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  HOLLYWOOD DECEPTION

  by

  GEMMA HALLIDAY

  &

  ANN SNOW

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  Copyright © 2017 by Gemma Halliday

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  The set was jam packed, and it was only 9:00 a.m.

  Several production assistants wearing headsets hustled to and from other members of the crew with coffee drinks in hand. Lighting and camera people moved large pieces of equipment around the set, readying for the perfect shot. Makeup and wardrobe artists buzzed about in a flurry of activity, rushing powder puffs and starched shirts across the sound stage to the talent, hidden away in their trailers.

  I took a sip of the iced coffee one of the countless PAs had handed me the moment I'd sat down. I must admit I was a bit envious of the talent in those trailers. I had a slight obsession with fashion and could only imagine what it would be like to have a personal stylist and makeup artist of my own. But on my tabloid reporter budget, all I could afford was to watch Project Runway and use my imagination when I hit the consignment shops in Studio City.

  I reached down and adjusted the hem of my short black miniskirt then crossed my legs and checked the neckline of my pink top. I'd been trying to land this interview for a couple of weeks now, and thanks to my persistent nature—and my ample cleavage, which was always a bit hard to contain but had seemed to impress my quarry's manager—I'd landed an exclusive with none other than Bobby Baxter, host of the hit television series Bobby Tells All.

  Bobby Tells All was an hour-long show where Bobby proved the truth about everyday common misconceptions and myths while providing the audience with a healthy dose of humor and sarcasm. He got to the bottom of just about every question a person could think of, from What's Really in That Sausage You're Eating? to Can a Bundle of Balloons Really Carry a Person Away? and everything in between. The show was fun, quirky, and had been an instant ratings hit when it had debuted last year, making Bobby a household name—at least among cable TV watchers.

  He'd also become something of a B-list celebrity. A status Bobby seemed to enjoy even more than busting myths, quickly becoming a fixture in the tabloid headlines for his "bad boy" antics.

  Case in point: a couple of weeks earlier, Bobby had assaulted a fan at Beverly's, an upscale restaurant in Hollywood. Paparazzi had been on the scene, star watching, and had caught photos of the aftermath—the fan with a bloody nose. It had quickly gone viral, but neither party had made any comment on what had started the altercation.

  Until now. Somehow I had been able to land an exclusive with Bobby (see cleavage-versus-manager comment above) and was about to get his side of the story. I had a feeling it was going to be good. Okay, so it wasn't exactly hard-hitting investigative reporting that would have CNN beating down my door with offers of field correspondent positions. But as far as the kind of stories the tabloid paper I worked for, the L.A. Informer, published, this was front page gold.

  Bobby's personal assistant had assured me that Bobby would "fit me in" today between takes as he filmed his latest episode. Though, when that might be, I had no idea. A quick look at the enormous clock on the far wall told me that filming should've started nearly an hour ago. Not that running a bit behind wasn't par for the course in Hollywood, but I certainly hoped Bobby hadn't changed his mind and wasn't actively avoiding me—something I'd become used to in my line of work.

  The tinkle of my phone sounded from the bottom of my purse. I forced my eyes away from all of the frenetic activity and dug around until I came up with the little pink device. I checked the display. It was a text from my boss, Felix Dunn.

  Get the story yet? Make it good, Allie. Our front page is bare. :)

  I grinned down at the little smile emoticon then fired off a response.

  On it, boss.

  At least I hoped. I glanced up at the clock again, praying Bobby wasn't blowing me off. Working as a reporter for the L.A. Informer wasn't exactly a prestigious position. The Informer was often described as a combination of People magazine meets the Enquirer, but without the aliens and three-headed anything. We posted up-to-date information, most of it true, on celebrities, their television shows, movies, love lives, and of course all of the deliciously naughty trouble they tended to get themselves into. Most celebs had a love-hate relationship with us. They hated the way we followed them around like little puppies with cameras, poked fun at their outfits, and could blow a little thing like a bad hair day up into a sensational headline. But they hated it even worse when we stopped talking about them altogether.

  Another text came in.

  Are we still on for tonight?

  I nibbled my bottom lip. Even though it probably wasn't the best idea I'd ever had, for the past few months, I'd been dating my boss. I hadn't exactly meant to. It had sort of happened by accident. But as much as I knew it wasn't the best career move, there was something about Felix that was hard to resist.

  For starters, he was hot. Like volcanic. Blond hair, blues eyes, and a British accent that could make a girl melt. He was charming in a rough-around-the-edges way but gentle in the moments when it counted. In truth, he made me kinda giddy, like a high school girl around her crush.

  I was just about to text him back, thumbs poised over the screen of my phone, when Bobby finally burst onto the set. I say "burst" because as soon as he appeared, the crew scattered like bugs.

