Celebrity Spin Doctor Page 3

  “But how do you know she’s the one doing this?”

  “She hasn’t exactly been subtle. She’s never around when these things happen. And she’s the only one who knows my creative process and the house well enough to set up these ‘accidents.’”

  Lucille stood, smoothed her dress, took a breath, and headed for the door. “Mr. Polce, I’m not sure what Raphael told you, but I don’t cover up murders.”

  “Lucille—please don’t leave.” Michel grabbed her arm as she walked past him. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re about to tell me you took matters into your own hands and murdered Miss Stanton. I’m saying I don’t want any part in it.”

  Michel released her and frowned. “Kill Sylvia? Why would I kill Sylvia?”

  Wait, what? “You haven’t?”

  “Never. I’d never kill her or hurt her or leave her. I love her,” Michel said passionately.

  “Oh.” She exhaled in relief. This was a crazy she could handle.

  “Lucille, how could you think I could... You thought I wanted you to...” The unspoken words hung in the air between them.

  “Oh no, not at all! I’m sorry, I misunderstood you. Of course you wouldn’t, couldn’t, do such a thing.” Lucille gave him her most dazzling smile.

  Michel relaxed. Then his shoulders slumped more and he sighed. “That was Raphael’s reaction, too. He told me I should go straight to the police.”

  Lucille asked why the hell he hadn’t.

  “If only I could! But I can’t do that to Sylvia, I can’t have her arrested. I love her too much.” In the dim light of the room, Michel appeared tired and haggard. Beneath his cultivated façade, dark circles stood out under each eye and weary lines framed his mouth.

  Neither spoke. Michel seemed to be trying not to cry. He stared through the window to the bright city lights beyond.

  Lucille was trying to come up with a plan. Of all the celebrities she’d handled, all of the drug problems and weird fetishes, nothing came close to the story Michel told. Now he was crying in front of her. Should she call the police? Or a therapist? Should she comfort him or tell him to stop the delusion and face reality? None of the options seemed appropriate for dealing with an emotionally unhinged celebrity she’d just met. And none of them would get her the job.

  She went for the obvious. “What if she kills you?”

  Michel sighed again and rubbed his hands over his face as he turned to Lucille. His eyes were red and a little puffy. “I have thought of that. Which is why I’m going to confront her, tell her what I know, and ask her to stop doing it.”

  “You haven’t tried that already?”

  “I couldn’t find the words.”

  I bet. “But you think it’ll work.”

  “What other choice do I have?” His voice broke.

  Lucille could think of a whole list of choices but didn’t share them. Although he hadn’t directly said so, Michel obviously didn’t have a death wish; otherwise, he wouldn’t have turned his hotel room into a fortress. But that was his problem. She wasn’t being hired to save his life.

  “So, what is it you want from me?”

  Michel crossed the room and sat on the adjacent stool, facing her. “I wasn’t sure at first, not knowing much about you. But now it’s all coming together. You see, last week, Sylvia cut the brakes in my Ferrari. I hit a bush, totaled the car, yet emerged unharmed. My name, however, was slandered by the media.” His voice was animated and hopeful as he recounted the traumatic incident. “I was accused of driving drunk, high, or both. Sylvia’s murderous plots won’t be contained to our property forever. With my new film coming out, I can’t lose fans over a falsely diagnosed drinking problem. Therefore, until I can convince her to stop trying to murder me, I want you to keep all this a secret. You protect Raphael’s reputation—no small task. I want you to do the same for me.”

  That was when the pounding and shouting began.

  They both jumped, the intensity broken.

  Lucille expected, given his psychotic reorganization of the room, that Michel would handle the intruder with equally profound derangement. Instead, Michel broke off his wild-eyed panic and frowned at the door.

  “That voice...” he mumbled to himself.

  She watched in shock and horror, certain she was about to see Michel cut down at the height of his career, as he strolled to the door, unlocked it, and threw it open. A slovenly dressed man crashed into the suite.

  “A period piece, no less!” the man shouted in a rousing finale.

