Life in High Def

By Kimberly Cooper Griffin

Academy Award winning actress Reilly Ransome has a life that others can only dream about: fame that opens every door, more money than she can ever spend, and freedom to do what (and whom) she pleases. But something is missing, and the harder she seeks to find it, the more evident the absence becomes. She attempts to fill the gap with behavior that becomes increasingly dangerous until one night, she wakes up on a bench at a deserted beach to find that she has committed the unthinkable. Resolved to live the rest of her life doing penance for her mistake, Reilly withdraws from her whirlwind existence and finally finds what she’s been missing. But knowing something and accepting something are two different things. It is only when a transformative experience that no one sees coming and turns her life on its axis, that Reilly can finally forgive herself and fill in that missing piece.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Night River Press
• Release date: Jun 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9780997219043

Kimberly Cooper Griffin

Kimberly Cooper Griffin is a software engineer by day and a romance novelist by night. Born in San Diego, California, Kimberly joined the Air Force, traveled the world, and eventually settled down in Denver, Colorado, where she lives with her wife, the youngest of her three daughters, and a menagerie of dogs and cats. When Kimberly isn’t working or writing, she enjoys a variety of interests, but at the core of it all she has an insatiable desire to connect with people and experience life to its fullest. Every moment is collected and archived into memory, a candidate for being woven into the fabric of the tales she tells. Her novels explore the complexities of building relationships and finding balance when life has a tendency of getting in the way.

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The characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialog in this novel are either the products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2016 by Kimberly Cooper Griffin

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission or additional detail, contact the author at the address below.

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition 2016

Edited by Jamie May

Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill at EDHGraphics

Author Photo by Bettinger Photography

Night River Press

Denver, CO 80209

NightRiverPress.com

Life in High Def

ISBN - 10:0-9972190-4-1

ISBN - 13: 978-0-9972190-4-3

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016902563

Visit the author’s website at http://kimberlycoopergriffin.com

to order additional copies.

Synopsis

Academy Award winning actress Reilly Ransome has a life that others can only dream about: fame that opens every door, more money than she can ever spend, and freedom to do what—and whom—she pleases. But something is missing, and the harder she seeks to find it, the more evident the absence becomes. She attempts to fill the gap with experiences that become more and more dangerous until one night, she wakes up to find that she has committed the unthinkable. Resolved to live the rest of her life doing penance for her mistake, Reilly withdraws from her whirlwind existence and finally finds what she’s been missing when she starts taking yoga from serene and beautiful Drew Tamrin. But finding something and accepting something are two different things, and it is only when Reilly can finally forgive herself that she is able to find her life’s meaning.

Dedication

To Summer, this and everything.

Acknowledgements

I owe the publication of this novel to my writing group; Beth Escott Newcomer, Carrie Repking, and Lake McCleary. I am humbled to have been accepted by you three talented and wildly creative women. You amaze me! Thank you for suffering through countless rewrites and for providing insight into my little story. I hear your voices every time I write.

Thank you, Kit-Bacon Gressitt, for offering the writing class that got me started. I am grateful for your tireless passion for teaching, connecting, and inspiring writers. Some of my favorite memories are sitting in your living room among the eclectic relics of Dia de los Muertos, listening to diverse voices discussing story arcs and tone.

Michelle Dunkley, thank you for being my beta reader. I held my breath to hear your thoughts. You helped me more than you probably know. And, yes, I’ve told all of my single friends about you!

Jamie May, it amazes me how much better you make my writing!

And finally, many thanks to Skeeter Buck, founder of Night River Press, for taking a chance on Life in High Def. May this be a successful start of our literary journey!

Not into What You’re Offering

It was Wednesday night, or—to be more accurate—the early hours of Thursday morning, and the frenetic energy thrumming through the invitation-only nightclub in West Hollywood was just starting to peak. It wasn’t unusual for the club to be open so late in the middle of the week. The clientele wasn’t the normal nine-to-five crowd. But even for an exclusive club that regularly hosted Hollywood’s top stars, the energy of the place was off the charts, with celebrities and their closest friends enjoying the nightlife and partying like there was no tomorrow. The Academy Award nominations had just been announced and the lucky few who’d made the coveted list were out to celebrate, while the rest of the industry was out to be seen. But even that wasn’t the main reason people were still reveling when most of California was deep asleep. The reigning queen of all party girls, Reilly Ransome was in the house. She’d just received her second Academy Award nomination. She was high on life. High on being the center of attention. High on cocaine.

