FORTY-ONE: BLOW ME (ONE LAST KISS)
FORTY-TWO: THE HAND THAT FEEDS
FORTY-THREE: ANOTHER WAY TO DIE
FIFTY-FOUR: RUNNIN’ DOWN A DREAM
Despite the crush of tourists storming the sidewalks year after year, Hollywood Boulevard is a place best viewed behind a pair of polarized lenses and lowered expectations.
From the string of sagging buildings in various stages of decay, the tacky souvenir shops hawking plastic statues of Marilyn in her windblown white dress, and the seemingly endless parade of addicts, runaways, and glamour-deprived transients, it doesn’t take long before the sunburned, white-sneaker-wearing masses realize the LA they’re searching for does not exist there.
In a city that feeds off youth and beauty, Hollywood Boulevard more closely resembles a former screen siren who’s seen better days. The incessant sunshine is a harsh and brutal companion, intent on magnifying every wrinkle, every age spot.
Yet for those who know where to look (and those fortunate enough to boast a spot on the guest list), it also serves as an oasis of the city’s hottest nightclubs—a sort of hedonistic haven for the young, fabulous, and rich.
For Madison Brooks, the boulevard was everything she’d dreamed it would be. Maybe it didn’t look anything like the snow globe she’d had as a kid, the one that showered small squares of golden glitter over a miniature version of the Hollywood sign, but she never expected it would. Unlike those clueless tourists expecting to see their favorite celebrities hanging by their Walk of Fame stars, handing out autographs and hugs to all who passed by, Madison knew exactly what she’d find.
She did her due diligence.
Left nothing to chance.
After all, when planning an invasion, it’s best to familiarize yourself with the lay of the land.
And now, only a few short years after exiting that grimy bus station in downtown LA, her face was on the cover of nearly every magazine, every billboard. The town was officially hers.
While the journey was far more arduous than she’d ever let on, Madison managed to surpass everyone’s expectations but her own. Most merely hoped she’d survive. Not a single person from her former life expected her to rocket straight to the top. Ultimately becoming so known, so lauded, so connected, she’d command full, no-questions-asked access to one of LA’s hottest nightclubs long after it had closed for the night.
In a rare moment of privacy, Madison strode toward the edge of the vacant Night for Night terrace. The heels of her Gucci stilettos sliding gracefully against the smooth stone floor, she pressed a hand to her heart and bowed toward the skyline, imagining those flickering lights as an audience of millions—cell phones and lighters raised in her honor.
The moment reminded her of a similar game she’d played as a kid. Back when she staged elaborate performances for a crowd of grubby stuffed animals with matted hair and missing limbs. Their dull, unblinking button eyes fixed on the sight of Madison dancing and singing before them. Those tireless rehearsals prepping her for the day those secondhand toys would be replaced by real, live screaming fans. She never once doubted her dream would become a reality.
Madison hadn’t become Hollywood’s hottest young celebrity by hoping, wishing, or depending on others. Discipline, control, and steely determination steered her ascent. Although the media loved to portray her as a frivolous party girl (albeit one with serious acting chops), beneath the salacious headlines was a young and powerful girl who’d seized control of her destiny and made it her bitch.
Not that she’d ever admit to such a thing. Better to let them think she was a princess whose life flowed effortlessly. The lie provided a shield that kept them from learning the truth. Those who dared scratch beneath the surface never got very far. The road to Madison’s past was jammed with so many roadblocks even the most determined journalist eventually yielded defeat by writing about her unparalleled beauty—her hair the color of warming chestnuts on a crisp fall day (according to the guy who’d recently interviewed her for Vanity Fair). He also described her violet eyes as shadowed by a lushly dark nimbus of lashes used to alternately reveal and conceal. And wasn’t there a mention of her skin being pearlescent or incandescent or some other descriptor that translates to radiant?
Funny how he began the interview as just another jaded journalist sure he could break her. Convinced that their vast age difference—she being eighteen, he hovering way past forty (ancient in comparison)—along with his superior IQ (his assumption, not hers)—meant he could trick her into revealing something regrettable that would send her career into a tailspin, only to walk away from their meeting entirely frustrated, if not a little infatuated. Same as all the others who’d gone before—each of them grudgingly admitting there was something different about Madison Brooks. She wasn’t your average starlet.
She leaned deeper into the night, swept her fingers across her lips, and arced her arm wide, releasing a string of kisses to her imaginary fans flickering and gleaming below. So captured by the sheer unbridled giddiness of all she’d accomplished, she lifted her chin in triumph and released a shout so thunderous it blotted out the incessant soundtrack of traffic and sirens below.
It felt good to let go.
