The love script, p.3
The Love Script, page 3
“You know, one really has to wonder what they were up to there all cozy-like in his home. America, I’m not sure if you remember Lamont spilling his newfound celibacy status when asked about his faith conversion by Oprah a few years back. Nothing about this picture screams a monk going to church on Sunday mornings,” LJ said.
“You’ve got that right.” Camille, the cohost, giggled as she fanned herself with exaggerated movements.
“Everyone in Hollywood knows about Lamont’s transformation from bad boy to staunch Christian,” LJ continued. “We haven’t seen him date since his split with the Diva Jones. Instead, his current lifestyle only seemed to prove his claim to celibacy. But I have to say yet again, nothing in this picture shows that. In fact, I may go as far as to say it shows the exact opposite.”
“He caught me from falling down the stairs!” I shouted at the TV.
“Sure, Nevaeh.” Nora smirked.
I blinked. Why was her face made up at—a glance at the cable box showed 7:00 a.m.—such an early hour? “Where are you going?”
She unfolded her long legs and stood from the couch, wearing an olive-green romper that made her skin glow all the more. “Audition. It’s at nine.”
“Do you need me to do your hair?” Usually she gave me ample warning, so maybe she’d be using her own tresses. Though they looked a little limp and lacking that Hollywood shine.
“Yes, please.”
“Then let’s turn that off and get to it.” I couldn’t stomach any more. Despite the thought, my brain itched to grab my cell and see if this was trending on Twitter. If so, I needed to panic further instead of halting my spiraling thoughts.
“Great,” Nora said, interrupting my thoughts. “The appointment’s in Studio City, so I should still look good by the time I get to it.”
Nora and I lived in Studio City, home to hundreds of film production companies. The better to get me a job as a film stylist—Hello, Lord! Still waiting for that top billet of key stylist—and Nora a lead actress role. So far, neither one of us had landed that lead position we were desperately working toward. Thanks to Nora’s good looks, she never had problems getting auditions. It was the callbacks that were harder for her to land.
Apparently, the part Nora would be auditioning for today called for a woman with curly hair. “You should have woken me earlier or told me last night. I could have had you looking cuter than Shirley Temple.”
“Yeah, that’s so old.” She rolled her eyes. “Just give me a wig. Maybe one that makes me look like Blake Lively did when she premiered The Age of Adaline.”
I knew the exact look she was talking about. “Are you supposed to be blond and blue-eyed?”
“No, I just want those type of curls.”
They’d been more voluminous waves than anything, but I wouldn’t argue with Nora. Plus, I had a wig that style in a rich sable color. I went to my wig station—an armoire I’d found at IKEA and made over—and reached for the correct one.
“How’s this?” I held up the hair in question.
“Perfect.”
Before long, I had the hairpiece situated perfectly, and Nora preened in the mirror.
“I look fantastic. Hopefully casting knows what they’re doing.” She turned from side to side, peering at the floor-length mirror.
“Break a leg.”
“And don’t forget to call a reporter and get your fifteen minutes of fame.”
My nose wrinkled at the suggestion.
She shook her head. “See you later.” She sauntered out of my room.
As soon as I heard the front door close, I pulled out my cell and typed Lamont Booker’s name into the search bar of the internet browser and clicked on the first article I saw. The Cheese also speculated on my supposed relationship with Mr. SMA and whether he remained chaste or if I was the siren that had called him too far out into deep waters, drowning him in a sea of lust. My face heated as I read some of the comments.
How did she land him?
SMAfan
Oh my word! You hypocrite! They should take away your endorsements for flaunting your floozy.
JesusIsTheReason
Please, like Christians aren’t having sex.
GetaLifeSoon
If they’re fornicating outside of marriage, then they’ll burn for their transgressions.
JesusIsTheReason
Just goes to show that Christians are hypocrites.
ReligionIzACrutch
Okay, so yeah, I didn’t go to church—you try finding a good fit in metro LA—but I was still a believer. Still prayed to God and occasionally took a look at my Bible. I was not a floozy.
