Sweet Muse Read online

  Sweet Muse

  Ava Cummings

  Merrimack Media

  Cambridge, Massachusetts

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015931218

  ISBN: print: 978-1-939166-66-1

  IBSN: ebook: 978-1-939166-62-3

  Copyright © 2015 Ava Cummings

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permissions in writing from the copyright owner.

  Published by Merrimack Media, Cambridge, Massachusetts

  January, 2015

  Contents

  1. Falling Starr

  2. Starr in Stripes

  3. The Wolfe of the Art World

  4. A Warning Sign

  5. The Playboy

  6. Taking Flight

  7. The Night of Dares

  8. One in a Million

  9. Photo Bomb

  10. Starr-Crossed Lovers

  11. Caught in the Act

  12. Rough Around the Edges

  13. After Hours

  14. Sweet Muse

  15. The Other Woman

  16. Undercover Intel

  17. The Sweetest Thing

  18. Reunited

  19. Cradle of Joy

  20. Tears for Fears

  21. On the Trail

  22. Her

  23. Unbound

  24. Special Delivery

  25. In His World

  26. Uncovered

  27. No Consequences

  28. Those Three Words

  29. Blow the Whistle, Baby

  30. Click

  1

  Falling Starr

  I grab a flute of champagne from a passing cocktail waitress in a skintight black dress.

  “It’s Taittinger—the good stuff,” she says, leaning toward me, as if sharing a secret with a girlfriend. “They’re cosponsoring the party.”

  I nod, make note of that tidbit for what I pray will be my first news story in Celeb, and guzzle half the glass. As I squeeze through the crowd, I scan the room looking, desperate to register a familiar face in my racing mind.

  The bubbles instantly go to my head, and the familiar warm buzz relaxes me a tinge. Enough to bob my head to the rhythm of the thumping lounge music.

  My stomach erupts in a growl, a not-so-subtle reminder that I forgot to eat dinner. I sling back the rest of the champagne to quiet it and secure a second Taittinger from another cocktail waitress.

  Holding the glass keeps me from chewing my nails. Peering down at my hand, I cringe. My nails are jagged and stubby. Another giveaway. They should be squared off just beyond my fingertips, gleaming in Essie Ballet Slippers, a soft pink polish all the editors at work wear. But I hardly had time to get ready, let alone get a manicure.

  I take a minute to survey the scene, noting details for my story. Decked out in dark mahogany, oversized ornate chandeliers, and rich reds from the carpet to the walls, the Bubble Lounge reminds me of an opulent turn-of-the-century library that I saw pictured in a coffee-table book at my friend’s house, a long time ago. The richness of the image seared itself into my brain. I wanted to go to that place, so perfect in its stately elegance. A quiet chuckle escapes me. It happened, after all. I really did just land in that library.

  While the other guests air-kiss and chat like old friends, I plant my feet behind a side table and hang by my lonesome self. After reading the gossip columns and studying magazine mastheads religiously for the past few months, I recognize a face or two, but I can’t move through the crowd with the same confidence and nonchalance everyone else exudes. There’s no way that I’ll ever possess the born-to-it sophistication of a real New Yorker.

  Almost without thinking, I raise my hand to my mouth and start to nibble the skin around my nails. The tiny act of self-mutilation somehow quells the anxiety growing inside me. Oh, it’s so high school all over again. I can’t bear it. I’m starting over. Again. But this time it’s not Clark Central Valley High School. It’s the celebrity-laden center of the universe.

  Amid the throngs of people, I spot Carey Taylor, Hollywood’s action hero of the moment, holding court in the corner with a claque of models. He’s perpetually single and, when not busy filming the latest blockbuster, trots around the globe in an endless party with his buddies. Carey Taylor picking up his dry cleaning is material enough for an item in Celeb. If I can get a quote from him, I’ll be guaranteed a story. But the thought of going up and talking to a bona fide celebrity makes my hand fly to my mouth again, and a hot, itchy feeling slowly spreads across my skin.

