Four
I DON’T HAVE to tell you who Jack Stapleton is, of course.
You probably gasped, too.
My attempt to quit got totally lost in the chaos.
I’m not sure anybody even heard me—except for Glenn, who brushed that declaration off with a glance, like I was an annoying insect. “You’re never quitting. Like I already said.”
I’d been waiting to get out of Texas like a drowning person waiting for a rope. The disappointment of being still stuck here made me feel short of breath.
But I’ll tell you something. Hearing the name Jack Stapleton didn’t not get my attention.
Was protecting a two-time, back-to-back Sexiest Man Alive here in Texas better than protecting some gray-toothed, watery-eyed, pear-shaped oil executive somewhere else?
Fine. Maybe.
Glenn certainly thought so.
“This one’s a doozy folks,” Glenn said, getting his groove back. “It’s a good thing Brooks had time to rest up, because this one’s gonna keep her busy.”
I hadn’t said yes yet, of course.
But, then again, I never said no.
Glenn clicked the remote for the digital whiteboard and flashed a red-carpet photo of Jack Stapleton, in all his six-foot-three dreaminess, up on the conference room screen. “I take it from the collective gasp that we all know who this man is.”
He started clicking through photos. We did this for every new client, but let’s just say that it wasn’t normally quite this … engaging. The first few were professional shots: Jack Stapleton in a T-shirt so snug, it looked airbrushed. Jack Stapleton in ripped jeans. Jack Stapleton in a tux with the bow tie undone, staring into the camera like we were all about to follow him to his hotel room.
“This really is the client?” Doghouse asked, double-checking.
Obviously, yes. But we all waited to hear it again anyway. Because it was just so unbelievable.
“Affirmative,” Glenn said. Then he looked over at Kelly. “Don’t you have a thing for him?”
“What am I?” Kelly said. “A teenager?”
“I feel like I’ve heard his name come up.”
“Functioning adults do not have ‘things’ for actors,” Kelly declared to the room.
That’s when Doghouse, right next to her, put a boot up on the conference table and gave Kelly a sly smile. “Pretty sure she’s got socks with Stapleton’s face on them.”
“Those were a gift,” Kelly said.
“But you wear them,” Doghouse pointed out.
“It’s weird that you know that.”
But that just made Doghouse grin bigger. “Isn’t his picture the home screen on your phone?”
“That’s classified. And it’s weirder that you know that.”
“The point is,” Glenn said, pointing at Kelly as a cautionary tale. “Be professional. Anything you own with the client’s face on it—”
Doghouse started counting off examples: “T-shirts, tattoos, string bikinis…”
“Get rid of it now,” Glenn finished.
Kelly flared her nostrils at Doghouse, but he just gave her a wink.
But Glenn wasn’t here to play. This was a big-deal client and a high-profile gig. He clicked ahead to some paparazzi shots, and we saw Jack Stapleton in a plaid shirt shopping at a farmers market. Jack Stapleton in a baseball cap crossing a parking lot. Jack Stapleton wearing—holy Mary, sweet mother of God—clingy board shorts at the beach, rising up out of the waves, and glistening like a Roman deity.
Taylor spoke for all the women in the room when she let out a long, low whistle.
I felt Robby glance over at the sound, but I didn’t look. Kept my eyes on the prize, as it were.
“Ladies,” Glenn said. “Let’s not objectify the principal.”
The men around the table murmured in agreement.
And just on the heels of that, Glenn clicked to a slide that got the other half of the room whistling. “And this,” Glenn said, “is his girlfriend.”
It was Kennedy Monroe, of course—running Baywatch-style along a perfect beach, not even one dimple of visible cellulite, as if she had the ability to live-photoshop herself in real time. Everybody knew they were dating, and gazing up in awe at the whiteboard, it was no mystery why.
She had a kind of weaponized beauty that made all its own rules.
A couple—ever since costarring in The Destroyers. They’d just been on the cover of People together.
That said, I’d always found it an odd pairing. She was, after all, most famous for the scandal where she falsely claimed to be Marilyn Monroe’s granddaughter and got sued by Monroe’s estate. And then Jack Stapleton had been quoted in an Esquire interview saying, “She’s like a conspiracy theorist—about herself.”
Wow. How did I know this much about them without even trying?
Kelly seemed to be having the same visceral reaction to her that I was. “Will she be here?” she asked, nostrils flaring.
