Just the Sexiest Man Alive
Page 22
She walked away.
She had gone only a few steps when she glanced back at Jason, apparently with one final thought. “It’s been . . . interesting, Mr. Andrews,” she said. Then she hurried off toward the elevator bank.
Jason stood there, speechless. Funny how he seemed to be like that quite a bit whenever he was around her.
He watched for a few moments, thoroughly confused, as Taylor walked away. Then he finally managed to find his voice.
“Wait!”
She stopped abruptly when he shouted and turned around. He gestured questioningly to the door.
“Aren’t you coming, too?”
Taylor stared at him incredulously. “Are you crazy? There must be a hundred cameras out there. I’ll leave later, when everyone’s gone.”
Jason’s jaw almost hit the floor. “Let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “You don’t want to be seen with me?”
He then looked at Taylor with such disbelief she couldn’t help but smile. He was quite cute when utterly clueless.
“I have a trial in one week,” she told him. “I can’t risk being accused of trying to bias the jury pool by being seen in the media with a celebrity. The judge could throw me off the case for that.”
Then she looked at Jason pointedly. “Besides, my client is trying to beat sexual harassment charges. They need to look as morally upright as possible. It would border on malpractice for me to link them to you.”
Jason blinked and almost laughed. No offense taken.
And it was in that moment, at her refreshing disinterest in the publicity that constantly surrounded his life, that Jason felt the strangest sensation—a slightly panicky, breathless feeling, like riding on a roller coaster.
It was an odd feeling for him—something he couldn’t quite identify—but he knew one thing.
He didn’t want her to leave.
“But what about the film?” he blurted out, trying to think of something, anything, to keep her from walking away. “You said it yourself, there are problems with the script.” He looked at her pointedly as his words tumbled out in a rush. “And how about me? We didn’t cover all of my courtroom scenes—I need to be sure I look like I know what I’m doing.”
Taylor turned all the way around to face him. She took him in for a moment, then smiled.
“You will make a great attorney. Jason.”
It was the first time she said his name.
Then, just like that, she turned and sprinted off to the elevator bank. And before Jason could say anything further, she was gone.
He stood alone in the lobby, staring after her. Oblivious to the fact that the paparazzi were on the move, that they had caught sight of him and were beginning to descend with their cameras. They lined the windows and surrounded him, moving in as a pack. But Jason didn’t notice the bright, burning flashes that exploded all around him, because he had only one thought on his mind.
There was no way this was over.
Eight
JEREMY WAS ABSOLUTELY correct in calling Jason’s publicist the busiest man in show business. Marty Shepherd, cofounder of the Shepherd/Grillstein Company—the top publicity firm in Los Angeles—could not recall the last time he had slept more than four hours in a row.
Being the eyes, ears, and voice of most of the film industry’s top acting talent was no easy feat. Not that he had any problem representing directors or writers, but no one ever cared what they did. Ron Howard or M. Night Shyamalan could snort cocaine off the ass of the script girl in the middle of an on-set orgy, and that still would be less gossip-worthy than whether Jennifer Lopez wore her wedding band while eating lunch at the Polo Lounge.
For a de minimis 5 percent of all gross earnings, Marty’s responsibilities could be boiled down to one pithy mantra that every associate in his firm was expected to eat, sleep, and die by: make sure your client is someone whose f**kups are newsworthy, and f**k anyone that makes up news about your client.
It was the second half of Marty’s mantra that kept him in the office so late on this particular Friday evening. Rebecca, an associate whose only assignment was to assist Marty in the various issues that arose with one particularly challenging client, had just stopped by his office.
“We’ve gotten calls from Us Weekly, In Touch, and Star. They want to know what Jason Andrews was doing in an office building downtown,” Rebecca reported. “They claim he was with a woman, although she apparently slipped off before anyone snapped her picture.”
For a brief moment, Marty wondered how the woman—who he assumed was this Taylor Donovan person Jason insisted on working with—managed to get out of the building without being photographed. Not an easy feat when traveling with Jason Andrews.
“Tell them he was getting cash from the ATM”—Marty almost laughed at the idea himself—“and that the woman was a building employee who stopped him for an autograph.” With those instructions, Rebecca nodded and left.
And then for the next half hour, Marty sat alone in his office and contemplated just how big of a problem Taylor Donovan was going to be.
It went without saying that Jason Andrews was his top client. In fact, Jason Andrews was the top, period. The biggest name in Hollywood—a status he had held for a long, long time.
Which was precisely what worried Marty, who got paid to worry when no one else did.
God knows it wasn’t easy to get to the top. But staying there was even tougher. Jason had that rare kind of star quality that came around only once a generation: women loved him, and men wanted to be him. Rolling Stone magazine had hit the proverbial nail on the head: his quick wit and easy charm did indeed call to mind Cary Grant or Clark Gable. But there was something about Jason that was just that little bit more down to earth than the icons of the classic films. Marty had never been able to figure out exactly what that “something” was, although he secretly suspected it had something to do with the fact that Jason was from Missouri.