  Chapter Four

  Brett had been prowling the halls for some time. There were a ridiculous number of floors in the hotel, and after draining the flask in his jacket pocket, he was too drunk to read the numbers. He traced a brass shape that he’d been certain was a four but was actually a six, his mind wallowing in his failure and the pointlessness of life.

  After Michel had taken up dating Sylvia, Brett had seen less and less of his supposed best friend. They’d severed all ties once the couple had moved to their villa in the Hills. Brett was left to drink his way from one side of the city to the other, alone. When he was a little drunk, he regaled unsuspecting bar patrons with tales of the former best friend who’d thrown him over for a woman. When he was very drunk, close to blacking out, he told the unwilling listeners about his screenplays; the mediocre, spectacularly unsuccessful first, The Night Before the Apocalypse, and the half-finished, untitled, stymied sequel. Only he’d start at the beginning, the very beginning, of his life. There were his stories of growing up in Chicago, the forgotten middle child in a house of high-functioning alcoholic artists. His siblings had thrived in the chaos and welcomed the revolving door of guests his parents entertained. Brett, a quiet child interested only in his science experiments and comic books, didn’t fit. After thoroughly disappointing his family by getting a PhD in chemistry, he’d moved to LA, determined to write a blockbuster. But he was no writer and it took all his familial influence to get Stanton Enterprises to make his smashing failure of a film. To make matters worse, he couldn’t write a second script to save his life. Brett would then dissolve into tears and hiccups, too overcome with his own failure to go into the subsequent blowout that had resulted in him losing his contract with Stanton, getting dropped by his agent, and being disowned by his family. Alone and rejected at thirty-two.

  At this point someone, in a desperate attempt to shut him up, would call him a cab and send him home. He often woke on the front steps of his apartment building with a throbbing head and a fuzzy memory. Sometimes he’d find himself in bed with a strange, much-younger woman who inevitably proclaimed herself to be a huge fan of his work. A little fame went a long way with the twenty-somethings, and that was exactly what Brett had. A little fame.

  Lately, between the drinking and the persistent failures, he’d felt himself slipping. He wanted to talk to Michel, rather than face his condescending family or try to resolve the issues with his therapist. Now even Michel had abandoned him. He was stuck alone in a hotel, at a party for an actor turned writer/director who’d had the audacity to make a fucking period piece.

  Finally, he reached the right floor and stumbled his way to what he hoped was suite 4002. He pounded on the door, yelling, “Michel! I know it’s you. That’s a shitty way...supposed best friend. Invite them to a party...leave them...at fucking movie party...for a period piece, no less!”

  At the last part of his speech, the door opened, and Michel yanked Brett into the room and slammed it shut behind him.

  “Brett,” Michel demanded, “what the hell are you doing here?”

  Brett wanted to give Michel a piece of his mind—he’d been rehearsing the speech the whole night, and it was a showstopper. Before he could launch into his oration, he caught sight of long legs, dark hair, and a plunging neckline. A woman who definitely wasn’t Sylvia eyed him from the bar with icy curiosity that sent shivers all over his body.

  “You invited me,” Brett said, his intoxicated brain stru
ggling to process the scene before him. The combination of alcohol and his strong Midwestern accent made his words come out in a slurred stream of syllables. All that planning and pontificating, and this is what his bristled retort had become—you invited me.

  “You never responded, so I assumed you weren’t coming.”

  Brett fought his bow tie, which was strangling him. He couldn’t stop looking at the woman, couldn’t break his gaze away from her...everything. “There was something I wanted to talk to you about, as it turns out. But you’re busy, so I’ll just go.”

  He tore his eyes away from the woman, whipped around to stalk off, lost his balance, and plunked into the armchair sitting beside the door. When he looked up, Michel was watching him with bemused pity.

  “You aren’t going anywhere, my friend. Besides, Ms. Anton and I were just finishing our business meeting. Ms. Anton, Brett Jacobs, Sylvia’s cousin and my dearest friend. Brett, Lucille Anton, my new publicist.”