“Ugh.” I tossed my phone onto the bed. I couldn’t read any more comments from the troll patrol. Had Lamont Booker seen this? Should I call him? Surely his publicist would be on the ball.
I bit my lip, staring at my phone in the middle of my comforter. Anyone who knew me could call one of these tabloids and release my name in a hot second. Would I have to wear one of those big floppy beach hats with oversized glasses that hid half a person’s face in case there were paparazzi waiting outside my front door? I shook my head. Nora had left with no problem, so I should be fine.
The phone rang, interrupting my contemplation of my future on tabloids. I picked it up from where I’d thrown it and looked at the screen. Lamont Booker’s name flashed on my caller ID, and relief poured out of the tightness that was my chest.
“Hello?” My voice warbled.
“Nevaeh, good, you answered.” He sighed, the weighted sound reminding me of an anvil sinking to the bottom of the ocean. “I don’t know how to ask this, but—”
“I saw.” No need for him to explain the awkward situation.
“Can you come over for damage control?”
“Yes!” I winced. “Yes,” I repeated more calmly. “I’m assuming time is of the essence, so if you can keep my name out of the tabloids, I’ll do the next three sessions with Ms. Rosie free of charge.”
He snorted. “I’m not going to let you work for free. We’ll talk more when you get here. Oh, and my agent is here to help us brainstorm ideas on how to get the media to drop the story.”
“Why not your publicist?” Then again, maybe he and his agent were close. Would they be able to keep my name out of the gossips’ mouths?
“He’s both. See you soon.”
I raced to my closet, staring at the various tops and bottoms littering it. Should I go in disguise or wear my usual style? Just in case reporters loitered outside of Lamont Booker’s mansion, I reached for the lilac-colored, empire-waist maxi dress. Next choice was a chunky beaded necklace in a darker tone that would match perfectly. I could hide behind the layers of the dress, and my sunglasses would provide anonymity.
Not that I needed to hide my curves, but showcasing their ample bends in the city of skinny wasn’t my favorite. I just wanted to feel my most confident when stepping outside my apartment and into an unknown fray.
My breath caught. What if Lamont Booker had really called me over to fire me and that’s why he didn’t take my offer of free hair care for Ms. Rosie? Oh no! Ms. Rosie. What must she think of me? Did she think I was some hussy that led her son into sin like a Jezebel? I shuddered remembering a keyboard bully’s comment.
I groaned, banging my head against the doorframe. This was awful.
Pull it together. Fall apart later.
After dressing and grabbing my bag, I locked up.
“Hey, Nevaeh.”
I glanced over my shoulder. My neighbor, Lenora Hazelton, sat on her front stoop. “Hey, Mrs. Hazelton. How are you?” Please don’t watch the news, please don’t watch the news, please—
“Wonderful, child. Every day above ground—”
“Is a good day,” we finished together.
I smiled, letting some tension out. “Thanks for the reminder, Mrs. Hazelton.” Judging from the lack of cameras, I remained unknown, and my home was still a safe place.
“Anytime. You got fun plans today?”
“Time will tell.” I waved across the small courtyard, then headed for the street parking, where my MINI sat.
The whole drive from Studio City to Beverly Hills had my guts bubbling with nerves. My hands were clammy as I tried to grip the steering wheel and cast my cares before the Lord. But after repeating the same pleas of help me over and over, I went silent. The Lord got the picture—I was one step from panic and had already passed Go on the way to anxiety.
I pressed the callbox to the security system, fingers tapping out a frantic rhythm.
“Ms. Richards, come on in.”
My brows rose at Kyle’s cold tone of voice. Was he mad? At me? Had he also believed what apparently the whole world was saying about me? I wanted to ask, but the need to know what Lamont Booker had planned had me following instructions to park in the private garage. When Kyle opened the door to the house, I took in the hard features on his tan face and wilted.