Four-inch heels and a black spaghetti-strapped clingy sheath dress over a well-toned body gave an illusion of height to Reilly’s five-foot nothing frame. Straightened long blonde hair fell over her face as she danced but she didn’t move it away. The deep thump of the techno-baseline vibrated through her and she let it own her body as she moved in time with the rest of the writhing mass on the packed dance floor. A cloud of expensive scents competed with the boozy sweat-smell of pheromones that amped up the intensity of the drug-fueled crowd. Her eyes were closed and her arms were raised. Behind the mask of her hair, nothing existed but the music and the motion.

She was a good dancer, and she knew it. The producer of the movie that she had just finished shooting had paid a shitload of money to make her that good. And she had quite literally worked her ass off to get there. Weeks of eight and twelve-hour dance training sessions and a relentless workout schedule had preceded the shoot and it showed. Reilly didn’t know how to do anything halfway. She put the same focus and dedication into what her mother insisted on referring to as that fluff dance movie as she had put into the role that had garnered her first Academy Award. The dance movie had been a diversion for her between serious films, but now, in no small part due to Reilly’s intense work ethic, even it was being talked about as next summer’s blockbuster. It seemed she could do no wrong. Her life was racing forward at breakneck speed, and the adrenaline rush that came with it was coursing through her body as she moved to the music.

She was alone on the dance floor, surrounded for the most part by strangers and acquaintances that would refer to her as a dear friend in the morning. Her co-star in the movie, Cray Layton, had come to the party with her. The media and her studio promoted him as her current boyfriend, and to help support that image, he had stayed by her side for much of the night. However, in the booze-drenched haze of early morning, he was tucked in at the end of the bar dry-humping a muscle-bound guy that Reilly recognized from somewhere—an extra, a bodyguard? It didn’t matter. She couldn’t care less.

A beautiful woman moved in behind her and wrapped her arms around Reilly, grinding her pelvis into Reilly’s ass. Reilly leaned back, pulling the arms closer, so that the roving hands cupped her breasts. The woman kissed the side of Reilly’s neck and Reilly shivered. Her nipples hardened under the silk fabric of her top and the woman responded by rolling the hardened flesh between her fingers and sucking on Reilly’s neck. Without a word, Reilly turned around and walked off the dance floor, pulling the woman by their intertwined fingers.

They pushed through the crowd and Reilly switched places with her companion so that the taller blonde could fend off the groupies and overzealous hangers-on. They made their way to the bathrooms. There was a line down the long dark hall, but they walked past and went in. No one seemed to mind, and even if they did, neither woman cared. Reilly was Hollywood royalty. The blonde steered them into the mirrored sitting room just inside the door. Two plush couches took up the center of the room and Reilly fell into the woman’s lap, straddling her. Her short black dress rode up and the blonde smoothed it down for her, just enough to keep the important parts covered. A long gilt mirror took up one entire wall, and Reilly watched their reflection over the blonde’s shoulder. She squinted. She wasn’t sure if it was the drugs or the booze, but the woman looking back in the reflection was unfamiliar.

Fuck, Rye. I get so turned on watching you dance now, said the blonde, breaking Reilly’s gaze with her own reflection. And through the fog of energy and drugs, Reilly felt hands on her ass, while she ground into the woman’s lap. Those dance lessons have unleashed a part of you that… god…

Reilly moaned into a long kiss and decided that they needed to go home. Now.

Let’s get out of here, Syl. Reilly pulled away, tracing a path with her finger where her lips had just been. The room spun and she couldn’t keep track of anything around them, but she was intent on the talented mouth before her, enjoying the low thrum that imagining it on her body caused in her belly. The music from the other room added to the throb thundering deep inside.

Not yet, lover. I have to pee. And I want to finish off the blow first. Reilly’s girlfriend of three years shot her a seductive smile as she shook out her long blond hair and slid out from under her. Reilly settled onto the crushed velvet couch and returned the teasing smile. She wondered how Sylvie could be so steady on her feet when she felt so out of control.