  Standing there, awkwardly solo, I quietly gulp another glass of champagne. I feel my cheeks flush and second-guess the decision to guzzle champagne for dinner. If I want to keep my job, I need to work this party.

  A series of bright flashes go off near me. I dart my eyes to either side to see if I’m standing next to someone famous. Maybe it’s my insecurity taking over, but I feel like the entire room is staring at me, wondering why a girl from nowhere is at a party where everyone is someone.

  It’s the craziest thing. One day, I’m living at the end of a dirt road in rural Pennsylvania, sitting around watching Law & Order reruns; barely a few months later, I’m at the pinnacle of New York nightlife, going to a party attended by all the biggest celebrities. It’s like winning the lottery: suddenly life completely changes, does a one-eighty.

  Things never work out well for those lottery winners, though. They always seem to gamble the whole jackpot away and wind up homeless and broke. Maybe it’s not good to get your wish.

  Rattled and partially blinded, I squint my eyes like an old lady, desperate to find someone I know. I remind myself—for the zillionth time—not to bite my nails. Releasing an audible breath, I spot a stylist I met recently at a photo shoot we did for the magazine.

  In my determination to reach her, I stumble in my four-inch heels. As if in some kind of horrifying slow-motion free fall, I go flying back toward a group of innocent bystanders sitting at a nearby table.

  Stifling a yelp, I squeeze my eyes shut and give in to the inevitable: making contact with the floor in the middle of the city’s hottest party. But instead of hitting the deck, I feel myself being caught from behind—like in a trust fall—by two exquisitely strong, muscled arms. They wrap safely around me, under my arms, breaking my fall. My body instantly relaxes. Then I swear I feel a squeeze, like a hug. The sculpted biceps flex, turning into firm cushions of strength. When they graze my breasts in the tumult, I gasp slightly.

  I slowly turn my head and steal a look up. My eyes rest on a sexy half smile, framed by a beautifully chiseled face and jaw.

  “You okay?” he says, as my shoulders slump deeper into his arms. Oh God, what if someone from Celeb saw me and reports back to Bernie? I can picture the headline now in the gossip columns: Falling Starr! Bernadette Roberts’s Assistant Falls Off Celeb Masthead After Tipsy Tumble at Bubble Lounge Opening.

  “Uh, I think so…I’m so sorry. I…I… ” I babble.

  “Perfect timing, actually,” he says, lifting me up gently in one smooth move and setting me back on my feet. “Dying to get out of that conversation.” He nods his head back toward the table, where two guys and a chic-looking girl sit chatting.

  As I take him in, I begin to tingle from the crown of my head right down to my littlest pinkie toe. He’s wearing—no, more like owning—a pair of dark-wash low-slung jeans that hug muscular thighs, a fitted, slightly rumpled black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, showing off those sculpted arms, and black biker boots. He’s got a raw sexiness that’s…well, hot. Hotter than a wood-burning stove on the coldest day of winter. Even hotter than a piping fresh
bag of microwave popcorn, for God’s sake.

  He seems like the guy who attracts people simply by being himself. A feeling of calm washes over me—something about his presence puts me at ease. And I never feel at ease. It’s like there’s a halo of goodness around him that affects anyone in his orbit. I want to be in his orbit. I like it here.

  “Way too scene-y…who you know, what party you’ve been to, who you’ve gone to the Hamptons with. Can’t these people talk about anything of substance? I mean, look at what’s happening out in the real world. Hunger, war, poverty. It’s like they live in a champagne- and caviar-filled bubble.” He has a studied, intense look. It’s serious but alluring. I feel my heart beating a little faster.

  He looks back at me, and our eyes meet. Electricity crackles between us as he holds my gaze. I can’t avert my eyes. It feels physical, palpable…and unfamiliar. He smiles. A tidal wave of emotions tumbles over me, and I feel like I could laugh or cry or both.