“It’s not what it looks like. I promise.” Not that I owed him anything. He’d flirted, I’d joked back, and we were friendly acquaintances. Still, it did something to my insides when others were upset with me.
“It’s not that.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’m just sorry that I didn’t spot the paparazzo. If I’d done my job properly, none of this would be happening.”
A breath of air whooshed from my lips. “It’s not your fault. You know how they get.” I studied his brown eyes. “Is he upset with you?”
Kyle shook his head.
“Then it’ll be okay, right?”
“Yeah, but maybe not so much for Mr. Booker.”
I glanced down the hall, then back at Kyle. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Other than this hitting every channel, including actual news stations?”
My stomach sank to my toes. “What news shows?”
“CNN, Fox, you know, the mainstream ones. Good Morning America picked it up too.”
“I saw it on StarGazer.” They were a step above tabloids —TV version—but barely.
“They were the first to break the story, from my understanding. Mr. Booker’s phone has been ringing nonstop ever since.”
I groaned. “Do you think the media will start camping out in front of his place?” I slapped a hand over my mouth.
“Now, why did you go and say something like that?” Kyle’s shoulders fell. “I’m going to go check the camera feeds again. He’s in the living room, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
I wiped my hands against my thighs, then headed down the green mile. As soon as I passed the kitchen and rounded the gleaming pillar, making myself visible to the men seated in the living room, they stopped talking. Lamont Booker and an older gentleman stood as I stepped down into the sunken living room.
“Wow, a standing ovation for a paparazzi picture?” I tried to make a joke to lighten the mood, but my heart still pounded.
The agent laughed, but Lamont Booker looked none too pleased.
“Bryan Wilkinson.” He stretched out his hand. “I’m Lamont’s agent.”
“Nevaeh Richards, Ms. Rosie’s hair stylist.”
“Have a seat.”
I stared at the cream-colored sectional. Lord, please don’t let me be nervous sweating! My hands nestled into my lap as I gripped my fingers to hide the tension coursing through me.
“So, Nevaeh, I’m sure you’ve seen the news,” Bryan started. “But let me give you an update on where we’re at currently.”
I nodded, glancing at the man who kept rubbing his hands over his head as if life couldn’t get any worse. How did I manage to ruin my favorite actor’s life?
“StarGazer broke the story and the photo, which was quickly picked up by various tabloids and entertainment stations. Twenty minutes ago, the moral and legal department at the production studio where Lamont is under contract called to find out if something inappropriate was going on and if we needed to revisit the terms of his contract.”
Oh no. My mouth ran dry. How could one little picture do so much damage? “Is a morality clause a real thing?” I thought that was something only found in rom-coms and cheesy movies.
“It is. #MeToo struck fear into studio companies, so most contracts these days have them included.”
This time my gaze flicked to Lamont Booker’s in sympathy.
“Did you tell them I was only here to do his mom’s hair?” Suddenly my thoughts turned toward my own dreams. Would film companies think I led their star astray and blacklist me from working as a key stylist?
“Their lawyers might be willing to take us at our word. However, perception is ninety percent law in Hollywood, and that photo says something more than just an employee doing the job she was hired for.” Bryan shrugged as if to say, “What can you do?”
I wanted to drop my head in my hands just like the SMA. “This can’t be real.”
“So what should we do, Bry?” Lamont Booker finally spoke up. “I can’t have the fans thinking I’ve been lying about my faith and convictions for years. I stand by my word.”
“Why not go on some talk shows and just tell the truth?” I suggested. Wouldn’t that be the easiest thing?
Bryan snorted. “Yeah, tell America the hair stylist that he pays to work for his mother fell, and he caught her.” He threw me a look that practically screamed, “You poor delusional fool.” “If they don’t accuse him of leveraging his fame for something sinister, they’ll accuse you of being a gold digger and capitalizing on fifteen minutes of fame.”
Nora’s words from this morning echoed in my head. “So that’s out, then?”