We can do that at home, baby. Come on, Reilly heard the hollow plea in her voice as Sylvie backed away. The request was just for show. She didn’t have to beg. And, if she were honest, she was too stoned to fuck. Though she wouldn’t mind being a pillow princess if Sylvie wanted to fuck her.

I really, really have to pee. I’ll be right back, lover, said Sylvie as she disappeared around the corner toward the bathroom stalls.

Reilly ignored the other women who moved around her. Some of them watched her curiously, but none approached her. The people who had been invited to the party were all either in the industry, bored with it, or too worried about image to act like they cared. As far as Reilly went, she was used to being watched, and too high to care. She kicked out of her heels and tucked her legs up under her. From near her waist, she took a credit card-sized pocket mirror from the fashionable tiny club bag that she had strapped across her chest. In a smooth motion born of practice, she slid it open with one hand, while she used the other to uncap her lipstick. She checked her mascara and noted the eyes that peered back were bright, but bloodshot. All the partying didn’t help. Red eyes aside, she knew that she was still a beautiful woman. She applied the lipstick and wiped a non-existent spot under her eye before she snapped the compact shut.

The sounds and scents of the small bathroom started to annoy her and she heard Sylvie’s voice from inside, near the sinks. She slipped back into her shoes and got up to see who Sylvie was talking to. She was ready to leave. Her first few steps reminded her that she wasn’t very sober.

I don’t remember seeing you here before. My name’s Sylvie.

Sylvie’s voice was low and seductive.

Reilly rounded the corner and leaned against it to steady herself just in time to see Sylvie push a strand of long black hair behind a woman’s ear. Sylvie and one of the most beautiful women Reilly had ever seen stood in front of the sinks. The woman faced the mirrors, and Sylvie faced the woman. An attendant stood at a demure distance. Women lined the wall behind Reilly waiting for a free stall. A toilet flushed and the line inched forward. Reilly was aware of the curious eyes on her, but she tuned it all out. The woman with Sylvie drew all of her attention.

Reilly stared at the woman’s reflection in the mirror. The woman’s presence filled the room. Filled Reilly. The sensation was so intense it felt like a touch, and Reilly realized she was in the thrall of instant attraction. Interesting. The woman hadn’t even spoken. She stood there, serene and confident. Her flowing black pants and sleeveless black blouse provided an air of simple sophistication, but Reilly sensed a complexity simmering inside the woman that she wanted to uncover.

So she watched. The woman didn’t respond to Sylvie as she finished washing her hands. She accepted a towel from the attendant and patted them dry before she turned to face Sylvie. An amused expression played across her face. The woman sized Sylvie up, and Reilly crossed her arms over her chest as she observed, intrigued. She could tell that the woman thought that Sylvie was attractive, but she remained reserved. Sylvie had found a challenge with this one.

Almost everyone—man or woman—found Reilly’s girlfriend attractive. An entertainment lawyer, Sylvie was a classic beauty. She had the face of a model and the body of a centerfold. She was smart and poised, and had a confidence that made people notice her when she entered a room. When Sylvie focused her charms on someone, they didn’t have a chance. It was what had brought Reilly and Sylvie together, and if Reilly really thought about it, it was part of what kept them together. Both of them had plenty of other opportunities, but Reilly never worried about Sylvie’s wandering eye. She knew that Sylvie was hers without a doubt, even when her flirting became more than that. Even when women came home with them. She wouldn’t do it if Reilly asked her not to. But Reilly didn’t mind. In fact, she found it exciting, even though her participation—by choice—was usually limited to watching. And that’s what she was doing now. All that activity in one bed wasn’t her thing. There were too many hands, too many mouths. She couldn’t focus.

I’d love to dance with you, said Sylvie, running her palm up the woman’s bare arm. A flutter rose through Reilly when Sylvie’s fingers inched under the edge of the opening at the shoulder of the woman’s sleeveless blouse and pinched the edge of the fabric. Then Sylvie ran her hand up and down the opening, coming within a hair of brushing the backs of her fingers over the woman’s breast. Reilly imagined it was her fingers absorbing the warmth of the woman’s skin.

