Public Secrets

Revolted, she swung back to her father. “He’s your friend.”

“Yes, he’s my friend.” He didn’t bother to tell her of the times he’d begged Stevie to get help, of the times he’d covered up the problem by disposing of needles and mopping up blood. “You don’t understand, Emma.”
“No, I don’t.” After one last look, she turned away. “I’m going home.”
“Emma—” Torn, he turned back to stare helplessly at Stevie.
“Go on along,” P.M. told him and half lifted Stevie to his feet. “I’ll get him to bed.”
“Right.” Brian caught up with Emma outside. The snow had stopped, and the moon had come out to shine blue light. Automatically he clamped his coat together to shut out the keen wind. “Emma.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. It was enough to stop her, but she didn’t turn. “I don’t blame you for being upset. I know it’s a shock to see something like that, to know that someone you care about is into that sort of thing.”
“Yes.” She took a deep breath before she turned to face him. Her eyes were very clear. “Yes, it is.”
“I don’t use needles, Emma. I never have.”
There was a quick wave of relief, but she shook it away. “And everything else is all right?”
He dragged a frustrated hand through his hair. “I’m not saying it’s right or wrong. I’m just saying it’s reality.”
“Not my kind of reality.”
“I know, and I’m glad of it.” He cupped her face in his hand. “Emma, if I could, I’d shield you from everything that hurts or upsets you.”
“I don’t want to be shielded. I don’t need to be.” They both turned as P.M. and Johnno carried Stevie out to a waiting car. “Is that the kind of life you want? Is that what you’ve worked for, what you’ve dreamed of?”
She made him ashamed by asking. Made him furious because he wasn’t sure of the answer. “I can’t explain it, Emma. But I know you don’t get everything you want, and you sure as hell don’t get everything you dream of.”
She turned away again, but didn’t leave. Gently he pressed a kiss to her hair. They didn’t speak as they walked to the car. Like a shadow, Sweeney fell in behind them.

L IVING NEAR HOLLYWOOD all his life hadn’t spoiled the fantasy and glamour for Michael. He appreciated star-watching as much as the next guy. Nor did he mind spending a few days in February working crowd control and security for the filming of Devastated , It had been a disappointment that Angie Parks hadn’t been involved in the early location shots. Still he enjoyed watching the twin girls who were playing Emma.
Casting had done a remarkable job of finding a pair of kids who resembled Emma. Of course, Emma had been prettier, he thought. Was prettier. Her eyes were bluer, bigger. And her mouth … It didn’t do him a hell of a lot of good to think about her mouth.
It was a better idea to concentrate on his job—which was not, as some of the vets had sneeringly called it, pansy duty. Fans turned out day after day. The hard-core Devastation fans weren’t pleased with Jane Palmer’s book, or the fact that it was to be a movie. Some carried banners or placards, others just booed. There were a few, wearing leather and sporting mohawks and dog collars, who looked as though they would have enjoyed knocking heads with the cops.
Added to them were clutches of young girls who shrieked and giggled every time Matt Holden came in view. The young actor who played Brian McAvoy was the current teen dream. Michael had had his ankle kicked, his shoulder bruised, and his uniform wept on by adoring fans.
Glamour, my ass, he thought as he stood on the studio lot. The sun was high and hazy. The air-quality index was in the disgusting range, even for L.A., Michael thought. The producers had decided it would make good press to invite some of the fans to observe a few days’ shooting, play extras, fill in the background. Security had enough trouble keeping the mobs back behind a police line. Now, with people free to mill around what stood in for a London cross street, every muscle had to stay on alert.
Then there she was. Angie Parks. The lusty, busty movie queen who redefined the term hot sex. The press had already fallen gleefully on the irony of P.M. Ferguson’s ex-wife playing the role of Brian McAvoy’s ex-lover.
Men broke into sweats as she walked by in her snug skin and cotton blouse. Her hair was brushed smooth, puffed at the crown, tipped up at the ends in the fashion of the early