“What if Nevaeh agrees to come with me and explains that it’s not what it looks like?” Lamont asked.
Now Bryan gave his client a poor fool look. “Yeah, again, perception is law in Hollywood. The public will probably believe she’s been pressured to make a comment like that in order to keep her job. Honestly, her being employed here makes the morality clause more of a concern. Besides, that picture says you two are intimate—not coworkers.”
“But we’re not. I barely talk to her.” Lamont Booker grimaced, meeting my gaze. “No offense.”
“None taken. I’m hired to help your mom, not you. You don’t owe me anything.” But my brain screamed for me to find a way to make this all work out.
“This is a moment to tell your truth,” Bryan said, a gleam entering his eyes.
“You just said I couldn’t, Bry.”
“No, your truth. The one we’ll tell the media.” Bryan clasped his hands, leaning his elbows on his thighs. “Tell them you and Ms. Richards fell in love over the months she’s been styling your mother’s hair since her battle with cancer. What the paparazzo managed to shoot was Ms. Richards and you maintaining boundaries already set in your relationship. This shows you’re not a monk but not a hypocrite either. The Christians will applaud you for maintaining purity, and everyone else will believe you’re a Christian who actually puts his money where his mouth is.”
Bryan sat back, crossed his ankle over his opposite knee, and folded his arms behind his head. “And that is what will save both of your reputations.”
Houston, we have a problem.
Four
This could not be happening.
Lamont stared at Bryan in disbelief.
“Say what now?” Nevaeh stood, gaping at his agent as if the man had grown another head.
Not that Lamont imagined the expression on his own face was any different. “That’s not the truth though.”
“It is if you don’t want to be canceled by your adoring fans who believe you uphold Christian values.” Bryan raised an eyebrow.
“Of course not! Ever since I rededicated my life to Christ, I’ve done my utmost to make sure I don’t sin.” Didn’t Bryan know how difficult that was in Hollywood? Women threw themselves at Lamont all the time.
“Not possible,” Nevaeh countered.
“What?” Lamont stared at her, trying to keep up with the conversation.
“We sin. We’re human. The point is not to go out looking for ways to sin and act like you have a get out of hell free card.”
Bryan laughed. “Are you a Christian too?”
“Yes, but I’m also a realist.” She stared hard at Bryan. “I’m not perfect, I’m not Jesus. I’m going to sin. It’s just a matter of when.”
“Well, let that when be now,” Bryan encouraged. “If you’re game to stretch the truth and save Lamont’s reputation, I’m sure we can make it worth your while.”
Nevaeh’s mouth dropped again.
Apparently, despite her realistic attitude, Bryan still shocked her. And why was he offering Lamont’s pocketbook for his schemes? “I’m not even sure I’m on board. I’m not comfortable telling a lie, even for the sake of my reputation.” The thought had his stomach all in knots.
“What hurts worse?” Bryan asked. “A lie you can ask forgiveness for later or endorsers ending their contracts? Two have already let me know they’re watching the news and are prepared to end contracts if the backlash gathers steam. Not to mention one production company has already removed their request to enter into a future contract with you. Believe me, Ms. Richards, my client doesn’t want to be blacklisted from working in the industry again. What kind of platform or message would he have then?”
Lamont squeezed the bridge of his nose, still having trouble fathoming people he’d built relationships with being ready to push the cancel button on the public’s say-so. This can’t be happening, Lord. You know, You know I’m not doing anything untoward. I promised to honor You and glorify You. How can a lie ever be that?
“Maybe we just need to take a moment and think of another way?” Nevaeh suggested. “Surely we haven’t exhausted all avenues. Maybe you can charge the photographer with trespassing and deflect attention onto him?”
“Only if Kyle can find security footage with the guy on my property.” Lamont met her gaze. “If the paparazzo took the photo from a public place, then no.” He sighed. “I’m sorry for all of this.”
She shook her head. “I’m the one who tripped. And believe me, my face thanks you for the rescue.”
