Anyone But the Superstar (Anyone But You #3)

Chapter 13

13

FELIX

Too much happened this past week for someone who is supposed to be lying low. Too many ways that things could’ve gone horribly wrong or caused my career more problems.

However, as I rest my head on the back of an oversized armchair and wait for my mother to call while listening to the distant sound of Anne’s shower running, I can’t find it in me to regret a damn thing.

Even when I’m not under strict do-not-be-seen orders from Jack, I’m usually quick to covet my downtime. Probably because moments of solitude are rare when you’re at the top of your game in Hollywood.

The constant need to pretend to be other people – both in front of the camera and in public – is exhausting enough to want to be left alone.

But tonight, as I have over the past few nights, even after filming started, I was perfectly content to share my precious alone time with a funny, beautiful woman who all but ignored me while sketching just a few feet away from where I stood cooking .

And instead of eating in silence, I voluntarily asked about feline sunscreen and the surprisingly detailed grooming requirements for sphinxes.

The sphinx in question snores softly from his perch on the back of the couch opposite me. His collector’s item ladylove, which cost me a mint just a few days ago, left forgotten on the cushion below him.

Heartless bastard.

My phone, lying screen up on the coffee table, illuminates with a picture of my mother and me back when I was in high school, standing in the sand on the coast of California.

I pick it up, a surge of relief hitting me when the call opens to my mother’s smiling face.

‘ M?e .’ My heart swells at my mother’s smoothed updo, red lips and wrinkle-free blouse under the blush-colored cashmere cardigan I bought her last Mother’s Day. Sofia Maria Santos-Jones looks like her usual self as opposed to the gaunt, unkept version of herself I held in my arms as I checked her in to the state-of-the-art rehab facility in Rancho Mirage. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine, cora??o .’ She must be using the iPad I got her, the wide screen giving me a view of her plain, but high-end room. ‘Jack came by.’ Her happy smile makes me feel guilty for not being the one to visit. ‘He said you finally stopped those cardboard meals.’

I chuckle at her description of the costly nutritionist-designed, pre-planned meal delivery that has been my usual for the past few years. ‘Yes, I’ve been cooking.’

Her smile grows, making me feel prouder than when I was offered a multi-million-dollar brand ambassador contract on the heels of my first successful movie.

Earlier this year, when I had been out enjoying the life of a celebrity, dating socialites and having my picture taken, my mother had been suffering from an opioid addiction stemming from a recent shoulder surgery.

She’d torn her rotator cuff when she fell after tripping over a parking lot median. Jack and I mobilized a renowned surgeon, an at-home post-surgery aid, and a top-tier physical therapist that would make house calls.

All the best that my money could afford.

But none of that mattered when I failed to notice the tell-tale signs of addiction.

I came to visit after wrapping my biggest budget film to date to find my mother, a woman who prides herself on her well-kept appearance and house-cleaning skills, disheveled and staring vacantly in her recliner, her house cluttered and dirty.

Apparently, she’d been able to hide her addiction long enough to get through the aid’s help and physical therapy, but for some reason – for which I initially hired my pack of lawyers – the doctor’s office kept signing off on prescription painkillers well after the recovery period.

The working theory from my lawyers is that as she’s my mother, the doctor probably thought she was giving her pills to me, a not uncommon thing for celebrities to do in Hollywood.

In short, I’m the reason my mother became additive to opioids.

Ignoring my own emotional turmoil, I add, ‘I even made biscoitos the other night.’

‘ Bom .’ She sniffs, looking every bit the strong, proud Latina woman who raised me. ‘Maybe you’ll put on a few pounds and those silly women will stop asking you to take your clothes off.’

With the dinner I just made laying heavy in my stomach, her wish is more than likely to be granted. ‘Yes, M?e .’

‘ Deixa eu te falar, cora??o .’ She tsks, her lips pursing. ‘They don’t even know you. ’

‘I know, M?e .’ My response is the same as it has been the several other times we’ve had this conversation.

