Mr. Hollywood’s Secret by Adora Crooks
Eric
Ifeel like I got hit by a fucking steamroller.
My skull is throbbing, the back of my throat is thick, and the sunshine is piercingly loud.
It’s 6:00 a.m. when my driver collects me and my baggage and takes us to a private hangar thirty minutes away. I don a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap, but I know I’m not fooling anyone.
She’s here. The girl. Chrys.
The plan is to fly in together. Download on the flight over. And I’m very aware I’m making a piss-poor first impression.
But I very much don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be drinking in recycled air for the next ten hours. I want to be back in our bed, with Nico’s warm body slotted perfectly against mine.
My driver dumps me out in front of the private jet. I tip him, peel myself out of the car, and climb the ramp inside.
The Boeing 737 is spacious—complete with plush seats, a minibar, and a flat-screen TV. But I notice her immediately.
Chrys is as her headshot described her: five foot four, a hundred and thirty pounds, red hair, olive-green eyes. Cute-pretty, not bombshell pretty. Always a supporting actress, never a leading lady.
What they failed to mention is her smile. I can see why she and Nico are friends. It’s what Nico calls an “Anansi” smile. Trouble. It says I’m the girl who will get you stoned at the family dinner on Thanksgiving.
“Well, it’s about time,” she tells me—what is that accent? Jersey? Nico set me up with Jersey? “We were about to fly by your house and scoop you up.”
I fold into the seat beside her. I’m too broad, and my shoulders never fit the seats right. I extend a hand. “Eric.”
“Chrys.”
We shake hands. I underestimated how incredibly uncomfortable this would be.
“Thank you for doing this,” I tell her.
She shrugs. “I owed Nico. Besides, I’m considering this an audition.”
“Right. You’re an actress.”
Her eyes brighten at that. “Yeah, well, not quite on your level, but I’ve been in a handful of plays, a couple TV spots—you might’ve seen me in a tuna fish commercial. We turn TuNa into TuYes! It became a meme, sort of went viral.”
She’s peppy. Too peppy. My forehead throbs. “Must’ve missed that one.”
She barrels forward. “So, should we get our story straight? Where we met, how long we’ve been together, how you proposed—?”
“Oh. Right.” I shift in my seat, reach into my pocket, and pull out a small pull-string bag. I empty the contents into my palm—two engagement rings. I hold hers out for her. “Your costume piece.”
“Thanks.” She slips it on. It’s a round gem. Bright. Deep red. It fits perfectly on her hand.
“Ruby.” She blinks. “My birthstone. How—?”
“Nico picked it out.”
A small smile from her. “I love it.”
I ease mine over my finger. It’s a simple band, but it feels noose-tight.
This knot in my throat won’t relax.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
“I was thinking,” she pipes up again, “maybe you brought me to dinner? I know it’s cheesy, but I’m such a sucker for the whole ring-in-the-dessert thing—”
“I’m hungover,” I state abruptly. “I haven’t slept all night. I’m not really into talking right now.”
“That’s fine. I brought this whole book of crossword puzzles.” She waves to the small book in her lap. “I know you can do it on your phone, but I’m an old-fashioned pencil-and-paper kind of girl. It’s just way more satisfying when you can’t ask the computer for a hint—”
“Maker’s Mark,” I tell the approaching flight attendant, “on the rocks, please.”
When she returns with my drink, I use it to knock back an Ambien. And I sink into my seat like a sedated horse.
“Alright, crossword,” I hear Chrys murmur to her book as I put on my sleep mask, “time to meet your maker.”
* * *
It’s late when we land in Paris.
We don’t see the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, or the Notre-Dame.
I see, in order, the hangar bay, the parking lot behind the hotel, the lobby, the room key, the king-sized bed, and then the backs of my eyelids.
In the morning, I forget where I am, and I reach for Nico. My hand comes back with nothing but starched sheets.
Chrys and I share a suite. Two bedrooms. I don’t have to see her until I’m ready to see her, and I’m not ready. It takes me two hours to shower, shave, and finally start to feel a little more like myself again.
I’m scheduled for a panel at CrimeCon, a convention for mystery, thriller, and horror film fanatics in a little over an hour. My prep for public speaking events is a lot like my trailer time before shooting a scene. I have to take a minute and embody the character they want to see.
Eric North. Action star. Heterosexual. Loves beaches and red wine. Hates cats.
My backstory? I’ve spent my years as a bachelor on the prowl, until I met my one true love, Chrys.
My motivation? Get them to buy the ruse…and the movie ticket.
When I’m ready, I exit my room, feeling like I sprayed on too much cologne, wondering if I can dab some of it off before the panel.
I don’t know what I was expecting to see, but it wasn’t this… Chrys, in a robe, her hair twisted up in a towel like soft serve. She clasps her hands together as she sees me and exclaims, “You’re up!”
“I’m up,” I confirm.
“Great! Where to first? Should we have croissants and coffee in a chic café? Stroll down the cobblestone streets? Oh! Can we see the Eiffel Tower?”
Her excitement is at an eleven. I haven’t had enough coffee for this.
“First time in France?” I ask.
“Is it obvious?”
I slip my Rolex around my wrist and strap it on with one hand. “I have to be at the convention from noon to six.”
“I’ll come with you.”
I shake my head. “Stay here. Order room service.”
Her mouth corkscrews. “Okay, not to sound ungrateful…but you did fly me halfway across the world to be your arm candy. And now you’re relegating me to the hotel?”
“Listen, Candy—”
“Chrys.”
“Chrys,” I repeat. “I’ll let you know when I need you.”
I’m not trying to be an asshole. But Chrys is here to provide a service—nothing more, nothing less.
Which means no sightseeing, no baguettes, no fun. This is a business trip and should be conducted as such.
Even if my “business” is a peppy, redheaded cheerleader.
I try to soften the blow with “There’s a spa. A pool. Get whatever you want.”
Watch on, blazer on, I check my pockets once and then go to leave.
As the door closes behind me, I hear, “At least leave me a room key!”
I crouch and pass the room key under the door.