His lips twitched. He’d lost the ability to joke when his mother told him they were on the news, but he could appreciate Nevaeh’s dry wit at a time like this.
“You’ve got that right.” Camille, the cohost, giggled as she fanned herself with exaggerated movements.
“Everyone in Hollywood knows about Lamont’s transformation from bad boy to staunch Christian,” LJ continued. “We haven’t seen him date since his split with the Diva Jones. Instead, his current lifestyle only seemed to prove his claim to celibacy. But I have to say yet again, nothing in this picture shows that. In fact, I may go as far as to say it shows the exact opposite.”
“He caught me from falling down the stairs!” I shouted at the TV.
“Sure, Nevaeh.” Nora smirked.
I blinked. Why was her face made up at—a glance at the cable box showed 7:00 a.m.—such an early hour? “Where are you going?”
She unfolded her long legs and stood from the couch, wearing an olive-green romper that made her skin glow all the more. “Audition. It’s at nine.”
“Do you need me to do your hair?” Usually she gave me ample warning, so maybe she’d be using her own tresses. Though they looked a little limp and lacking that Hollywood shine.
“Yes, please.”
“Then let’s turn that off and get to it.” I couldn’t stomach any more. Despite the thought, my brain itched to grab my cell and see if this was trending on Twitter. If so, I needed to panic further instead of halting my spiraling thoughts.
“Great,” Nora said, interrupting my thoughts. “The appointment’s in Studio City, so I should still look good by the time I get to it.”
Nora and I lived in Studio City, home to hundreds of film production companies. The better to get me a job as a film stylist—Hello, Lord! Still waiting for that top billet of key stylist—and Nora a lead actress role. So far, neither one of us had landed that lead position we were desperately working toward. Thanks to Nora’s good looks, she never had problems getting auditions. It was the callbacks that were harder for her to land.
Apparently, the part Nora would be auditioning for today called for a woman with curly hair. “You should have woken me earlier or told me last night. I could have had you looking cuter than Shirley Temple.”
“Yeah, that’s so old.” She rolled her eyes. “Just give me a wig. Maybe one that makes me look like Blake Lively did when she premiered The Age of Adaline.”
I knew the exact look she was talking about. “Are you supposed to be blond and blue-eyed?”
“No, I just want those type of curls.”
They’d been more voluminous waves than anything, but I wouldn’t argue with Nora. Plus, I had a wig that style in a rich sable color. I went to my wig station—an armoire I’d found at IKEA and made over—and reached for the correct one.
“How’s this?” I held up the hair in question.
“Perfect.”
Before long, I had the hairpiece situated perfectly, and Nora preened in the mirror.
“I look fantastic. Hopefully casting knows what they’re doing.” She turned from side to side, peering at the floor-length mirror.
“Break a leg.”
“And don’t forget to call a reporter and get your fifteen minutes of fame.”
My nose wrinkled at the suggestion.
She shook her head. “See you later.” She sauntered out of my room.
As soon as I heard the front door close, I pulled out my cell and typed Lamont Booker’s name into the search bar of the internet browser and clicked on the first article I saw. The Cheese also speculated on my supposed relationship with Mr. SMA and whether he remained chaste or if I was the siren that had called him too far out into deep waters, drowning him in a sea of lust. My face heated as I read some of the comments.
How did she land him?
SMAfan
Oh my word! You hypocrite! They should take away your endorsements for flaunting your floozy.
JesusIsTheReason
Please, like Christians aren’t having sex.
GetaLifeSoon
If they’re fornicating outside of marriage, then they’ll burn for their transgressions.
JesusIsTheReason
Just goes to show that Christians are hypocrites.
ReligionIzACrutch
Okay, so yeah, I didn’t go to church—you try finding a good fit in metro LA—but I was still a believer. Still prayed to God and occasionally took a look at my Bible. I was not a floozy.