  Lucille raised an eyebrow as she looked Brett slowly up and down. He felt naked. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jacobs.”

  “Why do you have a new publicist?” Brett demanded, once again staring at Lucille. She was too put together. From her form-fitting, strapless red dress to her deep-red lips and smooth, lightly tanned skin, she was stunning. Yet, under that austere perfection, she radiated cold and unapproachable. He would have avoided her and her icy gaze had she not now stood between him and a clear conscience. As it was, Brett had a strong urge to mess up her dark, styled hair just to see how she’d react. “What happened to Grant?”

  “I still have Grant.”

  “What? You’re so famous you need two publicists? One won’t cut it anymore?”

  “Ms. Anton is a...specific type of publicist. More of an image designer than anything,” Michel replied.

  Brett tried to scrutinize them both at once but stopped when it made his head spin. Something was up, but neither party was giving away anything.

  “I have everything I need here.” Lucille broke the silence as she stepped forward to shake Michel’s hand. “I’ll stop by here with the contract tomorrow, Mr. Polce.”

  Michel smiled, his chin trembling. “You’ll help?”

  “Of course.” Lucille returned the smile as Michel kissed her hand in gratitude. When she turned to Brett, her smile turned to a smirk. “It was...interesting meeting you, Mr. Jacobs.”

  Brett tried to respond but it came out as a jumbled mess of nonsense.

  Just as Lucille was about to leave, Michel announced, “Drop it at my house. I’m going home and Brett is coming with me.”

  “Why?” Brett asked as Lucille added, “Him?”

  Brett bit back the temptation to stick out his tongue at her.

  Michel went on, ignoring their reactions. “I would feel safer having someone around at all times.”

  Either Brett was further gone than he’d thought or Michel was making no sense at all. How the hell would having me there make him feel safer? Security guards make someone feel safe. I make them feel... I am not having a slumber party. I’m not a thirteen-year-old girl.

  Before he could make these protests out loud, Michel said, “Besides, your apartment is such a shit hole.”

  “Hey.” Brett aimed a kick at him that Michel dodged. That was his bachelor pad Michel was dissing.

  “Great. All settled. Brett, you’ll move in in the morning.”

  In the morning! It already was morning, or close to it. This time it was Lucille who prevented his indignant protest.

  “How about I bring the papers by around two?” she said, her expression inscrutable.

  Michel nodded.

  She left then, and the moment the door closed behind her, Brett turned to his friend and demanded, “Just what the hell is going on here?”

  ***

  Brett stumbled back to his apartment, still congratulating himself on making it home before the sun rose. When he’d left the hotel, he’d declined Michel’s offer of a ride, saying he needed time to clear his head—in other words, drink more without his friend seeing. But if he knew said friend at all, Michel would be there at dawn with a limo and no patience.

  All the things Michel had told him had been running riot in his brain. A murderous fiancée, and not just any fiancée but Michel’s specifically, and his cousin in particular. And a celebrity spin doctor, a title that was one hundred percent made up, riding in to save the day. But it had only taken a few minutes in a barricaded hotel room and this woman had Michel following her lead. Brett had no doubts about her being a badass, and possibly the badass who could keep his only friend from getting himself killed. He’d been mad at Michel and drunk and he really should try to get her on his side in this, just as soon as he could think about her without getting an instant boner.

  Brett struggled with the lock. It gave way with a groan. At least he’d drowned out the thoughts of Lucille Anton’s thighs around his waist, her body smashed against his. He’d had less success getting the other fantasies to leave. Those strong-willed alpha types always got him. His therapist said it was because he’d grown up without a strong maternal influence.

  Whatever the reason, he hoped it would only take a few minutes alone in his unwashed sheets to cure him of it. As he mentally unzipped that red dress, he tripped over something hard and immobile and went sprawling on the floor.

  “Brett, is that you?” Michel’s voice said from somewhere nearby.