While she’s never said a word against me being an actor, my mother has had more than a few things to say about the pretty overt come-ons she’s witnessed whenever I’ve taken her as my date to events. And then there’s the lustful fan comments she reads online and on my social media posts.

Which is probably why, with everything going on with Camilla, I’m glad for the social media ban the rehab facility has in place for those undergoing treatment.

Deciding to circle back to what I know will make her happy, I lift the phone up higher and lean back on the chair’s cushions. ‘I’m finally putting all your cooking lessons to use.’

‘Ah.’ Another smile. ‘What else have you been making?’

We chat happily for a while, the call feeling more natural since she’s finished the hardest part of her treatment – detox. We discuss recipes and reminisce over my early years in the kitchen when I was as bad at cooking as Anne is now.

Thinking of Anne…

‘You would love the grocery stores here.’ I chuckle, remembering Anne’s melons. ‘Texans don’t mess around when it comes to food.’

‘You went to a grocery store? Yourself?’ Her brows draw together. ‘I thought Jack said you didn’t have security with you?’

Damn it, Jack.

I wave away her concerns. ‘I wasn’t alone, so don’t worry.’ I keep talking before she can ask more questions. ‘It’s called H-E-B.’

‘Heb?’ She speaks the word.

‘No, I wasn’t spelling it. I mean, I was, but you actually say the le—’ Something warm and leathery brushes against my calf, causing me to jerk my leg, my shin whacking into the underside of the coffee table with a loud crack. ‘ Merda !’ The phone falls from my hands as I grab my leg, the pain making it nearly impossible to recognize that Mike, uncurled from his hump-doll, ventured over to my side of the room.

‘ Cora??o .’ My mom’s voice from the phone now muted from its spot on the floor. ‘Are you okay? Should I— oh .’

Mike looms over my upturned phone on the floor, his wrinkled face taking up the entire screen.

‘Is that a movie prop?’ Her voice is slow, as if trying to process what she’s seeing. ‘I thought this space movie was contemporary, not sci-fi.’

Worried he’ll understand that my mother just mistook him for an alien puppet, I carefully reach beneath Mike’s head to slide my phone out from under it. ‘No,’ I say once I’m looking into the camera again. ‘That was a cat.’

My mother appears more shocked than when she first saw my underwear advertisement billboard. ‘A gato ?’

Before I can explain, Anne, frazzled, wet and near naked, runs into the room. ‘What happened?’ Her right hand holding the ends of what I’m guessing is a bath towel, but which looks more like an oversized hand towel, together in a fist above her right breast.

My response to her question is swallowed as a drop of water slides off the end of her wet hair and down between the valley of her breasts.

‘Felix?’ Mistaking my speechlessness for fear, Anne comes over, using the hand not holding up her towel to grab my shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’

Another droplet follows the first, but I manage to nod in answer.

Someone clears their throat .

Anne’s hand tightens on my shoulder before slowly turning toward my phone.

I know the exact moment she sees my mother on the screen because the skin under the water droplets pinks in embarrassment.

‘Uh, hello.’

‘Who are you?’ My mother’s voice is laced with a tone I only ever heard her use when, in my teenage stupidity, I thought I was entitled to an opinion on how I should be raised.

It’s enough to break my sudden fascination with water droplets. ‘ M?e , this is my roommate, Anne Moore.’ Turning to Anne, I gesture to my phone. ‘Anne, this is my mother, Sofia Maria Santos-Jones.’

Anne’s hand, probably from shock, loosens, her towel sliding down an inch.

‘You have a roommate, cora??o ?’ My mother’s eyes drop to the corner of the screen as if trying to see Mike. ‘With a gato ?’ She seems more incredulous over the last, even though I’ve never shared a room with anyone on set before. Even Jack gets his own place when he visits.

‘ Sim .’ I nod firmly, determined not to deceive her any more than all the lies of omission I’ve made over the past few weeks.

‘Jack didn’t mention a roommate,’ my mother murmurs, her eyes as fixated on Anne’s face as mine are on her towel. ‘Or a cat.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Anne drops her hand from my shoulder and squares up to the phone. ‘I’m usually good about keeping him away from your son, knowing his fear of house cats.’