The woman shrugged Sylvie’s hand away and laughed. Then she stepped back and gave the towel back to the waiting attendant, along with a tip. The velvet sound of the woman’s thank you sent an unexpected ripple down the center of Reilly’s back.

The woman dismissed Sylvie with her stance as she faced the mirror again.

Sorry. It’s late. Maybe next time… Sylvia? said the woman, applying lip balm that she had pulled from the pocket of her pants. Sylvie’s answering posture suggested that she wasn’t about to give up this chase.

Reilly wasn’t let down.

Close enough. You can call me anything you want when I have my fingers inside of you, said Sylvie, taking a step closer to the woman.

A tall redhead at one of the other sinks laughed at Sylvie’s crass remark. Reilly wanted to cringe, but she just lifted her eyebrows when Sylvie glanced at her and winked. Then she watched as Sylvie moved closer, pressing her belly against the woman’s hip, resting her hand on the woman’s backside. The woman lifted her sculpted eyebrows when Sylvie took the lip balm and applied some to her own lips. Sylvie’s eyes never left the woman, as she pursed her lips, and took the cap, replaced it on the tube, and offered it back.

The woman’s eyes regarded the tube in Sylvie’s hand and then swept up to Sylvie’s mouth, which lifted in a smile that indicated that Sylvie was certain that she was going to get what she wanted.

Keep it. I think your girlfriend is waiting for you, the woman said. Reilly was surprised. Her position as voyeur had made her feel invisible, and she had thought that Sylvie had snared her prey.

Reilly had to give it to Sylvie—her smile never faltered.

She is, and she likes to play, too.

Is that so? The woman turned to leave.

Reilly stood between the woman and the door. She had to remember to breathe when the woman’s silver-gray eyes zeroed in on her. Aside from being the most amazing eyes that Reilly had ever seen, there was a smoldering intensity in the woman’s gaze that made the room and all of the other people in it disappear. Reilly’s heart pounded.

Between Reilly’s position and the line of women waiting for an open stall, there wasn’t much room to pass without squeezing through. The woman stood, waiting for Reilly to step aside.

What’s your name? asked Reilly, without moving.

Drew.

I’m Reilly.

I know who you are.

Reilly stood her ground and Drew took her breath away. There was no one in the room except them, as far as Reilly was concerned.

I can take you home, said Reilly, surprising herself when she lifted her hand to stroke Drew’s face. Reilly smiled to see Drew’s eyes grow dark at her touch. Even in four-inch heels, Reilly was a few inches shorter. She leaned up and brushed a kiss over the corner of Drew’s mouth, lingering for a second to take in the unexpected smell of cinnamon. It would be fun. I promise, she said against the warm skin.

Drew shut her eyes and Reilly watched a flush edge up from Drew’s scoop-necked shirt. Drew’s eyes slowly opened again and focused on Reilly’s mouth. Reilly knew that she had her.

Hey, are you in line? The voice came from behind Reilly, breaking the spell. The sounds of the room around them fell back into her awareness.

Sounds tempting, but I’m not into what you’re offering, said Drew, staring into Reilly’s eyes. The dark smolder was gone, but the gaze was far from cold. Reilly had never seen eyes like that before. She wanted the opportunity to study them.

We have something that might help you out with that, said Sylvie, from behind Drew. Reilly cringed at Sylvie’s suggestion. She guessed that Drew wasn’t into the drugs that Sylvie offered, either.

Yeah. I’m even less tempted by that, said Drew, confirming Reilly’s suspicion. Drew’s eyes remained locked on Reilly’s. Thanks anyway.

With visible effort, Drew broke eye contact and pushed past Reilly to leave the bathroom. Reilly felt a wave of electricity shoot through her at every point their bodies made contact. She shut her eyes and breathed in the faint scent of Drew’s cologne—hints of vanilla and sage—and the unexpected cinnamon. Her lips still tingled from the brief kiss.

Sylvie leaned against Reilly, her focus on Drew’s retreating form. That’s a shame. She was fucking hot. Sylvie’s disappointment didn’t last for long. She turned to Reilly and held out her hand. That just leaves more for us. Give me the stuff.

Wordlessly, Reilly gave Sylvie her purse, and then trailed after her, her thoughts still haunted by Drew’s gorgeous eyes.

