Dave sighed. “Help me help you, you know? At least she signed an NDA. And none of my sources are reporting any stories.”
Clay trusted Zia. But he’d also trusted Michelle, and look where that had gotten him. “And my wallet?”
“She has it. Phoned it in via the wedding planner. Do you really need it back? All the cards and stuff are canceled.”
“It was a gift from my mom.”
“Jesus, Clay. Okay, we’ll get the waitress to courier it to the shoot this afternoon.”
“Zia. Her name is Zia.” It really was a beautiful name. And she really was a beautiful person. Clay paused, the sounds of the busy supermarket fading around him. “Unless…”
They met up in person. Checked out a museum, grabbed a drink. Or, maybe dinner. There was a great Italian spot in his neighborhood. The thought of seeing that smile again—big and radiant and genuine—filled his lungs with fresh air. The women he usually dated were industry people. Astute, ambitious women who knew just what a picture of him on their arm did for their careers. In his world, people traded each other like stocks, and his valuation was high. But he wouldn’t be surprised if Zia hadn’t even heard of him.
“Unless… You know…”
“Clay. Brother. I’m going to cut to the chase because, one, you’re my best friend, and two, I really have to get back to my brand-new wife.” Dave’s voice became direct and unflinching: the Listen to me, you idiot tone. “If you don’t want to appear in the tabloids, don’t give them anything to talk about. A date with a waitress you met at a wedding is a story.”
It was irritating that this was true. “People should be worried about clean water and climate change, not who I’m dating. I need the freedom to take a woman on a date.”
“Sorry, but you don’t have that anymore. You gave it up when you booked Adam Atlantis. I did warn you about this.”
Clay bristled. “Having a public career doesn’t mean my life belongs to the public. I deserve privacy, just like everyone else.”
“Look man, I can’t get into the whole should-celebrities-expect-privacy thing with you now. Suffice to say, if the gatekeepers think your name will sell Michelle’s book, it makes it a lot harder for us to kill it. And that book’ll really get people talking, for the reason we’ve discussed. If you want to fly under the radar, like you keep telling me you do, be thankful the waitress didn’t sell the story, and leave it at that.”
“But—”
“Let’s stay focused on your career. We’re in a good place, but transitioning you from action to drama is delicate. The next move is crucial: we need a script with Oscar potential. Something weighty and topical. Maybe even edgy. Flings with waitresses, flings with anyone, is not the game plan. We need full control over how you’re being perceived.”
Irritation surged into anger. Clay was raised for loyalty, one of six in a close-knit family, which meant his current search for autonomy as an actor was akin to a rebellion. And now his manager was telling him who he could and couldn’t date. “It’s not like I’m Oprah Winfrey! I’m not that well-known.”
“Well, I just got a Google alert that you’re buying a colon cleanse at Whole Foods.”
Clay stared at the supplements in his basket in horror. He swung around. Curious gazes bounced away, like small animals scattering. His skin bloomed hot. It wasn’t just embarrassing. It was an invasion. “I’ll call you later.”
“I’m actually on my honeymoon, so—”
“I hate the internet.”
Clay abandoned his basket and pulled a baseball cap low. As he exited the store, three shoppers unashamedly filmed him. Like he wasn’t even a person. Like he was a thing.
Someone like Zia wouldn’t want any part of his messed-up life. A life where everything from his groceries to his kinks were reported as breaking news. He felt hunted, and it was exhausting. Clay loved his work, but he also wanted to spend an afternoon wandering around the Met with a cute girl, flirting in front of the artwork without worrying that it’d end up in People. But today just proved that he didn’t have nor could he expect any privacy. And privacy was what you needed to let a relationship grow.
Around him, New York City pulsed relentlessly. The streets swallowed him up until, thankfully, he was just another face in the crowd.
19
Greenpoint had traditionally been a Polish neighborhood, but in recent years, the busy end had been claimed by hipsters, and the industrial end by film and television productions. Nondescript warehouses were filled with secret, fleeting worlds—a bloody crime scene, a sunny high school cafeteria, a 1950s street corner. And it was one such warehouse that Zia approached a few hours later.
She’d been sent an address to courier Clay’s wallet, and instructions on how to recoup the charge. But when she called to book it, they’d quoted her a hundred dollars for a same-day delivery. One hundred dollars, and it was only a short bike ride away!
She wasn’t going to see Clay. A very cool project had just come up through Global Care. A six-month volunteer coordinator position at a women’s resource center in Quelimane, Mozambique. The pay was modest but livable. Per the job description, the center helped empower local women to do everything from start their own business to leave abusive relationships. Which resonated. If she got the job—and could work up the courage to tell Layla she was leaving New York again—she’d be off on another mission. With a few clicks, she’d emailed her résumé and expression of interest to the team leader. Done. And right now, she’d drop off the wallet, then ride home along the waterfront.
Easy.
In a scrappy front-office-type area, people milled about, some on their phones, some lounging. It appeared casual, but there was a buzz in the air. Something that mattered to these people was happening. The charge got under her skin, and Zia stood a little taller. She got out the warm, worn leather wallet, and looked around for an assistant.
And that’s when she locked eyes with Clay.
Well, not actually Clay, but his headshot, taped to a wall with C Russo Team and an arrow scrawled underneath it.
His eyes. That mouth. She wondered what he saw when he looked in the mirror.
A young woman in a headset burst into the space, looking around with open desperation. To Zia’s alarm, she beelined right for her. “Are you hair and makeup?”
“No, I’m Zia Ruiz. I’m just dropping off—”
“We’re running so late.” The young woman scanned the foyer. “The only person getting in to see Clay is hair and makeup.”
And then Zia did something that caught her, and the assistant, entirely by surprise. “Oh, hair and makeup? For the Clay Russo shoot?” Zia attempted to look professional. “That’s me.”
In a daze, Zia followed the harried assistant down a series of twisting hallways. Why had she done that? Zia was not a liar. A risk-taker, yes. Impulsive, for sure. But a liar, no. Something just… came over her. What if it freaked Clay out? Would he call security? She didn’t even have a makeup kit; she barely wore makeup herself. Maybe Clay would be with another girl. This was a mistake. A monumental mistake. They’d asked her to courier the wallet, not stalk the owner.