Hollywood Secrets Read Online Free PDF Page A

disappearing back into the club, before standing up and stamping some feeling back into my right foot. I was just working out the pins and needles before descending the stairs, when I heard the back door swing open again. I was about to chalk it up to another smoke break, when a familiar head of golden blond hair emerged.
    Trace.
    My breath caught in my throat, and I did a mental “in your face” to the Entertainment Daily boys. I silently lifted my camera lens to my eye. I popped off three shots of Trace walking into the alleyway and stretching his arms above his head. He leaned against the side of the building, his usually perfect posture slouching. He tilted his head back against the stuccoed wall and closed his eyes.
    Despite my journalist instincts telling me that a full body shot was what readers wanted to see, I zoomed in close on his face. I could see faint lines surrounding his eyes – evidence of fatigue that was usually carefully airbrushed away. His jaw was slack in the dark, his features blissfully unaware of being watched. A rarity. For a brief moment, he wasn’t a movie star, just some guy trying to get a moment’s peace in the whirlwind life of his own creation.
    His long lashes made dark shadows on his cheeks, giving him a boyish look that made me wonder what Trace had been like before he became “the Trace Brody.” Rumor had it he’d grown up in a small town in the Midwest somewhere. I wondered if he didn’t secretly miss small-town life once in a while.
    A sound down the alleyway broke into his respite, and his eyes popped open, his posture suddenly stiffening into a pose again.
    I followed his gaze to the delivery truck parked at the mouth of the alleyway. Two guys emerged, both in nondescript gray coveralls. They were both about average height, one with jet black hair slicked back from his forehead, the other wearing a crew cut. Crew Cut was beefier looking, like he’d spent a fair amount of time either in a boxing ring. Or prison gym, if the litany of tattoos on his arms were any indication. The other guy reminded me a of ferret, all slim and slinky in a way that would make me wary of touching him.
    Ferret stuck his hands in his pockets, coming around the front of the truck and looking over both shoulders as if scanning the alleyway for other inhabitants. The cat stuck his head out from behind the Dumpster, but luckily, I had this invisible thing down to a science. Ferret looked convinced they were alone.
    At first I wasn’t sure the two guys even saw Trace leaning back in the shadows. But as they passed the back door to the club it became clear they weren’t here on a beer run. The movie star was their real target.
    I could see the actor’s “on” face sliding effortlessly into place, more of a reflex than a conscious effort at this point. I put my lens to my eye, popping off shots as the delivery men approached, envisioning the caption for tomorrows pics as: Trace signs autographs in alley – what a guy!
    Only, as I watched the two guys approach him, I had to rethink that caption. The skinny guy pulled his hand out of his pocket, but it didn’t emerge with a Sharpie for Trace to sign his John Hancock with.
    It emerged with a gun.
    I sucked in a breath, my body freezing in place. I willed myself to remain silent and inconspicuous on my perch as the guy pointed the gun straight at Trace.
    Holy shit. What was going on here?
    Was I witnessing a mugging? Instinctively I looked left, then right for help. Only the emaciated cat stared back at me.
    So I did the only other thing I could think of. I kept shooting, keeping the telephoto lens to my eye and popping off shot after shot in the dark.
    It took Trace a second longer than me to see the gun, but when he did, his reaction was much the same as mine. I saw his eyes go wide, his shoulders lock up, his gaze shoot from side to side instinctively looking for an escape route.
    But the two guys had any chance of escape blocked off, coming at him