My mother lets out an indelicate snort. ‘He told you about Fluffy?’

Anne bites down hard on her bottom lip.

Kill me now .

‘He told me about the, uh—’ she studiously avoids my eyes ‘—cat who scratched him, yes.’

Adding to my embarrassment, Mike decides to groom himself, loudly, at my feet.

I can only hope my phone’s audio isn’t able to pick up on the slurping.

Anne tugs her towel up. ‘His name is Mike, by the way. The cat.’ She grimaces, looking down at herself. ‘And, uh, sorry for the towel.’

My mother smiles and nods, having seemingly become charmed by Anne.

A feeling I know well.

There’s a beat of slurping awkwardness I rush to fill. ‘Anne’s the one who got me to cook again.’

‘Did you?’ M?e ’s expression brightens.

Mike stops licking. I don’t have time to be thankful since he only does so to jump up on my chair’s armrest.

Anne smiles and shakes her head. ‘That was the cost of your son staying here.’ Seeing Mike reach out his paw toward me, she scoops him up with the hand not holding her towel. ‘And I’m lucky your son is such a great cook. I’m definitely getting the better end of the deal.’

I can’t help but smile at the compliment.

Seeing my pleased expression, Anne rolls her eyes. ‘In fact, I told him he’d make a better cook than actor.’

My mother chuckles, a sound I haven’t heard near enough lately. ‘And you, Anne? What do you do?’

Anne adjusts her hold on Mike, whose back legs dangle at her side. ‘I’m interning as a storyboarder as part of my master’s degree in digital art.’

‘Master’s degree?’ She cuts her eyes to me. ‘Impressive.’

Anne flushes .

‘ M?e …’ It’s a Hail Mary attempt to curb my mother’s blatant interest. If Sofia Maria Santos-Jones wants to look at Anne as a potential future daughter-in-law, I can’t stop her. The best I can do is pray for subtlety.

‘Is that how you two met?’ Mother leans into the camera. ‘On set?’

Anne and I share a look. One filled with memories of our bar conversation and the hotel after. Memories I’d rather my mother not know about, even if it means another lie of omission.

There are some things a mother really shouldn’t know.

Clearing her throat, Anne turns back to the camera. ‘Actually, it wasn’t until your son showed up and screamed high and loud enough to break glass that I realized I was getting a roommate.’

M?e laughs. Really laughs.

It’s a great moment. A weird moment. Me sitting in an oversized armchair, Anne standing in just a towel with a hairless demon in her arms, both of us smiling at each other while my mother, watching avidly from hundreds of miles away, laughs.

And, unsurprisingly, Mike Hunt goes and ruins it.

No doubt uncomfortable with his awkward hold, Mike curls his back legs forward, the momentum loosening Anne’s grip. Gravity takes hold, swinging his hairless body like a pendulum until he and his claws entangle in Anne’s damp towel.

There’s a collective chorus – Anne’s exclaimed obscenity, Mike’s hiss, and my inadvertent gasp – as the towel is torn from Anne’s body, leaving her naked and wet while Mike lands a perfect dismount on the arm of my chair.

It’s only a second. Maybe even shorter, before Anne dives to the floor, but it’s enough for the dick Anne thinks of as impotent to stand strong and proud under my exercise shorts.

Thankfully, with Anne ducking out of the camera’s view and my phone’s raised position, my body’s reaction remains hidden .

Re-covered in her towel, Anne stays hunched on the floor, opting to crawl toward the hallway rather than stand again. ‘I’m so sorry!’

I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or my mother but neither of us say anything as my mother stares at me staring at Anne’s half-visible backside peeking out from her towel as she slinks out of the room on all fours.

My mother breaks the silence. ‘I like her.’

‘Yeah.’ As if in a daze, I drag my eyes away from where Anne just disappeared and stare into my mother’s all-too-knowing smile. ‘Me too.’

It isn’t until I look back at the small square of myself on the phone screen that I realize I’m not only smiling back, but I’m also scratching Mike behind his ears.