They made their way back to the couches, where they sat, and Sylvie took a small vial from the bag. Reilly’s mouth watered at the sight, but she had other things on her mind.

I’ll be right back.

Sylvie regarded Reilly with a question in her eyes.

I can’t promise there will be any left when you get back, Sylvie called after her.

Without responding, Reilly waded into the press of bodies outside of the bathroom and her skin vibrated with the sensual throb of the music. She surveyed the hall as she pushed through the milling crowd and tried to follow Drew. She spotted her halfway to the exit and rushed to catch up. She ignored the hands and faces that tried to block her progress and kept her eyes on the back of Drew’s head. Drew’s hair hung in a brilliant curtain of ebony down her back. The colors of the pulsing house lights reflected in its sheen. Reilly itched to run her fingers through its lengths.

Drew! Wait! called Reilly, just as Drew pushed through a door that opened into an alley. There was no bouncer guarding the exit-only door so late into the evening. The door thudded shut and a crash of quiet and dank night air encased them. A couple making out against the opposite wall glanced at them before they went back to their own pursuits. Laughter rose and fell as a group of people passed the mouth of the alley, several feet away.

Drew stopped and turned. Reilly saw surprise on her face.

I’m sorry about that. You’re beautiful, but we shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have—been like that, she stammered.

Reilly felt stupid and all out of words. She didn’t know why she had chased a stranger through a crowded club and out into the dark ally. She never chased after women. She didn’t have to. But she needed to undo what had happened in the bathroom.

Drew tilted her head, a hint of amusement framing her mouth. Reilly stared at the full lips, which lifted into a smile.

Is that why you followed me? To tell me that? asked Drew.

God, she was so serene, thought Reilly. All traces of intoxication she had felt with Sylvie in the bathroom were gone. In its place, a deep, hypnotic pull held her. Energy pulsed off of everyone else in Hollywood—good or bad—it was always there. She constantly felt it. Pressing at her, inundating her. But she felt something else with this woman. It pulled at her, raising the hair on her arms with the electric intensity of it, but it didn’t invade her. She didn’t know if it aroused or comforted her.

Yes. No. Yes, stammered Reilly. She couldn’t think. I don’t know what to say, really. Just sorry, I guess.

Drew studied her. Reilly wanted to kiss her again. Her lips warmed at the thought.

All right, said Drew with that smile. Thanks, I guess. My friends are waiting at the car. Good night.

And then she was gone. The door to the club opened as a small group of people drained into the alley, and Reilly walked back into a darkness and sound that felt solid as the heavy door slammed shut behind her. The static buzz of the night infused her once again. She wasn’t sure that she liked it, but she was used to it, and the throbbing lights of the techno beat erased the rest of the night.

Rock Stars and Private Jets

Reilly laughed as she stumbled up the stairs to the private Bombardier Challenger 601 aircraft that was waiting on the tarmac at LAX. The step lights were illuminated, but it was still hard to see her footing. In the last moments before dawn, the thick velvet darkness seemed to mute all light, but her graceless ascent was more about the countless glasses of champagne and lines of cocaine that she had consumed than about the darkness of the path. Paired with the four-inch heels she wore, hers was not a state for optimal stairway navigation. The rangy man in leather pants and black tee shirt on the stairway ahead of her looked back and laughed before he reached down and helped her navigate the rest of the way up the stairs.

Reilly accepted the help and giggled as she swatted away the other hand that helped her from below—the one that provided balance by cupping her ass. Sylvie just laughed and swatted right back. Everyone was in a good mood and ready to keep the party going.

Thanks for saving my life, Brady… I mean Bobby? Brandon? she said, squinting as she tried to remember his name. She watched his face to see if one of her guesses came close. His eyes weren’t even on hers, though. They were locked on Sylvie’s wandering hands, and even in her inebriation, Reilly fought to keep from rolling her eyes at the display of typical lecherous male attitude. Sylvie played into it, though, by pressing her breasts against Reilly’s back as she mounted the top step behind them.

The name’s Brando, Rhonda… I mean, Regina? Rhianna? teased the lead singer of The Deceased, one of the hottest bands in the world—at least for that week.