  Brett rolled over and regretted the motion. His head spun and ached where he’d smacked it on the ground. And because of his thoughts as he stumbled into the room, his crotch had taken some of the fall as well. He curled into a fetal position on the wood floor as the lights switched on.

  Michel sat in an armchair in the center of the trashed living space, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He was still put together, without a single wrinkle or a hair out of place, even after sleeping upright.

  “What are you doing here, Michel?” Brett groaned.

  “I came to get you. You weren’t home yet, so I fell asleep while I waited,” Michel said with a deep, abandoned look.

  “Normal people take the bed. Or text their friend to tell them they’re breaking in and waiting,” Brett mumbled, his words sliding together despite his best intentions.

  “There’s a pile of dirty dishes and books in your bed. And I did text you, like twenty times.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Oh.” Michel waited ten seconds, then asked, “Are you ready to go?”

  Brett let out another groan. “It’s five in the morning. I just got home, as you saw. Now my head hurts and my dick’s killing me. Do you really think I’m ready to go?”

  “Why’s your dick killing you?”

  Brett tried to think through the fog. “What? Oh hell, never mind. I’m not ready.”

  Michel stood and brushed invisible lint off his suit. “Hurry up. I don’t think I can stand this hell hole a minute longer.”

  “Hey. This hell hole is my home.”

  “There are dirty socks on the lampshade and whiskey bottles in the flower pots. You’re using the Times as toilet paper.”

  “I hate the Times,” Brett grumbled.

  Yes, he lived in a stinky refuse heap of an apartment, but he didn’t appreciate Michel barging in to comment on it. He regretted agreeing to this plan already. While Brett had been trampled by criticism and rejection, falling into his current sloven state, Michel had been living it up with the jet set. Now Brett was jumping to his friend’s aid as though nothing had happened. That, more than the mold-caked plates in his bed and the rotting food in his fridge, made him feel disgusting.

  “You can’t just barge in here and demand I leave immediately. What if I have important things to do today?”

  “Like what, Brett?”

  Brett wanted a great comeback. He wanted Michel to regret abandoning him. His head hurt. His dick smarted. “Like...write.”

  “Brett.” Michel’s gaze was sympathetic. “We both know you aren’t
working on the screenplay. There’s a huge spider web over your desk chair.”

  Brett didn’t respond.

  “Come on, man. Get off the floor.”

  When Brett didn’t move, Michel sighed. “Look, I know I haven’t been around a lot lately. I had no idea things had gotten so bad here. I’m sorry. But I’m here now and I need your help, okay?”

  Michel sounded so hopeful and so unlike his dramatic, neurotic self that Brett tilted his head to look at his friend. He wasn’t sure whether he believed Michel or not, but he wanted to. He wanted Michel to be sorry and for them to go back to the way things were. If he were honest, which he rarely was, Brett was afraid of himself, of the person who drank to keep the darkness of his own failure at bay. He climbed slowly to his feet and headed to his bedroom to pack.

  Michel followed him. “What do you think of Lucille?”

  Brett rubbed his face and looked around for a suitcase. It was somewhere in the foot-deep sea of shit on his floor. “I don’t know about her. A spin doctor for celebrities? Doesn’t that sound a little suspicious to you?”

  “Raphael highly recommended her. Besides, what choice do I have?”

  Tons. Tons of choices, Brett wanted to yell. You could literally do a hundred other things besides hire a sexy woman with a made-up job.

  Instead he said, “If you think she can help, I say it’s worth a try. She is really hot.”

  He hadn’t meant to say the last part out loud. Blame it on the alcohol.

  “Don’t fuck her.”

  Brett put on a look of total innocence. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

  “I’m serious. If you don’t listen to another word I say, fine. Don’t fuck her. I need this woman’s help.” Michel’s eyes were stormy and cold.

  “The same goes for you.”

  “I’m a one-woman man.”

  “Yeah, one crazy murderous bitch.”

  “Hey. She’s my crazy murderous bitch. Now promise me you won’t fuck Lucille Anton.”

  Brett raised his hands in defeat. “All right, all right, I promise.”