’m glad he does.
“Um.” It was easy to draft an email and schedule a meeting, but now I feel at a loss for words. Perhaps because he is one of the most handsome men I’ve seen in my life, but I also realize I don’t know what the two of us could have in common. Certainly not a mutual love of aliens.
Hayden’s eyes hold mine. Maybe he’s wondering if he chose the wrong blue-haired girl at the bar. His emerald stare makes my skin feel warm, like what I imagine being struck by a UFO laser beam must feel like. He looks just as struck, and I don’t know what to make of it.
I clear my throat. “Yes. Hi. I’m Hallie. That’d make you Hayden.”
“Sure does. It’s good to meet you.” He slides into the seat next to me.
“Can I get you a drink?”
Hayden digs his hands into the pockets of his down vest and surveys the menu. He looks like Mr. October in the sexy version of the REI calendar, which I don’t believe exists, but I suddenly think it should. Dark ink extends down his left forearm, a line-art deer, its antlers stretching into skeletal trees. Its eyes feel too far apart, or its mouth is a little too open. I can’t put my finger on what unsettles me about this deer, since I typically have a neutral relationship with them, if they remain a safe distance away. There’s also a small UFO tattooed along the outside of his wrist. “Sure. Whatever the UFO Fuel is.”
“I just hope these drinks don’t get us abducted and probed,” I joke.
Hayden shrugs, straight-faced. “It’d be interesting for science.”
Even in the name of science, I’d like to avoid being probed. I want to know nothing about this man’s kinks. “R-right…”
When the bartender returns, I order his drink, which looks like it should glow in the dark—a neon green concoction of God knows what. There’s a small plastic alien floating in the drink, riding the single large ice cube like a mechanical bull.
“Hey.” I frown. “ Mine didn’t come with an alien.”
After a sip of his drink, Hayden turns to me. “So, you wanted to talk about your proposal. But before we do…”
Oh no.
Hayden leans in close and glances covertly over one shoulder. “You’re not trying to scam me into giving you classified info—”
His wariness makes me glance over my shoulder, too. “ You have classified information?”
Hayden’s eyes shift back and forth, debating if he should keep going or not. Then his shoulders and hands rise in surrender. “I know a guy.”
“Is it you?”
“You never know who is trying to scam you for black market Bigfoot footage.”
“Seems like you’ve had a few bad run-ins with foreign princes asking for your bank info.” Does that count as a conspiracy? I don’t know, but the smile peeking at the corners of his lips indicates maybe I’ve tapped this conspiracy theorist’s funny bone.
Hayden laughs as he takes another sip of his drink. “Hey, it’s serious business. Old people fall for it all the time. Might be a conspiracy.”
Ha , bingo.
“Well, fortunately for you, I do not look like a nefarious royal trying to take your money…At least, I don’t think so.”
“No,” he says. The word is sharp, and the hardened gaze he gives me cauterizes it like a hot knife. “No, you do not.”
I’m too busy drowning in the tone of Hayden’s words and the piercing look he’s giving me to come up with another quip, so I take a sip of my drink. I’ve spent all day wondering how tough of a sell this man might be or if the vibrant conspiracy theorist persona is an act. I’m guessing now that it isn’t, but there is something human and grounded about Hayden that reassures me we might be able to make something work here.
Hayden clears his throat. “So, the show…”
“Right. Every year, Skroll does their Series Program, where our in-house creators pitch and produce a season of a web series. There’s usually around ten shows. The most popular series gets picked up for a second season and everything that comes with it. Skroll judges based on viewership and engagement, social media buzz…I’ve seen creators gain up to a million new followers from their shows. It can make an entire career.
“We have one spot open, and my boss wants me to find a show that I think will be wildly successful. Obviously, The Out There already has a huge following, but it could be even bigger if we adapt it to a web series. There’s a lot about the podcast that’s already working, but we could make it more visual. I mean, you were great on Cosmic Conspiracies. I’m thinking for certain episodes, you could do real ghost hunts or Mothguy—”
Hayden’s shoulders rise eagerly when I mention the phrase “ghost hunts,” like I’ve scratched a hard-to-reach itch, and then deflate. “Mothman.”
“Right. Mothman hunts. I think that the monster market might be untapped—”
“I mean, clearly , if we haven’t found Bigfoot yet.”