"Well, Brando, I’ll put in a good word for you on the soundtrack of my next movie," she said. She laughed as he took off his small black hat, part of his signature rock-and-roll style, and bowed as they passed. His greasy hair flopped down and covered his face, and from over his bowed head, she could see half of his scrawny bare ass, pale and conspicuous against the black leather pants and black tee shirt he wore. She sneaked a glance at Sylvie who pretended to lick her lips, and she wondered why women across the globe swooned for him. He reminded her of the immature boys who had gone to her private high school, although most of them had probably bathed more often—not to mention grown up in the years since graduation. But, he was fun to hang out with, based on what she’d experienced in the few hours since they’d first met at the after-hours club somewhere on Sunset. Not wanting the fun to stop, she and Sylvie had accepted his spontaneous invitation to fly across the Atlantic to attend the opening concert of the band’s European tour.

Reilly had done many things in her twenty-three years of life, but taking off to Europe on a whim, with a band that she had just met, was not yet one of them. It was still enough to make her feel a little star-struck at her own lifestyle, to be honest, which now literally consisted of rock stars and private jets. She hoped that the constant barrage of new situations she found herself in, thanks to her position at the top of the A-List, would never mute the rush she felt in her blood tonight.

They entered the cabin and moved toward the center, where two luxurious leather seats faced another set across a dark, wood-topped table. A plush couch sat along one side of the cabin. The inside of the plane was almost as opulent as the trailers Reilly used on set. On a nearby counter, crystal champagne flutes were nestled in rows of satin-lined indentions in wood boxes lying open next to a silver wine bucket filled with ice. A flight attendant smiled at them as she proficiently popped the cork on a bottle of Dom Perignon and then quickly sopped up the minimal frothing with the linen napkin wrapped around it.

I can’t wait to get you into the bathroom at thirty-five thousand feet so we can re-enact your initiation into the Mile High Club, baby, purred Sylvie into Reilly’s ear as they accepted their glasses of sparkling beverage and fell into the leather chairs. Reilly’s sex clenched at the suggestion, and she was glad that Sylvie, in an uncharacteristic show of discretion, had said it quietly enough that she wasn’t overheard. She pulled Sylvie to her, kissed her on the neck, and was rewarded with a small moan.

It may have been a night of firsts for her, but joining the Mile High Club was not one of them. She and Sylvie had christened a flight to Hawaii earlier in the year, but her first induction into the prestigious club had been on a flight to Vancouver when she was seventeen years old with a pretty businesswoman. Sylvie was under the impression that she had been the one to initiate her though, and Reilly had never tried to correct her.

Brando and another member of the band dropped into the chairs that faced theirs, tossed back the contents of the glasses they held, and motioned for refills from one of the attentive flight crew that hovered near them in the rear of the cabin. Reilly pulled away from Sylvie and fiddled with her seatbelt when she saw Brando elbow his band mate and nod toward her and Sylvie with a grin. She knew that look. It was the look of an entitled male who thought he was going to be invited to partake in some sexy time with her and Sylvie. Boy, was he sorely mistaken. Aside from his unfortunate gender, the greasy hair made her want to gag.

She got downright pissed, though, when she saw Brando grab the flight attendant’s ass. Reilly was a little too drunk and high to understand why, but her pulse thundered when she watched him yank the woman into his lap and plant a sloppy kiss on her mouth. The attendant, in an impressive show of professionalism and restraint, tried to mask her displeasure, but Reilly, a master herself, could spot the performance a mile away. She saw a shadow of revulsion flutter across the attendant’s face even as she laughed, albeit closed mouthed, and smacked him across his chest, before she pushed herself back up to her feet and went on with her preflight routine. Reilly mentally retracted the soundtrack offer.

Line it up, Chris. We should all be flying high before the plane even leaves the ground, crowed Brando. He smacked his leg as he watched the other musician retrieve a baggie of white powder from the guitar case that his buddy was strapping into the couch across from him. The guitar got more respect than the flight attendant.

More champagne, sir? asked another flight attendant. She topped off each flute and offered them each a linen napkin and a piece of fruit, while she ignored the drugs spread out on the table before them.

To rock and roll! said Brando lifting his glass and grabbing the flight attendant’s ass as he took a long drink.