  "What is taking so long? Where is my latte? Where the hell is makeup?" he demanded of several people all at once. The assistant director made some rapid arm movements toward the crew, no less than three PAs ran off to presumably find a latte, and a thin woman carrying an overstuffed bag quickly appeared at his side and began powdering his forehead.

  This was the first time I'd seen Bobby in person, and while I'd recognize the chiseled jaw and dark good looks anywhere, it appeared that his easy smile was something he reserved for the cameras. His mouth was set in a grim line, and his eyebrows were drawn together in a scowl.

  I sent a quick response to Felix.

  Yes. Be ready at eight. Bobby's on set now. Gotta go.

  I set my phone to silent, slid it back into my purse without awaiting a response, and turned my attention back to Bobby. He was saying something to wardrobe now—an older woman in a flowy dress. His voice was low enough that I couldn't hear what, but from the way the scowl had deepened and he was gesturing to his clothes, he didn't look happy. He looked immaculate to me in a white dress shirt and pair of black slacks that hugged his legs perfectly. Not one shiny brown hair on his severely gelled he
ad was out of place.

  He finally finished his tirade at the wardrobe woman, who slunk away like a dog with her tail between her legs, and made his way onto the sound stage. Today it was set up like a science lab, and I'll admit I was kind of eager to see what myth he'd be busting in it.

  Two lighting guys with instruments to check the white balance descended on Bobby, who tried to swat them off like flies. "Didn't you check this with my stand-in?" he yelled.

  The guys didn't answer, instead slinking off in much the same fashion as the wardrobe lady.

  I raised an eyebrow, making a mental note. It seemed Bobby Baxter was a diva with a capital D. The show fan in me was disappointed, but the reporter in me was giggling on the inside as I mentally began writing my article on the "Divalicious Mr. Baxter."

  I relaxed back into the surprisingly comfortable canvas director's chair and watched as the crew took their places to begin filming. The minute action was called and the cameras started rolling, Bobby's scowl was replaced with the friendly grin I had come to associate with him through my hours of DVRed Bobby Tells All.

  He smiled at the camera. "So as you can see, the dental industry has a long standing history of using poisonous products to clean your teeth. But what happens if we delve deeper into the ingredients found in your mouthwash?"

  I watched as Bobby went through a two-minute spiel where he moved mouthwash around in various beakers, all the while totally grossing me out with what was really in it. Involuntarily I felt my tongue trying to wipe my teeth as he talked. I was going to have to pick up some of that natural toothpaste next time I was in Whole Foods.

  "And that, my friends," Bobby said, wrapping up the segment, "is the whole tooth about your mouthwash."

  "Cut!" the director yelled. "That was great. Let's go one more time."

  "What for?" Bobby argued, the scowl immediately back.

  "Let's just do one more for safety." The director smiled at Bobby, though I could see a hint of fear behind it. Geez, this guy had the entire crew on edge. "Okay, Bobby?"

  "Was there something wrong with the way I did that take?"

  "N-no. I just think we should—"

  "Then we're moving on." Bobby stared the director down as if challenging him. I felt my eyes, along with the entire crew's, ping-ponging back and forth between the two men.

  The director paused, took a deep breath, and then blew it out on a resigned sigh. "Okay, moving on." I thought I saw Bobby smirk as the makeup woman descended on him again, adding more powder to his nose as the crew moved props for the next scene.

  The next couple of hours went on much the same. The cameras went on, Bobby smiled and joked with the viewing audience, the director yelled "cut," and Bobby morphed into Diva Man, instantly jumping on whichever crew member was closest for not doing their job up to his standards. The light was weak. The mic was in his way. The prop should have been on his left, not his right. With his winning personality, I was honestly starting to wonder how Bobby hadn't gotten in more altercations lately.

  I checked the clock. I'd been on set for well over three hours. Bobby hadn't so much as glanced my way. I wondered when he planned to "fit me in" as I shifted in my chair to get a little feeling back to my right cheek.

  The director called another scene number, and the crew once again reset for the next shot. An old-fashioned mailbag was brought out, and I recognized the upcoming segment immediately.

  At the end of every show, Bobby read a letter sent in from a fan, usually a child or their teacher or parent, and proved or disproved their question. I loved this portion of the show. Kids came up with the coolest questions, and it was fascinating to see the conclusion of the experiments Bobby performed.

  Bobby reached into the bag, the director yelled "action," and our charm-oozing host began reading a selected letter. It was from a local elementary school teacher concerning what would happen if a person ate Pop Rocks and drank soda at the same time.

  "Well, let's test this theory out," Bobby told the camera. "As you can see, we have a bag of popping candy here and a bottle of soda. Now the carbon dioxide trapped in the candy will have a reaction with free carbonation in the soda, but will it cause an explosion? Only one way to find out—that's it!" Bobby's happy face melted, and he slammed the little black package of candy onto the table. Tiny red rock candy burst all over the stage like confetti. "I cannot work like this! Are you kidding me?!"