“Of course,” I play along, but he is genuinely vexed that there are mysteries still out there. “There’s clearly work to do. We’d work together over the next few months—you’d be a freelance contractor for Skroll for the duration of the season and I’d be your producer. We’d have part-time production staff working with us, and a modest budget for our first season, so that can cover the travel and lodging for those on-location shoots. You’d still have full creative control over the series. Look, I don’t believe in any of this stuff—the aliens, the cryptids, or ghosts—but I really liked The Out There , and I think you could be a great internet personality if we use this platform.”
Hayden’s quiet, sipping his drink and contemplating what I’ve said. The legal discussions can come later, but all I need is for him to at least give this a chance. If he sees how successful this show could be, we’ll be golden. But I am asking him to step away from his podcasting career to morph it into something else. It isn’t an easy ask.
Finally, he sets his drink down.
“You mean, you really don’t believe in any of it?”
Suddenly, the blasphemous conspiracy theorist I discovered on Cosmic Conspiracies is back. His eyes are alight with questions and theories. This…this is what Skroll needs. Pure, unbridled passion—even if it is for aliens.
“Excuse me?”
His fingers rake through his hair, pupils blown out.
“None of it? You don’t believe in aliens or Bigfoot or ghosts or—I…I don’t know…the Denver airport?”
“The Denver airport? What…I’ve never been, but I guess I believe in it. I know it exists—”
“ Obviously , it exists,” Hayden cuts in. “It’s a secret base for something . Like, I don’t like talking that much about the Illuminati because they’re problematic, but I have many questions about the airport’s size. The bunkers. The mural. The horse .”
Images flash through my brain, and none of them connect, but I want them to. Desperately.
“Right,” I agree. “Uh, no. I don’t believe in any of it.”
Hayden rubs the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “That’s a lot to swallow.”
“So was hearing that Bigfoot might have been an alien—”
His hands smack down on the bar. Our glasses jingle. The alien riding his ice cube sinks beneath the surface. “Mind-blowing, isn’t it?” He looks at me like he’s finally discovered a kindred conspiratorial spirit, someone who will complement all his weirds with their own.
I chew my bottom lip. “Not the word I’d use.”
He deflates. His fingers tap the edge of his glass as the TV screen behind him lights with poorly animated aliens dabbing in the middle of the desert. It’s hard to look at anything else. A speech bubble pops up above one of the aliens: “ayyy lmao.”
“But regardless of whether or not I believe in this stuff, I think you have talent and I think Skroll’s viewers would really enjoy you.”
“ The Out There has only ever been a podcast,” he begins. “It’s what I know how to do. I’m not…I’m no actor, Hallie. I highly doubt a handful of episodes of Cosmic Conspiracies count as acting. My fans know it as a podcast. What if they don’t want to see it adapted?”
“If I’m being honest, I don’t think your listeners, or anyone, really, would have any issue with looking at you more.”
Help.
My face flushes—probably a horrible tomato red—but Hayden’s brows rise as he runs his fingers along his stubbled jaw. I catch a smile tug at the corner of his lips, a dimple popping beneath his scruffy cheeks as he bites down on one side of his mouth. Fuck, I suddenly hope the Bermuda Triangle is real. This would be a great time for it to do a girl a solid and suck me in. I can’t tell if he’s intrigued, or shocked, or if he knows how good-looking he is.
He must. Unless he’s one of those guys who holds strong conspiracies about every mirror being a two-way mirror.
I toss back a long sip of my drink and clear my throat. “And if this is successful, it’ll rake in a lot more money than a podcast. You could be on more TV shows—ones that aren’t just on in the middle of the night.”
“To be fair, I think you caught a rerun.”
“Sure. Who doesn’t love syndication? This is good exposure. Just think: if you hit it big, you could be a regular on Cosmic Conspiracies . Hell, you could have your own show on TV. With better graphics!”
He finishes his drink, pensive and silent.
“I need to think about it, Hallie. I’m on hiatus between seasons of the podcast, so I do have the time right now, but…”
“Do you think you’d be able to think about it at a secondary location?”
His eyebrow quirks. I mean, I get it. It’s not the type of question I’d respond well to on a first date. “Huh?”
“If you’re done with your drink, come with me.”
Hayden warily sets his glass down and rescues the plastic alien from the bottom as I close out our tab. I have another trick up my sleeve that he might like more than alien-themed alcohol.