“Ugh.” I tossed my phone onto the bed. I couldn’t read any more comments from the troll patrol. Had Lamont Booker seen this? Should I call him? Surely his publicist would be on the ball.
I bit my lip, staring at my phone in the middle of my comforter. Anyone who knew me could call one of these tabloids and release my name in a hot second. Would I have to wear one of those big floppy beach hats with oversized glasses that hid half a person’s face in case there were paparazzi waiting outside my front door? I shook my head. Nora had left with no problem, so I should be fine.
The phone rang, interrupting my contemplation of my future on tabloids. I picked it up from where I’d thrown it and looked at the screen. Lamont Booker’s name flashed on my caller ID, and relief poured out of the tightness that was my chest.
“Hello?” My voice warbled.
“Nevaeh, good, you answered.” He sighed, the weighted sound reminding me of an anvil sinking to the bottom of the ocean. “I don’t know how to ask this, but—”
“I saw.” No need for him to explain the awkward situation.
“Can you come over for damage control?”
“Yes!” I winced. “Yes,” I repeated more calmly. “I’m assuming time is of the essence, so if you can keep my name out of the tabloids, I’ll do the next three sessions with Ms. Rosie free of charge.”
He snorted. “I’m not going to let you work for free. We’ll talk more when you get here. Oh, and my agent is here to help us brainstorm ideas on how to get the media to drop the story.”
“Why not your publicist?” Then again, maybe he and his agent were close. Would they be able to keep my name out of the gossips’ mouths?
“He’s both. See you soon.”
I raced to my closet, staring at the various tops and bottoms littering it. Should I go in disguise or wear my usual style? Just in case reporters loitered outside of Lamont Booker’s mansion, I reached for the lilac-colored, empire-waist maxi dress. Next choice was a chunky beaded necklace in a darker tone that would match perfectly. I could hide behind the layers of the dress, and my sunglasses would provide anonymity.
Not that I needed to hide my curves, but showcasing their ample bends in the city of skinny wasn’t my favorite. I just wanted to feel my most confident when stepping outside my apartment and into an unknown fray.
My breath caught. What if Lamont Booker had really called me over to fire me and that’s why he didn’t take my offer of free hair care for Ms. Rosie? Oh no! Ms. Rosie. What must she think of me? Did she think I was some hussy that led her son into sin like a Jezebel? I shuddered remembering a keyboard bully’s comment.
I groaned, banging my head against the doorframe. This was awful.
Pull it together. Fall apart later.
After dressing and grabbing my bag, I locked up.
“Hey, Nevaeh.”
I glanced over my shoulder. My neighbor, Lenora Hazelton, sat on her front stoop. “Hey, Mrs. Hazelton. How are you?” Please don’t watch the news, please don’t watch the news, please—
“Wonderful, child. Every day above ground—”
“Is a good day,” we finished together.
I smiled, letting some tension out. “Thanks for the reminder, Mrs. Hazelton.” Judging from the lack of cameras, I remained unknown, and my home was still a safe place.
“Anytime. You got fun plans today?”
“Time will tell.” I waved across the small courtyard, then headed for the street parking, where my MINI sat.
The whole drive from Studio City to Beverly Hills had my guts bubbling with nerves. My hands were clammy as I tried to grip the steering wheel and cast my cares before the Lord. But after repeating the same pleas of help me over and over, I went silent. The Lord got the picture—I was one step from panic and had already passed Go on the way to anxiety.
I pressed the callbox to the security system, fingers tapping out a frantic rhythm.
“Ms. Richards, come on in.”
My brows rose at Kyle’s cold tone of voice. Was he mad? At me? Had he also believed what apparently the whole world was saying about me? I wanted to ask, but the need to know what Lamont Booker had planned had me following instructions to park in the private garage. When Kyle opened the door to the house, I took in the hard features on his tan face and wilted.
“It’s not what it looks like. I promise.” Not that I owed him anything. He’d flirted, I’d joked back, and we were friendly acquaintances. Still, it did something to my insides when others were upset with me.
