And when Jac rolled down her window, allowing the scent of jasmine to permeate the car, Dawn relaxed. She wasn’t alone.
It didn’t take long for them to clear the checkpoint. Paul Aspen’s people had probably prepared an extensive list of who to let through easily. Yeah, Dawn got the evil eye, but the fact that the beefcakes let her through without more of a scene spoke a lot about Jac’s status on the set.
And she went right on thinking that way, too, at least until after the valet parked their car. It was only when she and Jac got to the exquisite teak doors that she started to feel like an outcast among the beautiful people again.
Bodyguards took one look at Dawn and stopped her. Oh well, that’s what she got for wearing the regular I-don’t-give-a-shit gear. She was Jac’s entourage, but she wasn’t a star herself, so that meant she couldn’t get away with the grunge.
As they patted her down, she casually checked out the exotic, chicly overgrown foliage, the torches burning fake fire from wall sconces. The house was a quasi-Mayan temple. How sacrificial nouveau.
When it was over, Jac seemed to think it was a good idea to make her friend forget all about the second-class treatment. Linking her arm through Dawn’s, she guided them both into the house, clearly excited at her big movie-star party. Sad. Maybe this was the first time anyone in the cast had invited her.
“I wonder how many hearts you’ll break tonight,” Jac said as they walked through the foyer. The blaring recorded music—something so hip the band probably didn’t even have a name—was making Jac talk loudly.
Dawn stiffened as they approached the main area. “I don’t break hearts, I eat them.” She was kidding. Pretty much.
Her rigidity had made Jac back off. But then, pulling an impressed face, the undaunted actress reached out and gave her friend’s biceps a feel.
“Look at that. I wish I had these guns! You make everyone here look lazy!”
Even though she was oddly pleased by Jac’s comment, Dawn pretended she wasn’t. It appealed to the part of her that believed she wasn’t inferior to these people, and Lord help her, she liked knowing that someone else thought the same way.
They drew nearer to the action, and Dawn tried to remain placid, keeping her rebellious facade intact, presenting the girl who’d spurned all the other Hollywood kids while growing up. It’d been one of many ways to distance herself from Eva, and it’d worked.
As the main room opened up in front of them, she saw that the mansion’s interior was created to seem brittle and broken, the walls fashionably crumbling, the décor utilizing everything from long-stemmed candleholders shooting up from the floor to a polar bear rug in front of an empty grand fireplace.
But the partygoers provided a modern touch. Near a flat-screen TV, a crowd of young hipsters from Aliantrance, a fantasy that had scooped the number one spot at the box office for the past three weeks, yelled while maiming each other by proxy with their gory PlayStation street fighting. Scattered throughout the rest of the room, less enthusiastic men and women in silks and chunky jewelry swayed to the techno-flavored music, drinks in hand, cigarettes burning from extended fingers. They were standing against walls, draped over couches, mingling with each other and probably working deals with every breath.
Well behaved, Dawn thought. The party must’ve just started.
As a tabloid socialite strolled by, her boutique perfume made Dawn want to choke. And it made her realize something else: the jasmine had disappeared, replaced by acrid smoke, the expensively bad perfume, and emerging perspiration.
“I can’t get used to this!” Jac said, sounding half-afraid and half-fascinated by her surroundings. “You’ll protect me from trouble though, won’t you, Dawn? My fencing buddy? My own personal bodyguard?”
“Why not.” Dawn led Jac away from an oily guido approaching due right and headed for a private corner. Even though she didn’t know what to think about her friend, she felt protective. Weird but true.
On their way, they were intercepted by the man himself, Paul Aspen. Reportedly in his late thirties, he was the type who wasn’t actually a “man,” but more of a “guy.” A perpetual Hollywood Peter Pan, he’d shaved off his sandy hair for this buccaneer role, probably hoping to age himself, and had gotten his ears pierced, too. Tall and full of that star-making “X factor,” he was a producer’s wet dream.
His hazel eyes seemed friendly enough as he offered Dawn and Jac two drinks. “I heard on a security scanner that my favorite costar had arrived, and I’m not talking about Will.”
Dawn belatedly recalled that Jac’s other costar was Mr. Independence Day himself.
“Who’s your friend, Jacqueline?” Paul added.
Dawn wanted to be ornery and tell Paul Aspen straight out that she was about ten years too old for his tastes, but she shut up for Jac’s sake.