To rock and roll, repeated Sylvie and Chris, while Reilly just held her glass. She was beginning to regret agreeing to the trip.

That stewardess is going to get a big tip after this flight, said Brando, watching the attendant walk away with the empty bottle.

Right on, man. A big old tip, smiled Chris, glassy-eyed, as he dumped a generous pile of fine white powder onto the surface of the table in front of him.

Reilly felt the familiar tingle in her gums at the sight of the drug, and her thoughts were redirected from the unwanted leers and gropes as Brando held out a glass tube to her and she leaned over. A minute later, the feel of Sylvie’s hand inching up under her skirt as she inhaled her second line of cocaine was the only thing on her mind. It made her forget that she didn’t much like Brando, who was watching with a crooked grin on his face, while his fingers traced the length of a pronounced bulge in his leather pants.

The Morning Show

Reilly clenched her jaw as the interview rolled on. She should have known where he had been headed as soon as the shellac-coifed host of The Morning Show, Tristan Powers, complimented her on how sexy and feminine she appeared.

You must admit. It’s surprising, all things considered, he said, leaning forward to rest his chin on the fist he propped up on the arm of his upholstered chair.

His liquid brown eyes gazed at her across the ubiquitous talk show coffee table between them. His hair was distracting; too perfect, too blond, swept across his brow, just avoiding a too-youthful adolescent appearance. It bobbed en masse as he nodded at his own words. She had to admit, he knew how to dance on the edge of lechery without actually going there, lest he come off as one of the playboys he liked to interview so much. It wouldn’t play well with his target demographic.

You’re so beautiful, Reilly. The epitome of feminine. The perfect mix of today’s California surfer girl and Sandra Dee, said Tristan. You have to know about the rumors. It’s just so confusing.

Donning an air of deliberate bewilderment, he sat back, wove his fingers together over his crossed knees, and lifted his shoulders, waiting for her to respond. He should talk about looking feminine, thought Reilly, taking in his pouty red lips, expressive eyes and perfect unlined brow. Even by industry standards, he wore too much makeup.

She could feel one of her eyelids starting to twitch in annoyance, and she regretted the line of coke that she had done right before going on. But she had needed it to clear the cobwebs. It was barely dawn in New York, making it the middle of the night in Los Angeles where her bed was, and she wasn’t used to getting up before noon regardless of where she was. Not between movies, anyhow. Besides, she had stayed up far too late the night before partying it up in the Big Apple. She had been less than coherent as the sun nudged its way above the Atlantic and her wakeup call had pulled her from a catatonic sleep. The little bump of coke she had taken to clear the fog amplified her reactions, and she felt her blood pressure soar at the line of questions that she was getting from the merkin-helmeted morning host.

She smiled and pushed a strand of hair from her forehead.

Come on Tristan! Doesn’t your wife get upset when you flirt like this with your guests? she teased, shooting a glance at Melinda Powers, who sat in a matching chair next to her husband and co-host. Reilly hoped her good-natured hint would change the path of the interview.

Tristan laughed.

Oh, Melinda agrees, he said answering for his wife, and favoring the former Miss America with an adoring gaze. He placed a hand on her knee, and sugar dripped from his voice. His teeth gleamed too white against his glossed lips. We were talking about it just the other day, weren’t we, Mel?

Melinda just chuckled and nodded her spun-gold head—the same color and texture as her co-host’s—as she beamed back at him. They stared just a beat too long into each other’s eyes, and Reilly heard the collective sigh of five million feminine viewers, clenching their hands to their chests in heartfelt gushiness. She almost threw up into her own mouth.

Reilly wondered how they could stand each other. Their show of adoration was a contrived façade, she was sure. The confusing thing was that they acted no different when the cameras weren’t on them. When the producer had brought her by their dressing room when she arrived on set before the show, she had heard them talking to each other as she neared their open door. Her blood sugar had spiked just hearing the saccharine banter. Maybe it was real. Who was she to judge? It didn’t matter. It made her nauseous.

At the same time, Reilly knew that Melinda knew exactly what team Reilly batted for. When Melinda wasn’t with her husband, she was a different woman. She was smart and engaging. She was funny and had something to say.