“Nah,” Glenn said. “Just threw that one in for fun.” He clicked up another slide—this one of a guy who looked so much like Jack Stapleton that it made you want to rub your eyes.
“Is that the principal?” Amadi asked, like we were being tricked.
“It’s his older brother, Hank,” Glenn explained. Then he brought up a picture of Jack, and we studied the two side by side like a find-the-differences picture game.
That’s where Glenn paused the slideshow. “I can’t imagine there’s a person in this room who hasn’t seen The Destroyers,” he said. “And you probably all know the basics of how, right after opening weekend, Jack Stapleton’s younger brother Drew was killed in an accident. That was two years ago. Jack stepped out of the public eye, moved to the remote mountains of North Dakota, and hasn’t made a movie since.”
Yes, we all knew that. Everybody in America knew that. Babies knew it. Dogs knew it. Maybe even earthworms.
“The accident got covered up. I mean,” Glenn shook his head with admiration, “they did a fantastic job. There are no details anywhere, and I’ve had Kelly on this all day.”
We nodded at Kelly. She was the best dirt-digger we had.
“If I’d known why you had me on this,” Kelly said, “I’d have worked harder.”
Glenn stayed focused. “All you can find anywhere,” he went on, “are the basics: car accident. Jack and his younger brother were together. Only Jack survived.”
Glenn flashed a photo of Jack and his brother Drew at some premiere, in suits, smiling for the cameras with their arms around each other. We gave it a moment of silence.
Then Glenn went on. “But there are rumors. Rumors that Jack was driving—and there might have been alcohol involved. Kelly’s working to see if she can confirm.”
Kelly wrinkled her nose and shook her head like it wasn’t going well.
So Glenn went on. “What we do know is that, in the wake of that accident, the family has been estranged. In particular, there seems to be bad blood between Jack and the older brother. There’s no reporting we can find that explains the rift.”
Glenn flashed a photo of the family from before the accident—two sweet looking parents and three grown boys—a paparazzi photo taken in the stands of a stadium.
“Also, despite Stapleton’s stated intention of retiring from acting, he is still under contract to make the sequel to The Destroyers. He’s been fighting in court to break it, and it’s unclear at this point who’ll prevail, but he hasn’t left North Dakota for any voluntary reason since. Until now. He arrives in Houston today.” Glenn checked his watch. “Landed twenty-three minutes ago.”
“He finally comes out of hiding, and he picks Houston?” Robby said.
“Hey,” Kelly said, like she was offended. “We’re not so bad.”
Robby shook his head. “Nobody comes here on purpose.”
Glenn seized the meeting back. “Jack Stapleton’s not coming here on purpose, either.”
“He’s from here,” Doghouse volunteered, proud to know some trivia.
“Correct,” Glenn said. “He’s from here. And his parents live on a ranch out past Katy on the Brazos River. And his mother was just diagnosed with breast cancer, and so he’s coming home to stay for a while.”
“That’s why it’s happening so fast,” Doghouse said.
It was fast. We’d normally take weeks, at least, to get prepped for something like this.
“Yes,” Glenn said. “She got her diagnosis on Monday, and her surgery is scheduled for Friday morning.”
“Aggressive protocol,” Amadi said. His father was an oncologist.
Glenn nodded. “From what I understand, it wouldn’t be your first choice of cancer. But it’s not unbeatable.”
We all noted the double negative.
“What’s the duration of the assignment?” I asked then.
“Unclear. But it’s my understanding that Stapleton intends to stay for the run of her treatment.”
“Weeks?” I asked.
“At least. We’ll know more when the family does.”
It was so strange to think of Jack Stapleton as having a family—or as having any kind of life outside of his primary role of giving us all something to ogle about humanity.
And yet, there it was. Jack Stapleton was a real person. With a mom. Who was sick. And a hometown. And now he was coming to Houston.
Glenn changed the slide show to a series of photos of a modern, three-story house. “He’s rented a place in town near the medical center. We couldn’t get access until today, but here are some photos from the rental listing.”
What normal people would have seen in those photos was a brand-new, high-end, luxurious modern house, with high ceilings and huge windows and lush landscaping. It had a pale-blue front door with a potted fiddle-leaf fig plant next to it. It looked like something out of Architectural Digest.
But we all looked at those images through a different lens.