  Finally, I manage to force words out of my mouth. “I’m so embarrassed. I would’ve hit the floor like a brick if it weren’t for you. I had a few glasses of champagne and didn’t eat much today, and it must have gone to my head…” I babble on about how I do this kind of thing all the time—trip on the sidewalk when there’s nothing there, stumble on the subway stairs—and how I was supposed to meet someone from work, but she hasn’t shown, so I’ve probably had more champagne than I should.

  Oh God, why can’t I shut up? I’m usually the quiet one who holds back, and now I’m telling this gorgeous stranger that I’m a klutz who drinks too much. A real turn on, no doubt.

  “Eat this,” he says, grabbing two mini-burgers and several crostini from a passing server. He places them on a couple of cocktail napkins and hands me the burgers first. His fingers brush mine in the exchange. They are strong, slightly rough. A charged tingle erupts in the spaces where we’ve touched. “You need something in your stomach.”

  “Okay.” It’s all I can manage to get out now. His eyes bore into me like they’re seeing not just me on the outside, but into me.

  “And then take a deep breath and relax. You’re an incredibly beautiful woman at the hottest party in the city. You’re practically lighting up the room. Everything will be fine. Trust me.”

  He’s tender, a little rugged, and starkly honest. Somehow, I believe what he says.

  I scarf the two burgers down, each in a single bite.

  “Heavenly,” I say, chewing.

  “Feeling better?” he asks.

  I nod my head and swallow the last morsel. He grabs a glass of club soda off another tray and hands it to me. “Now, drink this.”

  I gulp the seltzer, starting to feel like myself again.

  “So what do you do?” he says, pausing a beat. “No, wait.” His hand moves up and rubs his chin, striking an impossibly sexy pose. He looks skyward, like he’s plucking a thought from the ether. “Forget the ‘What do you do for work?’ thing. Let’s skip the boring cocktail-party banter. I want to learn something about the beautiful, nervous woman who just fell into my arms.”

  It might’ve been cheesy coming from someone else, but this guy says it with pure passion and conviction, and it works. It sounds sexy as hell. His charisma, confidence, and charm are totally intoxicating. My body feels electrified.

  “Tell me something…about you. Something important, that you don’t normally tell people.”

  I don’t like to share. My story’s not pretty, and I hate the pity party. So I usually just listen. It’s my little trick, to avoid telling people about me. But I feel a strong pull, a tight feeling of excitement in the center of my chest, to confide in him.

  “My Aunt Sylvie,” I start to say quietly, then gain strength. “My Aunt Sylvie. She’s the reason I’m here. Well, not here at this party, but here in New York.”

  “Aunt Sylvie?” He says her name back to me slowly, nodding his head, one eyebrow slightly raised. I just want to wrap myself back up in his arms again. I hug myself, trying to get back that feeling of his strength and safety, sturdiness and softness. “I love her already. Everyone should have an Aunt Sylvie.”

  He listens attentively as I tell him how she was my inspiration, an editor at Life magazine and Ladies’ Home Journal.

  He’s studying me again. I feel like he’s noting every curve, line, shadow, bump. Somehow, I keep talking, and the words come out of my mouth easily. I feel a freedom to open up—an unfamiliar new desire. I want him to know me.

  “I’d come and stay with her in New York for two weeks every summer. One time she took me to dinner at Tavern on the Green. I remember pulling up in the cab and seeing the white lights covering the trees in the garden. It looked like a majestic palace in the urban oasis of Central Park. Dining in the main room, I felt like a princess, like I mattered, like I was someone. And that’s where my romance with New York began. The seed was planted then, and by age nine, I was determined to get myself back here permanently.”

  “The lure of a big life. It’s what drives most New Yorkers,” he says in a knowing voice.

  “Aunt Sylvie never got to see me follow in her footsteps. But I know that somewhere up there, she’s smiling down on me.”

  I look to the floor, suddenly afraid to make eye contact.

  He places a finger under my chin, moving my head up so that our eyes meet. The intensity of his presence and of the moment overwhelms me.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s just that…” No, I can’t go there. I change my mind and decide to switch subjects. “What about you? Who was your biggest influence?”