“It’s not that.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’m just sorry that I didn’t spot the paparazzo. If I’d done my job properly, none of this would be happening.”
A breath of air whooshed from my lips. “It’s not your fault. You know how they get.” I studied his brown eyes. “Is he upset with you?”
Kyle shook his head.
“Then it’ll be okay, right?”
“Yeah, but maybe not so much for Mr. Booker.”
I glanced down the hall, then back at Kyle. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Other than this hitting every channel, including actual news stations?”
My stomach sank to my toes. “What news shows?”
“CNN, Fox, you know, the mainstream ones. Good Morning America picked it up too.”
“I saw it on StarGazer.” They were a step above tabloids —TV version—but barely.
“They were the first to break the story, from my understanding. Mr. Booker’s phone has been ringing nonstop ever since.”
I groaned. “Do you think the media will start camping out in front of his place?” I slapped a hand over my mouth.
“Now, why did you go and say something like that?” Kyle’s shoulders fell. “I’m going to go check the camera feeds again. He’s in the living room, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
I wiped my hands against my thighs, then headed down the green mile. As soon as I passed the kitchen and rounded the gleaming pillar, making myself visible to the men seated in the living room, they stopped talking. Lamont Booker and an older gentleman stood as I stepped down into the sunken living room.
“Wow, a standing ovation for a paparazzi picture?” I tried to make a joke to lighten the mood, but my heart still pounded.
The agent laughed, but Lamont Booker looked none too pleased.
“Bryan Wilkinson.” He stretched out his hand. “I’m Lamont’s agent.”
“Nevaeh Richards, Ms. Rosie’s hair stylist.”
“Have a seat.”
I stared at the cream-colored sectional. Lord, please don’t let me be nervous sweating! My hands nestled into my lap as I gripped my fingers to hide the tension coursing through me.
“So, Nevaeh, I’m sure you’ve seen the news,” Bryan started. “But let me give you an update on where we’re at currently.”
I nodded, glancing at the man who kept rubbing his hands over his head as if life couldn’t get any worse. How did I manage to ruin my favorite actor’s life?
“StarGazer broke the story and the photo, which was quickly picked up by various tabloids and entertainment stations. Twenty minutes ago, the moral and legal department at the production studio where Lamont is under contract called to find out if something inappropriate was going on and if we needed to revisit the terms of his contract.”
Oh no. My mouth ran dry. How could one little picture do so much damage? “Is a morality clause a real thing?” I thought that was something only found in rom-coms and cheesy movies.
“It is. #MeToo struck fear into studio companies, so most contracts these days have them included.”
This time my gaze flicked to Lamont Booker’s in sympathy.
“Did you tell them I was only here to do his mom’s hair?” Suddenly my thoughts turned toward my own dreams. Would film companies think I led their star astray and blacklist me from working as a key stylist?
“Their lawyers might be willing to take us at our word. However, perception is ninety percent law in Hollywood, and that photo says something more than just an employee doing the job she was hired for.” Bryan shrugged as if to say, “What can you do?”
I wanted to drop my head in my hands just like the SMA. “This can’t be real.”
“So what should we do, Bry?” Lamont Booker finally spoke up. “I can’t have the fans thinking I’ve been lying about my faith and convictions for years. I stand by my word.”
“Why not go on some talk shows and just tell the truth?” I suggested. Wouldn’t that be the easiest thing?
Bryan snorted. “Yeah, tell America the hair stylist that he pays to work for his mother fell, and he caught her.” He threw me a look that practically screamed, “You poor delusional fool.” “If they don’t accuse him of leveraging his fame for something sinister, they’ll accuse you of being a gold digger and capitalizing on fifteen minutes of fame.”
Nora’s words from this morning echoed in my head. “So that’s out, then?”
“What if Nevaeh agrees to come with me and explains that it’s not what it looks like?” Lamont asked.