“Are we going on a ghost tour ?”
“Indeed. I hear Hollywood is full of haunted shit, huh?”
Hayden’s boots scuff beside me, and he buries his hands deeper into his pockets. “Are you trying to woo me into doing your show?”
“Is it working? Are you wooed?”
“I said I’d think about it.” His voice is terse, but he offers a soft laugh that sends a shiver down my spine.
We pause as we reach the tour kiosk. When we halt, our eyes lock. I reach deep into the part of my brain that’s watched a lot of interrogations on cop shows. I narrow my eyes. “I need you to think about it faster. I need to have something by Friday morning. A pitch deck, episode plans, something .”
“I’m thinking about it—”
The tour guide—a chirpy, middle-aged man named Gary—interrupts and leads us through the cavernous back halls of the Chinese Theatre to a gaudy, topless van painted to look like a hearse, which does not, in fact, look like a hearse.
A couple in matching Ghost Adventures shirts funnel into the back seat. Another two pairs take the middle, leaving Hayden and me to the front row. The smallest row. Thankfully, I’m small, but Hayden is not. I’m already daunted by the proximity I’m about to be sucked into.
“Ladies first,” he says.
I hop into the van, sliding all the way to the window as he climbs in after me. His long legs hardly fit behind the passenger seat and the tip bucket placed between the driver and Gary. As he readjusts, our knees brush—worn denim against my thin, patterned tights. The van itself smells like plastic and cigarette smoke, but Hayden smells like amber and whiskey with a note of old books.
The touch sends a tingle up my back. It’s been a long time since I’ve been attracted to someone, and in the past, I’ve experienced it so rarely that I’ve started viewing men as paint swatches in various neutral tones. When I look at Hayden, I see deep forest greens and warm browns like mulled wine and fall leaves. Color, for the first time in so long.
There is something about Hayden that interests me, and not just because of the odd way he came into my life. It could be either untapped horniness or feeling that I’m on the right track in learning to feel something again. It also comes with the fear of something new and the boundary of keeping my professional distance.
“Sorry,” he mutters, yanking his leg away. He shoves his hands back into his vest pockets and bites down on his lip. He looks out the window and feigns fascination with the Baja Fresh across the street. Gary loads into the van with us and sits in the passenger seat, tapping on his tinny microphone a few times.
“Hello, ghouls, gals, and other ethereal pals. Welcome to Haunted Hollywood, the best tour of Tinsel Town’s dark side. My name’s Gary and I’ll be your crypt keeper as we visit several notoriously haunted locations around the city. So…buckle up and please refrain from screaming.”
The tour bus takes off, explaining the history of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and the native ghosts, Fritz and Annabelle, and how Marilyn Monroe haunts the halls of the Roosevelt Hotel. Hayden listens intently, and I watch him just as intently. It’s obvious he already knows all of this. So much for wooing him with my ghost tour.
We snake farther into the Hollywood Hills, catching an illuminated look at the Hollywood Sign. The tourists behind us snap photos religiously, but I look at the Hollywood Sign from the Skroll offices every day.
“While it might preside over Hollywood like a calling, the sign has a grisly history. It was originally built as an advertisement for the Hollywoodland housing development.” Sinister music plays beneath Gary’s narration. “In 1929, a young actress—”
“It was 1932.”
I turn to Hayden. Gary scowls. “What was that?”
At first I think he might be nervous with the attention on him, then I realize Hayden’s not nervous. He’s frustrated. I mean, how could we not know this? We are absolute fools.
“It was 1932. Peg Entwistle jumped off the H in 1932 , not 1929. Now hikers see her apparition in her 1930s clothing haunting the park.”
“Anything else to share?” Gary prods.
“It’s also just a legend that, the day after her death, she received a role offer. It’s never been proven.”
Gary throws a fiery stare Hayden’s way. “This guy’ll take tips at the end of the tour, I guess.”
Hayden rubs the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses while the bus leads us deeper into Griffith Park. He grumbles to himself as Gary feeds the tourists an overdramatic story about the random body parts that showed up in the park over the years. Gary alleges that the mysterious body parts were credited to the Night Stalker, to which Hayden hisses a soft “no” under his breath.
I already know this man will do half of my job for me. He’s a hot human encyclopedia of weird knowledge.