  I sense a darkness come over him, hidden behind his smile. Pain. I recognize it, an all-too-familiar emotion; I know what it’s like to stifle it.

  “It’s complicated.”

  Deftly, he switches the subject. “Don’t be put off by the question I’m about to ask.”

  My heart starts beating like crazy and my mind reels.

  He leans in close. I feel a physical pull toward him. I’ve never believed in my mom’s hippie mumbo jumbo before, but now I think I get it. I’m feeling a sacred spirit, a kindred spirit, like his soul has connected with mine. Either I’ve gone totally bonkers, or something very powerful is happening.

  “Can I take your picture?” He motions to the camera sitting on the table behind him. “It’s for a research project for work, something on New York nightlife.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Remember. No cocktail-party banter,” he says, a delicious smile spreading across his lips.

  “Why not? I can be Exhibit A: The dangers of too much bubbly.”

  Fixing me with an intense, serious gaze, he grabs the camera, holds it up—not even to his eye, just in front of him—and snaps a shot before I have a chance to get self-conscious.

  A guy standing by the door begins to wave. “Damien, we’re going! We gotta get to Ciro’s opening. We are so late!” he shouts.

  “Hold on…I just need to…” His body tenses, and the intimate bubble we’d shared pops. Will he ask for my number? I could scribble mine on the greasy cocktail napkin that held my burger. The chaos of the party descends again, and my fear and loneliness reappear.

  “Now. Damien, I mean it. We are crazy late!” The guy by the door shoots the look of death in our direction.

  Damien turns to me and looks into my eyes. The electricity comes rushing back. He grabs my hand and puts it in his. He blinks, keeping his eyes closed a beat longer than normal. Does he feel the same charge running up his arm?

  “I’m glad I was there to catch you.”

  His friend has muscled his way through the crowd and grabs Damien’s arm, pulling him out the door.

  “Me too,” I shout back with a whiff of desperation, as he disappears, sliding away like sand through my fingers.

  By the time I think to ask his full name, it’s too late.

  2

  Starr in Stripes

  Plunking down in a nearby seat, I take a second to process what
just happened. My hand reflexively rubs my chest above my heart, feeling a nearly physical impression he made on me.

  Then I sense something else creep in from the sides. My body starts to shake, adrenaline coursing through my veins, as Bernie’s words pierce through my heavy, spinning head, “Do not come back empty-handed.”

  I squeeze my way through the crowd, pushing toward the stylist I spotted earlier.

  “Tessa, hi!” I say as we air-kiss. I fumble a bit, not sure which side to go in for first. Thank God we don’t mash noses.

  “That Melodie shoot was crazy. I was completely freaking out. She didn’t like anything I pulled. Thank God for that Cavalli dress—a total Hail Mary.”

  “She looked unbelievable,” I reply, reaching for something else to say. I want to engage her, have a buddy here. But my mind just keeps going back and replaying my meeting with Damien.

  Fortunately, Tessa comes to my rescue. “How long have you been working for Bernie?”

  “About four months,” I tell her, explaining how I’m still learning everything: how to be an assistant to the city’s most demanding editor in chief, how to survive in New York on no money, how to be a reporter, and, most important tonight, how in hell to talk to a big-shot celebrity and not lose my cool.

  “What connection did you have to work to get that gig?” asks Tessa.

  I laugh out loud, because I don’t know anyone—unless you count my central Pennsylvania coal-mining grandparents as scions of industry. I tell her that after graduating college, I made a list of the magazines I wanted to work at and started calling their editorial offices, asking if they had any assistant openings. Most receptionists gave me a solid ‘No, there aren’t any openings here ever’ or just hung up on me. But a receptionist at Oldenhouse, the mega-publisher that owns Celeb, transferred me to Bernie’s old assistant, who was looking for her own replacement. She had just gotten married to a wealthy hedge-fund manager and was “retiring” at twenty-five.