  I looked around in confusion. What in the heck had just happened? Everything had seemed to be going great, at least to me. What had I missed?

  The director hurried up onto the set and stopped in front of Bobby. They talked heatedly for a few seconds, though in low enough tones this time that I couldn't make out the words. Finally Bobby threw his hands into the air, turned on his heel, and stormed off the set toward his trailer.

  "Take five, everybody," the director called out wearily then made his way past the camera equipment and out of sight. I figured he was most likely looking for a bottle of vodka. Not that I could blame him. I had a feeling that my interview—if I ever got one—was going to be about as pleasant as a case of poison oak on my bikini area.

  I shifted in my chair, wondering just how long this "five" was going to be. How long did it take to sooth the savage diva ego?

  After half an hour had passed and Bobby still hadn't appeared back on set to finish filming, I decided to go in search of someone who could tell me what was going on before my entire day was wasted waiting around for an interview that wouldn't happen. With a quick sweep of the area, I found Bobby's personal assistant, who had originally greeted me on set. He was standing to the left of the set, talking animatedly on the phone. I stood, adjusted my skirt, rolled my lips to even out my lip gloss, and wove my way through the crowded set. My pink high heels clicked on the cement floor beneath my feet as I approached him.

  The assistant saw me walking toward him and held up one finger. I stopped a few feet away from him so that he could continue his call in private as I tried to remember the guy's name. Harry? Hunter? Something with an H.

  He was short for a man, only a few inches taller than my 5'3", and slim. His medium brown hair was thinning, his skin was pale, and his eyes were rimmed in dark circles that spoke of too many hours doing Bobby's bidding and not enough sleeping. He wore the same earbud and microphone combo I noticed most of the crew sporting, though his dangled from his ear as if he'd pulled it out to make the phone call. He finished quickly then shoved the phone back into the front pocket of his jeans.

  "Ms. Quick?" he greeted me.

  "That's right. From the L.A. Informer," I said with a smile. I pointed at him and raised an eyebrow. "And you were…"

  "Henry. Henry Klein," he supplied.

  I nodded in recognition and committed that name to memory. "I'm supposed to have an exclusive interview today with Bobby? About the incident with the fan."

  "Right. So sorry to keep you waiting. Bobby's…" He trailed off with a wave of his hand in the direction Bobby had stomped off to, as though he was trying to come up with a polite word for jerk.

  "That's alright. I understand." I smiled and patted his forearm as I went into reporter mode. Henry wasn't Bobby Baxter, but as his personal assistant, I'd bet he knew a lot about Bobby. There was always a chance that he could tell me something I'd never get out of Bobby himself. I put on a little extra charm and stepped closer to him.

  "While we wait for Bobby to come back out, could you tell me a little bit about what happened the night that he had that run-in with the fan at Beverly's?" I smiled up at him as sweetly as I could and pushed my chest out just a bit as I patted his arm.

  While I was keen on feminine equality as any woman, I knew you could catch a lot more flies with honey—or in my case a pair of ample Ds—than with vinegar. A little flirting went a long way to getting the answers I wanted, especially in Hollywood.

  "Me?" Henry squeaked out, his voice about an octave higher. "Oh, I don't know…"

  "It's just that anything you m
ight be able to tell me would really help me out. And help Bobby. I mean, you'd be saving him time by filling me in now."

  Henry shifted uneasily. "I just don't know if that's a good idea. I'm sure Bobby will tell you everything about that night as soon as he's finished taping the show."

  "Oh, I'm sure he will, too." I batted my lashes at him. "I was just hoping that maybe you could tell me what you know or what you might have heard about it all. You know, just in case Bobby forgets something small. I like to get all of the details so that my story is completely accurate. I'm sure you understand." I continued smiling.

  "Well, I guess it can't hurt." He finally returned my smile. "But I only know what I saw."

  "You were at the restaurant with Bobby on the night of the altercation?" How lucky could I get? Henry was an eyewitness.

  Henry nodded. "Yeah. Sort of. I mean, I was there, but Bobby likes me to hang back a bit. He says I scare off the ladies."

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Bobby was a regular pal. "Any lady in particular with Bobby that night?"

  Henry glanced around like Bobby was going to jump out from behind a wall with a pink slip if he saw him talking to me. "No. He was alone at the bar, sitting on a stool and talking to whoever passed by." He frowned. "He'd, uh, maybe had a bit too much to drink."

  I raised an eyebrow. "Oh? What makes you say that?"

  Henry licked his lips. "Well, he was being loud—well, louder than usual. Kind of…um, maybe bothering some of the other patrons."

  Translation: diva turned obnoxious drunk.

  "Go on," I prompted. "Was the fan he hit one of those patrons he was bothering?"

  Henry shook his head. "No. I mean that guy seemed friendly enough from where I was sitting. He just walked up to Bobby and started talking to him."