Chapter 2

I was in Los Angeles.

My least favorite place to be. The weather is sitcom fake. Even the sun looks like a prop.

I keep a home base loft in Brooklyn but I'm like a shark. I never stop moving. If I slowed down, the past could catch up. It would make the music in my head unbearable. Some things are like skinny skittering spiders spinning cobwebs better left behind a door or under a bed where I can't see them. They'll die eventually. Won't they?

LA's tangerine sunshine was like a steel beam lodged in my brain. My Visual Team wasn't helping my monster headache. The Vis Team control what my videos, concerts, and red carpet outfits look like. They even control my Instagram. You didn't really think that was real, did you?

The Vis Team, my assistant Kim, and I were piled on top of each other in a car on our way to a pre-pro (short for pre-production meeting) for a video for my new song Love Hard.

The director, Ian Astor, was being a ginormous pain in the ass. He insisted all six of us drive out to Malibu for the meeting, rather than him come into town. 405 traffic is a nightmare of epic proportions.

Why are my team and I noodling through traffic to get to this joker's beach house? The record label insists Ian's vision is "artsy" and "original." They state Ian commands the filmic version my musical style. So, I'm stuck in the car, arguing with my team, who are pitching ridiculous ideas for my video.

I wish I were writing. And alone.

A nugget of chorus was stuck in my back of my head. This refrain won't leave. It whirrs like a broken clock gear or a playing card in a bicycle spoke.

It's going to be a good song. I just wish I could get it down. If I don't, it might disappear, like a dream you can't recall.

"How could you not know who Ian Astor is?" asks Bobby Mancini, my brand manager.

"Bobby, when do I have time to go to the movies?" I ask.

"Well, if you spent more time in LA, you could go to a different premiere every week. I mean, it wouldn't kill you do up the LA scene, you know. See a movie, get some nice press coverage, all in one shot," said Bobby.

"Oh Star," says Kim, perking up. "Just so you know, Ian is -"

"Gorgeous!" interrupts Bobby. "Hottie. Stud muffin. Man candy of the first degree."

"Really," I ask, pretending to be bored.

"Yeah, and supposedly, a total player," says Kim. She's looking at me hard, warning me with her eyes. She's mopped me up from broken relationships before.

"No worries," I say. "Bobby can have him."

"Yessssss! Done. My payment for this horrific commute," says Bobby.

We eventually pull up a driveway. Like clowns from a circus car, we pile out of the shimmering Escalade.

I swing my long legs out of the car and teeter on my favorite pair of Brian Atwood shoes. When I don't know what to wear, I let my shoes do the heavy lifting.

A Spanish Mission style house looms before me. I feel a stir inside, a flutter in my heart as if something has changed but I'm not sure what. A cloud over the sun? Nope, not a cloud in sight.

I run my sweaty palms down the fabric of my mini dress and squint through my shades.

A man stands at the front door. He nods at me. He's conservatively dressed with a shaved head a fat, thick neck. Could this be Ian Astor, famous director? He looks like a James Bond character.

"Star?" he asks with an English accent that pulls out the "r" in my name.

Kim, my protector, brushes past me before I answer.

"Yes, this is Star. I'm Kim, Star's assistant. We hit a bit of traffic along the way. We are anxious to get down to business. Looking forward to working with Ian."

"Just her," says the man.

"Just who?" asks Kim as she pushes her glasses up her nose.

"Just Star," the man replies.

"What?" asks Kim.

"Ian only wants to see Star," says the gentleman. I have decided the English dude is my new bff.

"Fancy that?" I say. "What's your name?"

"Ace, miss," he replied with a gentle giant's smile.

"Excuse me," Bobby perks up. He flips his dark bangs across his forehead when he's stressed. He's doing it now and I can taste his agitation like a green apple lollypop.

"Star's record label arranged the pre-pro for all of us. Why else would we cart ourselves out here on a Tuesday?" Bobby protests dropping the word Tuesday in revulsion.

"Sorry for the inconvenience," says the gentleman. "Ian wants Star. Only Star."

"You heard him everyone," I say, waving mini jazz-hand fingers at them. "Just me. Bye-bye."

I take a deep breath. The fresh air in my lungs helps the headache retreat. The musical refrain was still repeating in my head with clarity. It was going to be an excellent song, I could tell.

"Where are we supposed to go while we wait?" asks Kim.

"Ian's driver will bring Star where ever she needs to go when they are finished," answers Ace. "You may all return to wherever you came from."

"Yes, return to your caves," I say, tickled to be rid of them. "I'll stay here and get some actual work done."

Kim piped up. "Star, you've got an important meeting tonight, then a conference call with-"

"Kim, please. Just hold everything until I get back."