She had gone only a few steps when she glanced back at Jason, apparently with one final thought. “It’s been . . . interesting, Mr. Andrews,” she said. Then she hurried off toward the elevator bank.
Jason stood there, speechless. Funny how he seemed to be like that quite a bit whenever he was around her.
He watched for a few moments, thoroughly confused, as Taylor walked away. Then he finally managed to find his voice.
“Wait!”
She stopped abruptly when he shouted and turned around. He gestured questioningly to the door.
“Aren’t you coming, too?”
Taylor stared at him incredulously. “Are you crazy? There must be a hundred cameras out there. I’ll leave later, when everyone’s gone.”
Jason’s jaw almost hit the floor. “Let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “You don’t want to be seen with me?”
He then looked at Taylor with such disbelief she couldn’t help but smile. He was quite cute when utterly clueless.
“I have a trial in one week,” she told him. “I can’t risk being accused of trying to bias the jury pool by being seen in the media with a celebrity. The judge could throw me off the case for that.”
Then she looked at Jason pointedly. “Besides, my client is trying to beat sexual harassment charges. They need to look as morally upright as possible. It would border on malpractice for me to link them to you.”
Jason blinked and almost laughed. No offense taken.
And it was in that moment, at her refreshing disinterest in the publicity that constantly surrounded his life, that Jason felt the strangest sensation—a slightly panicky, breathless feeling, like riding on a roller coaster.
It was an odd feeling for him—something he couldn’t quite identify—but he knew one thing.
He didn’t want her to leave.
“But what about the film?” he blurted out, trying to think of something, anything, to keep her from walking away. “You said it yourself, there are problems with the script.” He looked at her pointedly as his words tumbled out in a rush. “And how about me? We didn’t cover all of my courtroom scenes—I need to be sure I look like I know what I’m doing.”
Taylor turned all the way around to face him. She took him in for a moment, then smiled.
“You will make a great attorney. Jason.”
It was the first time she said his name.
Then, just like that, she turned and sprinted off to the elevator bank. And before Jason could say anything further, she was gone.
He stood alone in the lobby, staring after her. Oblivious to the fact that the paparazzi were on the move, that they had caught sight of him and were beginning to descend with their cameras. They lined the windows and surrounded him, moving in as a pack. But Jason didn’t notice the bright, burning flashes that exploded all around him, because he had only one thought on his mind.
There was no way this was over.
Eight
JEREMY WAS ABSOLUTELY correct in calling Jason’s publicist the busiest man in show business. Marty Shepherd, cofounder of the Shepherd/Grillstein Company—the top publicity firm in Los Angeles—could not recall the last time he had slept more than four hours in a row.
Being the eyes, ears, and voice of most of the film industry’s top acting talent was no easy feat. Not that he had any problem representing directors or writers, but no one ever cared what they did. Ron Howard or M. Night Shyamalan could snort cocaine off the ass of the script girl in the middle of an on-set orgy, and that still would be less gossip-worthy than whether Jennifer Lopez wore her wedding band while eating lunch at the Polo Lounge.
For a de minimis 5 percent of all gross earnings, Marty’s responsibilities could be boiled down to one pithy mantra that every associate in his firm was expected to eat, sleep, and die by: make sure your client is someone whose f**kups are newsworthy, and f**k anyone that makes up news about your client.
It was the second half of Marty’s mantra that kept him in the office so late on this particular Friday evening. Rebecca, an associate whose only assignment was to assist Marty in the various issues that arose with one particularly challenging client, had just stopped by his office.
“We’ve gotten calls from Us Weekly, In Touch, and Star. They want to know what Jason Andrews was doing in an office building downtown,” Rebecca reported. “They claim he was with a woman, although she apparently slipped off before anyone snapped her picture.”
For a brief moment, Marty wondered how the woman—who he assumed was this Taylor Donovan person Jason insisted on working with—managed to get out of the building without being photographed. Not an easy feat when traveling with Jason Andrews.
“Tell them he was getting cash from the ATM”—Marty almost laughed at the idea himself—“and that the woman was a building employee who stopped him for an autograph.” With those instructions, Rebecca nodded and left.
And then for the next half hour, Marty sat alone in his office and contemplated just how big of a problem Taylor Donovan was going to be.
It went without saying that Jason Andrews was his top client. In fact, Jason Andrews was the top, period. The biggest name in Hollywood—a status he had held for a long, long time.
Which was precisely what worried Marty, who got paid to worry when no one else did.
God knows it wasn’t easy to get to the top. But staying there was even tougher. Jason had that rare kind of star quality that came around only once a generation: women loved him, and men wanted to be him. Rolling Stone magazine had hit the proverbial nail on the head: his quick wit and easy charm did indeed call to mind Cary Grant or Clark Gable. But there was something about Jason that was just that little bit more down to earth than the icons of the classic films. Marty had never been able to figure out exactly what that “something” was, although he secretly suspected it had something to do with the fact that Jason was from Missouri.