The fiddle-leaf fig made for a pretty picture, but it wasn’t relevant to anyone in this room. Unless we could hide a security camera in it. The high wall around the yard meant it would be hard for a stalker to scale it. The circular driveway out front was a little too close to the structure. That giant oleander bush would need to be trimmed. The rooftop patio would be easy for a sniper to access. In night shots, the lighting out front was much more about mood than visibility.
Glenn walked us through the security features. “Security cameras galore—even one interior, motion-activated, in the front hall. Top-of-the-line alarm system and high-tech locks with remote access. Though the client’s representative says he forgets to use it.”
Red flag. Uncooperative client.
I raised my hand. “Did he hire us? Or was it, like, his manager or something?”
Glenn paused. And with that pause, we all knew the answer. “A little bit of both,” he said. “His manager technically hired us. But it’s at the strenuous urging of his team. And the studio that’s about to make the Destroyers sequel.”
It was not uncommon for our clients to have “teams.”
“Why is the team ‘strenuously urging’ him to hire security?” I asked.
“He’s had some stalkers in the past,” Glenn said, “and one of them lives here in town.”
The table gave a collective nod.
“So the first strategy, of course, is to conceal the fact that he’s here at all for as long as possible. But that’s a wild card. He is widely recognizable—”
Kelly let out a “Ha!”
“But,” Glenn went on, “he’s been off the grid for a while, so he might not be in the forefront of people’s minds. And he does seem to avoid the spotlight pretty well these days.”
That was good. The less spotlight, the better.
“He has indicated that he’ll accompany his mother to her surgery and appointments. Other than that, he plans to lie pretty low.”
I was trying to remain uncommitted, but my brain was already starting to churn and work out the strategy. We’d need to get the hospital architectural plans. Do a site visit in advance. Find the best ingress and egress options. Secure a private waiting area.
“What’s the situation on the former stalker?” Doghouse asked.
Glenn nodded and pulled up a photo. A mugshot of a middle-aged woman with no-nonsense hair, pale-pink lipstick outside the lines, and, most notably, wearing earring bobs with Jack’s face on them.
“Don’t you have those earrings?” Doghouse said to Kelly.
She flung her ballpoint pen at him, next to her. When it clattered down to the table, she took it back.
We all relaxed. A female stalker was a good thing. Women didn’t tend to kill people.
“A lot of activity in the two years before The Destroyers came out,” Glenn said, “but less since the brother died and Stapleton went off the grid.” Glenn put up a list on the screen and gestured at it. “In five years, she’s sent hundreds of letters, some of them threatening. Lots of online harassment, too—most of it trying to frighten him into dating her.”
“Oldest trick in the book,” I said.
I heard Robby laugh at that.
Glenn went on. “She took trips to LA and found his house. He woke up one morning and discovered her asleep in his bathtub, clutching a doll with a photo of his face taped onto it.”
“So, standard lady stalker stuff,” Taylor said.
“Correct,” Glenn nodded. “She’s done everything from knitting him sweaters to threatening suicide if he didn’t impregnate her.”
“Isn’t she kind of … past childbearing age?”
“Not according to her.”
“Any death threats?” Amadi asked.
“Not that we know of. Not from her, anyway. There was a recent series of unhinged insults on a fan site from a username”—Glenn checked his notes—“WilburHatesYou321. We’re keeping an eye on it.”
“Guess we know how Wilbur feels,” Kelly said.
“Why does the name Wilbur just not seem threatening?” Taylor asked.
“Because,” I answered, “Wilbur’s the pig in Charlotte’s Web.”
“Aww,” Kelly said.
“Ladies,” Glenn said. “Focus, please.”
“If you wanted us to focus,” Kelly said, “you shouldn’t have kicked things off with that beefcake slide show.”
“They’re drunk on hormones,” Doghouse said.
Kelly elbowed him. “You wish.”
The briefing was far more … brief … than usual because we’d only just gotten the case. Catching up and doing all our normal due diligence would be a scramble. Glenn broke us into teams to get to work.
Glenn assigned Robby to analyze Jack’s media coverage, including his Instagram, to find out how much of his personal information was out there. He assigned Doghouse to do a physical assessment on the rental house in town—including architectural plans and features, crime info on the neighborhood, and a deep dive into the security system. He told Amadi to gather everything he could on the parents’ ranch. He assigned Kelly to compile a dossier on the recently hired housekeeper, and Taylor to create a comprehensive portfolio on all past stalker activity.