I cut her off and turned my attention to the gatekeeper. "Where can I find Mr. Astor?"

The man opened the door and waved me in. "You'll find him in the kitchen."

"Thank you very much." My heels clacked on the marble floors as I moved deeper inside the cool shadows of the house.

I saw him before he saw me.

He sat at a curving bar in a white kitchen. A glass wall, opening up to the entirety of the Pacific Ocean, framed him.

Ian's head looked down, chocolate wisps of choppy hair curled at the base of his neck which rooted into broad shoulders.

I swallowed hard as a jumpy feeling welled in me. Was I nervous?

He tinkered over a toy in his hands.

"Ian?" I asked.

"Huh?" He looked up at me, his brooding intensity replaced by surprise, as if I were the last person he expected to see.

"We had a pre-pro today?" I spoke gingerly as if to a child. "Remember?"

"Of course. Hello, Star," he said as a smile lit up his face.

His eyes crinkled at the corners and his grin beamed from a delicious set of lips. His lower lip flattened and pouted out kissabley. His eyes sparkled a shockingly blue that matched the expanse of the water rolling outside his kitchen.

He looked better suited for forests or desserts, emerging from caves or crossing streams rather than playing with toys in Malibu. The grandeur of the house didn't quite fit. Without helping it, I let out a giggle.

"Are you building Legos?" I asked as I spied candy colored plastic pieces in his short, stocky fingers.

"I am," he admitted with a sheepish grin.

"That an x-wing fighter?" I asked.

"You a Star Wars fan?" he asked.

"Super fan! Of the original movies," I said, palming tiny Luke Skywalker in my hand. "I watched them obsessively when I was little. I love the score."

He bent in close, pulling my attention away from little Luke, "I knew we were going to get along."

His eyes shimmered as he spoke. "I'm glad you were okay with that. I thought that you and I get on solid footing about the video first. We can decide what we want to do before bringing in the static of other opinions."

His body was compact, lean and muscular under his faded black t-shirt.

"Perfect," I said, my eyes consuming the way the leather bracelets circled his wrists.

"Once we agree on a concept," he continued as he rose to his feet, "we can bring them in. We'll let them think it was all their genius idea. C'mon, let's talk outside. And bring Luke with you. Keep him. A memento of today."

"Really?" I asked. I had a habit of swiping little objects to remind me of places I'd been. I preferred small, insignificant personal objects that no one would miss. It was better than a diary.

"Yes. Now the Force is with you," he said.

"And also with you," I responded slipping Luke into my bag.

As I followed Ian outside, I admired the symmetry of his body and the casualness of his bare feet. He moved with fluid, loose steps out to the wooden deck. I bet he did yoga out there.

A guitar sat on the deck. Good sign!

He led me down some steps to the beach. I kicked off my stilettos and felt the hot, dry sand crunch under my feet.

Under his deck, a secluded sitting space had been fashioned. Cactus, garden roses, and ivy curled up and over us, providing cool shade and relief from the sun. Hanging shells gently chimed in the breeze. Piles of lush white pillows provided seating and unlit candles, smelling of wax and smoke, mingled with the salty sea air.

"This is lovely," I said, utterly transported and sinking onto a pillow. I crossed my ankles, happy I'd worn a short dress due to the heat.

His gaze fell on my legs and he lingered long enough to let me know he was looking. I pointed my toe and stroked my leg, unconsciously, before realizing what I was doing.

"It is too hot today," he said. "This is my favorite part of the house," he said as he down sat across from me. "I write and work down here. I can listen to the sea sirens form this place. They whisper and sing to me. Sometimes I even sleep down here."

"Did you ever wake up with a crab on your face?" I asked.

"Not yet," he smiled.

"I can see why you like it here," I said. "It's like a secret clubhouse."

Dappled sunlight sparkled through the greenery, flickering over us as if we were fish hiding in a reef. The world, all its noise and confusion dropped away. Everything but the chorus in my head and the rhythmic pounding of surf on sand.

"I thought you might be hungry." He gestured towards a sideboard. I spied fat white rounds of cheese and exotic fruits nestled up to paper thin salted cured meats and roasted nuts.

"Your assistant Kim tells me you have a soft spot for red wine?"

"Were you checking up on me?" I asked.

"I must make sure my clients are happy," he said.

"But, I thought you did things your own way," I responded.

"I do. Unless I collaborate with someone. In this case, I am collaborating with you."

He picked up a bottle of wine off the table. "I bought cases of this wine on location. We were shooting a luxury car spot in Tuscany. Crazy shoot. The car did hairpin turns while snaking through medieval streets of an ancient Italian town. I shot it from above in a helicopter. The crew, the agency and I slept at a nearby vineyard. This is the last bottle from that trip."