Starling (Love in Los Angeles, #1)

3-3

MARGARET, THE WOMAN Alex settles on as his manager because she seems as judgmental as he is, tells him to lock down his f*******:. He doesn’t use it because he doesn’t like anyone from high school enough to keep in touch, but locking it does at least put an end to the friend requests from people he doesn’t know.

Alex looks forward to their first full business meeting. No one recognizes him as he takes the elevator up to her office in the nondescript Beverly Hills office building. Margaret’s office is decorated in mint green and white, with a plush couch against one wall and framed abstract prints in pastel colors. The effect is soothing — nothing like Victor’s stark office — and very Los Angeles.

He sits in the chair across from her. Margaret asks, as she chews on the end of a ballpoint pen, if the green cords are the only nice pair of pants he owns.

“I have the same pair in gray,” he tells her.

She frowns. Margaret’s a tall woman with rich brown skin. Her hair is twisted into innumerable braids and wrapped, crown-like, around her head. Alex has never cared much about his appearance, but he is very aware that Margaret is a hundred times more elegant than he could ever hope to be.

“We need to do something about that.” She shuffles some papers on her desk as if she’s flipping through some sort of new celebrity checklist. “Next up. You can’t get caught having a beer — you’re still only twenty — and you can’t get caught having a fling.”

“Yeah, I know. Victor already told me.”

“Did he? Good.”

Alex wonders how many more lectures on these subjects he’s going to get from people who should have no place to tell him what to do. “I don’t like people and I don’t have any free time.”

Margaret gives him a skeptical look. “You live in L.A.”

“My entire social life revolves around hanging out with my roommate and talking about the sort of hot boys neither of us will ever have a chance to get near.”

“I don’t believe you.” Margaret twirls her pen across her fingers. Alex finds it far less unsettling than Victor’s paperclip.

“Why not?”

“I can’t speak for your roommate, but you’re one of the hot boys now. Also, you need to move.”

Alex is outraged. “Why?”

Margaret glances down at his paperwork. “Because you live in a shitty part of Little Armenia, and there’s no reason to do a job this hard if you can’t live somewhere wonderful. You’ll also probably want some security soon.”

He takes a deep breath. Then a second. He’s gotten so used to his crappy apartment and his routine with Gemma. Even now that he’s filming regularly for a big deal TV show, he never considered that the job would necessitate a change to his home.

“You should probably let your roommate know.”

“I’ll bring her with me,” Alex blurts. The decision as snap as it is absolute, although he can see by the flicker across Margaret’s face that maybe it shouldn’t be.

“Is she going to be your girlfriend?” Her voice is full of judgment.

“I — no...I...oh God. No,” Alex stammers. He’s not going to be in the closet and he certainly wouldn’t admit that he would consider using Gemma that way if he were. His heart starts to race. While he knows this isn’t quite a panic attack, he has the suspicion one might be waving to him from across the street.

—

* * * *

THE PANIC ATTACK ARRIVES when Shawna, a grip who works on a show two stages down from Fourth and who he’s been friends with for years, insists they go out dancing. Alex isn’t sure if it’s to celebrate or let off some steam, but the idea of do this now while you still can is definitely clear.

Normally Alex would flatly refuse. He doesn’t like other people, and he’s really not into having other people’s bodies near his. But if this is the last time he’ll be able to do anything like this, he’d be a fool to say no. He can spend the night drinking soft drinks and being Shawna’s wingman.

But it’s already too late for anything so simple. Within an hour of getting there, a man dances up close to Alex and slips his arm around his waist. While Alex is pondering whether Victor would approve, the guy calls him Zach. It’s way too uncomfortable and invasive. Alex tries to bolt but the guy grabs his arm and pulls him back in until their bodies are flush against each other. The man’s breath is hot on his neck.

Alex is lithe and clever and strong enough to handle himself — he wrestled in high school and men bigger than him should never, ever grab him in ways he doesn’t want to be grabbed — but his arm is at a bad angle and all he can hear is Victor’s voice in his head that he can’t.

Alex can’t get angry; he can’t throw a punch; he can’t even shove his way free. He can’t, he realizes, decide he doesn’t want this man touching him and do anything about it any more than he could have decided he wanted him for five minutes and done anything about that either.

The horror freezes him in place. Shawna has to rescue him by stomping a spike heel into the guy’s foot. She grabs Alex’s hand and runs them out into the breezy and too bright L.A. night.