Now Bryan gave his client a poor fool look. “Yeah, again, perception is law in Hollywood. The public will probably believe she’s been pressured to make a comment like that in order to keep her job. Honestly, her being employed here makes the morality clause more of a concern. Besides, that picture says you two are intimate—not coworkers.”
“But we’re not. I barely talk to her.” Lamont Booker grimaced, meeting my gaze. “No offense.”
“None taken. I’m hired to help your mom, not you. You don’t owe me anything.” But my brain screamed for me to find a way to make this all work out.
“This is a moment to tell your truth,” Bryan said, a gleam entering his eyes.
“You just said I couldn’t, Bry.”
“No, your truth. The one we’ll tell the media.” Bryan clasped his hands, leaning his elbows on his thighs. “Tell them you and Ms. Richards fell in love over the months she’s been styling your mother’s hair since her battle with cancer. What the paparazzo managed to shoot was Ms. Richards and you maintaining boundaries already set in your relationship. This shows you’re not a monk but not a hypocrite either. The Christians will applaud you for maintaining purity, and everyone else will believe you’re a Christian who actually puts his money where his mouth is.”
Bryan sat back, crossed his ankle over his opposite knee, and folded his arms behind his head. “And that is what will save both of your reputations.”
Houston, we have a problem.
Four
This could not be happening.
Lamont stared at Bryan in disbelief.
“Say what now?” Nevaeh stood, gaping at his agent as if the man had grown another head.
Not that Lamont imagined the expression on his own face was any different. “That’s not the truth though.”
“It is if you don’t want to be canceled by your adoring fans who believe you uphold Christian values.” Bryan raised an eyebrow.
“Of course not! Ever since I rededicated my life to Christ, I’ve done my utmost to make sure I don’t sin.” Didn’t Bryan know how difficult that was in Hollywood? Women threw themselves at Lamont all the time.
“Not possible,” Nevaeh countered.
“What?” Lamont stared at her, trying to keep up with the conversation.
“We sin. We’re human. The point is not to go out looking for ways to sin and act like you have a get out of hell free card.”
Bryan laughed. “Are you a Christian too?”
“Yes, but I’m also a realist.” She stared hard at Bryan. “I’m not perfect, I’m not Jesus. I’m going to sin. It’s just a matter of when.”
“Well, let that when be now,” Bryan encouraged. “If you’re game to stretch the truth and save Lamont’s reputation, I’m sure we can make it worth your while.”
Nevaeh’s mouth dropped again.
Apparently, despite her realistic attitude, Bryan still shocked her. And why was he offering Lamont’s pocketbook for his schemes? “I’m not even sure I’m on board. I’m not comfortable telling a lie, even for the sake of my reputation.” The thought had his stomach all in knots.
“What hurts worse?” Bryan asked. “A lie you can ask forgiveness for later or endorsers ending their contracts? Two have already let me know they’re watching the news and are prepared to end contracts if the backlash gathers steam. Not to mention one production company has already removed their request to enter into a future contract with you. Believe me, Ms. Richards, my client doesn’t want to be blacklisted from working in the industry again. What kind of platform or message would he have then?”
Lamont squeezed the bridge of his nose, still having trouble fathoming people he’d built relationships with being ready to push the cancel button on the public’s say-so. This can’t be happening, Lord. You know, You know I’m not doing anything untoward. I promised to honor You and glorify You. How can a lie ever be that?
“Maybe we just need to take a moment and think of another way?” Nevaeh suggested. “Surely we haven’t exhausted all avenues. Maybe you can charge the photographer with trespassing and deflect attention onto him?”
“Only if Kyle can find security footage with the guy on my property.” Lamont met her gaze. “If the paparazzo took the photo from a public place, then no.” He sighed. “I’m sorry for all of this.”
She shook her head. “I’m the one who tripped. And believe me, my face thanks you for the rescue.”
His lips twitched. He’d lost the ability to joke when his mother told him they were on the news, but he could appreciate Nevaeh’s dry wit at a time like this.