And me?
Glenn tried to send me to the beauty parlor.
“What the hell?” I said, right there in the meeting.
“You’re the primary on this one, Brooks. You need to look the part.”
“First of all,” I said, “I haven’t agreed to be the primary.”
Glenn flared his nostrils. “You will.”
I looked down at my suit. I looked fine. Didn’t I?
Glenn went on. “If you needed a burka, we’d get you a burka, and if you needed a sari, we’d get you a sari—so since you are headed to the fancy rent-a-mansion of a Hollywood A-lister, we’re getting you a makeover.”
“I don’t need a makeover,” I said—but then I regretted it right away.
The whole room burst out laughing.
“You’re going to shadow Jack Stapleton like that?” Robby said.
I touched my plain brown hair, which was already falling out of its low bun, and then glanced down at my outlet-mall Ann Taylor pantsuit. “Maybe,” I said.
On assignment, I wore whatever blending in required. I’d worn everything from little black dresses, to leather jackets, to tennis outfits. I’d dressed like a teenager, like a punk rocker, and like a frumpy schoolmarm. I was happy to be incognito. I’d do anything to play the part right.
But no matter what I wore on assignment, I always returned to my set point of the Ann Taylor pantsuit—with flats, not heels, because you always have to be able to run.
Footwear really is crucial.
I was still reacting to the makeover idea when Robby said to Glenn, “You should give this gig to Kelly.”
Kelly shrieked with delight at the idea—even though Robby had zero authority to make that call.
Glenn was not a fan of being challenged. He turned to Robby. “What was that?”
Robby flicked a glance in my direction, so we all knew exactly who he was talking about. “She’s not right for it.”
“That’s not up to you.”
Robby gave a half-shrug and said, “Just saying.” And before I had time to even consider if he maybe had a good point, he kept going. “Just look at her,” he said. “She can’t pass in that world.”
Jesus, Robby.
Was this how he was going to compete for the London thing? By sabotaging me?
But I shifted my attention from Robby’s petulant face—which suddenly seemed so much more punchable than I’d ever noticed before—and panned to the right until I landed on Glenn.
“You’re saying I’m the primary on this whether I like it or not?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Why?”
“Because if you want to have a chance at the London job, you need to do it, and do it right. If you don’t knock this assignment out of the park … then Robby’s going to London, and you’re staying right here in Texas on office duty forever.”
He held my gaze in a little mini standoff.
Then he added, “You should be thanking me.”
“I’ll pass on that.”
“You’re doing this,” Glenn said. “And you don’t get to complain, or dial it in, or feel victimized, or pout because life is unfair. Life is unfair. That’s not news. I know exactly what Robby did to you, and I know this isn’t exactly the escape you were looking for—”
“It’s not an escape at all,” I interrupted.
“—but this is the best opportunity you’ve got. So you’re making the most of it. And that starts with a new goddamned wardrobe so you’re not standing next to the Sexiest Man Alive looking like a sad temp who needs a shower.”
Did he think I’d be cowed by insults? I ate insults for breakfast. I squared my shoulders. “Why are you making me prove myself when you already know what I’m capable of?”
“I know what the old you was capable of. This you? I’m still not sure.”
Fine. I thought. I wasn’t entirely sure, either.
Was it everything I wanted? No.
But was it something?
And was I desperate enough to do anything?
“Fine,” I said.
“‘Fine’ what?”
“Fine, I’ll make the most of it.”
Glenn looked at me over his reading glasses. “Damn right, you will.”
“But,” I added, lifting both my eyebrows and pausing so he’d know exactly where I drew the line. “There’s no way I’m doing a frigging makeover.”
I WANT TO tell you that I was a very cool person who was not flustered by fame. Taylor had once run into Tom Holland at a bar in LA, and she’d lit a cigarette for his friend with a Zippo lighter like a badass. No big deal.
I would not have been so chill.
Reviewing Jack Stapleton’s file, I had to admit, to myself if no one else, I was the opposite of chill.
On paper, he was no different than any other client. He had a bank, and credit cards, just like everybody else. He had two cars back in North Dakota—a vintage Wagoneer and a pickup truck—but he’d leased a Range Rover for his time in Houston. He’d had asthma as a child, and he had a current prescription for sleeping pills. Under “Known Enemies” he had several pages of crazed fans who’d appeared and disappeared over the years, but that was about it. Under “Known Associates/Lovers,” it listed Kennedy Monroe—and somebody, probably Doghouse, had written in “hubba hubba” by her name.