We weave through the hills past the Old Zoo in Griffith Park and the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, where stars are laid to rest. As we round out the tour, the van leads us up Benedict Canyon, past commuters stuck in traffic heading into the Valley.
Poor suckers.
“As idyllic as these hills might seem, they are home to one of the grisliest murders in history. In August 1969, cult leader Charles Manson and his followers murdered actress Sharon Tate and four friends. Manson’s orders were to ‘do it as gruesome as you can.’ And boy, did they! The world was horrified by the images of ‘pig’ written in blood on the front door and to hear of the death of Tate, who was eight and a half months pregnant at the time. The house remains a tough sell for real estate agents all over Los Angeles. Can’t imagine why—”
“The house isn’t even there anymore,” Hayden interrupts. “It was torn down in 1994.”
“It’s still there, kid. 10050 Cielo Drive. Plug it into Google.”
Hayden slips his glasses off, dropping them into his lap. Years come off his face instantly. I note the small indents on the bridge of his nose left behind from the frames. I don’t get to fixate on his oddly charming features before I realize that Hayden taking his glasses off is akin to a cowboy cocking his gun before a duel.
Hayden is about to throw it down over Charles Manson.
I can’t tell if I’m horrified or horrifically amused.
Hayden digs the bases of his palms into his eyes. “No, it’s not. The house was demolished. Now the David Oman House is the closest location to the site of the murders. A hundred and fifty feet away. That is where most of the hauntings take place now. Apparitions of the murder victims have been seen in the house and in the area. It’s one of the best-documented paranormal locations in Los Angeles. Plug it into Google.”
Oh my god. Oh my god, no .
Not only is Hayden not enjoying the ghost tour, but we are about to get banned from every ghost tour in Los Angeles. I doubt he’ll want to work with me in any capacity if this is the first hangout activity I come up with. However, I am beginning to wonder if I did get ripped off with these tickets. Gary hasn’t known a rat’s ass about any of the places we went.
“Did you write the script for this tour, kid?”
“Obviously not,” he replies. His voice slips into a lilt of a Boston accent. It should not be hot, but boy, is it. “But I could have. If I did, it’d at least be factually correct. At least people would be getting their money’s worth.”
“Who are you going to trust?” Gary poses to the rest of the van. “Me, a professional, or some nitwit millennial?”
I clear my throat. “Uh…the nitwit millennial.”
Hayden stifles a laugh beside me. His smile is a bright but hidden secret, and when his gaze reaches mine, I feel like I’ve been let in on it. The older woman sitting behind us ponders, too, before conceding that she would side with the nitwit millennial as well. Gary drops his microphone and buckles his seat belt.
We ride in silence back to the theater, Gary occasionally pointing out locations like The Viper Room and The Comedy Store and explaining their history. Hayden remains quiet this time, but part of me wishes he’d speak up. At least I’d get a bit of my money’s worth if he gave out the info.
We tip Gary regardless and pace in silence over the names of stars long dead until we reach the parking garage.
“I’m parked here.”
He nods. “I’m around the corner. Thanks for tonight. It was…”
“That was kind of a disaster.”
His shoulders rise, and my shame fades when he breaks into a quiet laugh. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“Really?”
“No, it’s not your fault Gary doesn’t know the difference between an apparition and a possession.”
“Neither do I.”
Instead of giving a know-it-all retort, he smiles. “There’s time to learn.”
Hayden had not offered Gary the same kind of grace. Another beat of silence. Have I somehow made this conspiracy theorist trust the local nonbeliever?
“So, what do you think about the show?” I finally ask.
Hayden stiffens but nods slowly. “Hallie, it’s a compelling proposal, but let me sleep on it—”
“Remember, I need to present this to my boss by Friday morning. If it’s a no, I need to know soon. But…I hope it’s not a no.”
“I know. I won’t hold you up too long, I promise. This is new, and I don’t know yet if I’m the person you think I am. On camera, at least.”
“Do you think the person behind the mic is going to be so different in front of a camera?”
He jingles his keys in the palm of his hand with a nervous jitter. “I might need help.”
I smile. “Well, that’s what I’m here for.”
Instead of answering, Hayden reaches into his vest pocket and tosses something my direction. My hand-eye coordination fails me, and I fumble to catch what he’s thrown. It’s the tiny alien from his drink. “Talk to you soon, Hallie.”