As Connor pulled his bag from the plane’s overhead compartment, he reminded himself that he was wasting time. Carolyn Lenton’s address was a long shot. One Derek Sather had dimly remembered only after Connor had used near bullying tactics. Derek Sather was a tired story. Quick track to stardom. Hot new actor-director. Quick fall into the fast life of drugs and sex. His problems were the kind that ran rampant in Hollywood. Paranoid with low self-esteem. Concerned with appearances rather than substance. Never good enough to really make it. Hung up on all the trappings of stardom without being a real star. A regular walking time bomb of anxieties and insecurities—and a horrible snob to boot. While he was looking down his nose at Connor, he was also trying to impress him. It killed Connor how often this happened. Were they naturally this way, and somehow they came to Hollywood en masse, as if turning toward Mecca? Or did the Hollywood community subvert all other characteristics and leave only this jellied blob of neuroses, all packaged in the best possible wrapping, of course?