No surprise there.
A normal file. A normal file, dammit.
Fine. Okay. I was not unaware of Jack Stapleton’s charm.
I mean, I wasn’t a fangirl like Kelly. I didn’t have the man’s face on my socks.
But I’d seen most of his movies—except for Fear of the Dark, which was a slasher film and not my thing. I’d also skipped Train to Providence because I heard he sacrificed himself to the zombies in the end, and why would I want to see that?
But I’d seen all the others, including The Unhoneymooners so many times I’d accidentally memorized the scene where he confesses, “It’s so exhausting pretending to hate you.” His dramatic work in A Spark of Light was tragically underrated. And even though You Wish was widely panned for including every single rom-com trope in history—including, of all things, a mad dash to the airport—they still did those tropes really well, and so it was one of my perennial go-tos when I was feeling down.
Also, the way he kissed Katie Palmer in Can’t Win for Losing? Oscar worthy. Why wasn’t there an Oscar category for Best Kiss? He should go down in history for that one kiss alone. The first time I saw it, it just about killed me.
Like, I almost died from delight.
So it was not not a big deal that I’d just been assigned to protect him.
Note the double negative.
He was not not on my radar. I was not not affected by the thought of him.
I’d never have admitted it—least of all to myself—but I did have what you could describe as a perfectly normal, nonpathetic, comfortingly mild, not-at-all creepy little crush on him.
You know, in the way you might have a crush on the captain of the football team in high school. You’re not going to date the captain of the football team. You know your place—and your place is: A scribe for student government. A student liaison for community service. Vice president of the spreadsheet club.
It’s just a little sunny place for your fantasies to wander. Sometimes. Occasionally. In between your many other more important things to do.
No harm in that, right?
Wasn’t that ultimately what movie stars were for? To be fantasies for the rest of us? To add imaginary sprinkles to the metaphorical cupcake of life?
But now the reality was going to collide with the fantasy.
It was the reason I wanted to say no.
I liked the fantasy. I didn’t want Jack Stapleton to become real.
Plus, how could you protect a person who made you nervous? How could you stay focused with an actual god-living-among-humans just feet away from you? Glenn had a professional rep to protect, but so did I. I was supposed to impress the hell out of Glenn if I wanted the London job, but what was I going to do if Jack Stapleton showed up one day in that same navy and cornflower-blue baseball Tee he’d worn in The Optimist?
Good God. I might as well just quit now.
I’d seen Jack Stapleton kiss fictional people, bury a fictional father, beg for fictional forgiveness, and sob fictional tears. I’d seen him take a shower, brush his teeth, curl up under the covers at bedtime. I’d seen him rappel down a cliff face. I’d seen him hug his lost-then-found child. I’d seen him scared, and nervous, and angry, and even naked in bed with the love of his life.
None of it was real—of course. I knew that. I mean, I wasn’t crazy.
It wasn’t real, but it seemed real. It felt real.
I already cared about him, is what I’m saying. That distance you always maintain with your clients? He had already breached it—even though I’d never even met him.
Plus, there was just something about Jack Stapleton that I liked. The shape of his eyes—kind of sweet and smiley. The deadpan way he delivered his lines. The way he gazed at the women he loved.
Oh, it was going to be a long assignment.
But—and here came the pep talk—not impossible.
The guy on screen wouldn’t be the same person in real life. Couldn’t be. The guy on screen said funny things because funny writers wrote his lines. The guy on the screen looked picture perfect because the production department styled his hair and put his makeup on and chose his clothes. And the washboard stomach? You don’t get those for free. He probably spent hours and hours maintaining that thing. Hours that would’ve been far better spent, say, fighting poverty, or rescuing homeless pets, or, I don’t know, reading a book.
Maybe, if there was mercy in the universe, he’d be nothing like I always imagined.
Maybe he’d be as unlikable as most of my clients were.
Unlikable might help.
But I’d also take dumb. Rude. Slug-like. Pompous. Narcissistic. Anything that could demote him to an ordinary, real, mildly irritating person like everybody else … and let me get my work done.
I mean, sure. I’d have preferred to keep the fantasy.
But reality had its uses, too.