Reilly discovered the real Melinda Powers when she sat next to her at a celebrity fundraiser for breast cancer research a few months earlier. As they had waited for the tardy keynote speaker to arrive, they had sat shoulder-to-shoulder at the head table in the fancy ballroom, and Melinda had pointed out each woman in the room and asked Reilly which ones she was attracted to. Reilly had had just enough mimosas to go along with the little game, and she hadn’t thought of it since. Until that moment.

Reilly blamed her mother for the media’s fascination with her sexuality. Her mother/manager forbade Reilly from confirming or denying it on the record, and insisted that Reilly accompany her male co-stars to most events, even while the paparazzi snapped pictures of her dancing the night away with her girlfriend. It was an elaborate ruse to keep the public guessing. If it were up to Reilly, she’d be one hundred percent out of the closet. It was who she was. Who she had always known she was. But, Reilly’s mother knew a promotional angle when she saw one, and she played the game in a very deliberate way to draw and attract the widest swath of audience.

Autopilot on, Reilly bantered with her hosts and held her sighs of pent up resentment inside.

It wasn’t like the world would ever know the real her, anyway. Even if she were the straight, girl-next-door box office cutie everyone wanted her to be. The world saw her the way they wanted to see her, and her mother tugged her puppet strings. It was the way it was, and it worked. Still, it pissed Reilly off. Especially when she had to act the coquette with a plastic tool like Tristan Powers. She hated that the game dictated that she laugh at his ridiculous, and often hurtful, jokes alongside his Harvard-educated wife, who dumbed herself down just for ratings on national television.

She forced her attention back to the interview. Tristan’s eyes were locked on her and she could feel him winding up for a fastball.

"We’ve watched you grow up on our televisions, and now on the big screen. You were our little sister, our daughter, our best friend down the street. We saw you crying when you accepted your Academy Award seven years ago at the young age of sixteen, and soon we’ll be seeing you salsa dancing across the silver screen with who People Magazine named the Sexiest Man Alive, Cray Layton—the man whom all of the magazines say you’ve been dating. As Tristan spoke, pictures of Reilly at various stages in her career, culminating in one of her and Cray walking hand-in-hand into the Beverly Hills Hotel, flashed up on the screen behind their chairs. Then we see pictures in the tabloids of you getting cozy with women at dance clubs. A picture of Reilly and Sylvie dancing extremely close to one another at the club a few nights ago replaced the one of her and Cray, and Reilly held back a smile. Forgive my directness, but I feel like we know each other well enough for me to ask this: Does it bother you that people wonder about what happens behind your bedroom door, Reilly? Do you see why they’re confused?" asked Tristan.

Reilly was used to the questions. It didn’t mean she liked them, though. A handful of morning interviews didn’t mean she owed Tristan a damn thing.

It isn’t nice to gossip about people, Tristan, purred Reilly, smooth as a pro, and hoping that he saw the warning behind her smiling eyes. If he did, he didn’t show it.

It’s in all the magazines, Reilly, laughed Tristan. He leaned forward and patted her leg. Pictures of you with other women. You have to agree. You don’t fit the lesbian description. He glanced at his wife, who gazed back with a vapid smile. Tell her, Mel.

Tristan encouraged his co-host with a grin, looking for agreement. The two of them had been on the air for almost two decades as the most popular morning show hosts in television history. Hosting The Morning Show since the late nineties, America loved them. And Reilly hated them. At least she hated Tristan. She felt sorry for Melinda. She kept her smile pasted to her face as she watched Melinda

Reviews for Life in High Def

[Carmela Liwag · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

When I started reading this I wanted to stop after the third maybe fourth bad drunken drug induced decision the main character Riley made. For some reason I kept reading. Then I wanted to stop reading when it got the prison time frame, that was actually cringe worthu and I really could have done without it but hey, but some reason I didnt. And honestly, I am glad I didnt because after that, the book really grew on me. Drew was a nice addition to Riley and so were her Cray and Hank. I didn find that the book didnt really give great timelines and going back and forth between some memories confused me. There was also a lot of missing information in the time gaps, which one is actually addressed or two are actually addressed later on.
Regardless, I overall did enjoy the book and give it 3.79 stars. Plus its a free read with Scribd.