Hollywood Secrets by Gemma Halliday

it had done any real structural damage. Kind of like a large scrape, I decided.
    I looked from Trace’s face to the wound.
    Clearly he was on some someone’s shit list. Clearly the mysterious “they” he was running from were serious. Crazed fans? Professional killers? I had no idea. And until I did, this was one story- I mean, actor - I wasn’t letting out of my sight.
    I turned my keys in the ignition.
    Trace’s eyes flickered to life. “We can’t go to the hospital!”
    “ I know.”
    For the first time that night his features relaxed. Just a fraction. “Then where are we going?”’
    “ My place.”
    He opened his mouth as if to protest, but changed his mind mid-thought, instead closing his eyes again and leaning his head back on the seat. “Fine.”
     
    * * *
     
    It was a long, dark drive down the PCH back to Venice from Malibu. At any other time the luminous moon casting white-golden streaks upon the ocean’s surface just to our right would have been a peaceful, calming sight. Tonight, I hardly saw it, my eyes flicking every few seconds to the rearview to make sure our unknown attackers hadn’t tracked us down.
    Trace spent the entire ride with his eyes closed, resting his head on the seat beside me. By the time I pulled up to my building, it was closing in on midnight and I was having a hard time keeping my eyes open myself. Early risers did not make for good night owls.
    I shut off the engine and silently led Trace up to my apartment, praying I hadn’t left anything embarrassing sitting out in my haste to get to work that morning.
    I did a quick scan as I unlocked the front door. No dirty clothes on the floor. No half-eaten food in the kitchen. No boxes of tampons visible in the bathroom. So far so good.
    I settled Trace down on the futon sofa that also doubled as my bed and went to grab the first-aid kit from the bathroom.
    “ Nice place,” Trace said, his gaze sweeping over the room. Which didn’t take very long. My entire studio probably could have fit in his butler’s pantry.
    “ You know, sarcasm doesn’t suit you.”
    “ I wasn’t being sarcastic,” he protested.
    “ Oh.” I glanced around myself, wondering exactly which part of the bland renter’s unit the interior-designer-hiring star found “nice.”
    “ Well, in that case, thanks.”
    “ You’re welcome.” He attempted a feeble smile my way.
    I ducked my head, for some odd reason blushing again under his gaze. “Let’s check out that arm, shall we?” I sat down on the sofa beside him.
    By this time the bleeding had stopped, but his cut had dried to a crusty dark crimson color that still had my stomach churning.
    “ You’ll need to take off your sweatshirt so I can clean it,” I said.
    Trace complied, slowly lifting the hoodie over his head. He winced just slightly as he tugged at the fabric stuck to his skin with dried blood, but finally managed to not only extricate himself from the sweatshirt, but also a blood stained T-shirt he’d been wearing beneath it.
    I blinked. And had a mild out of body experience as I stared at his bare torso. Good God the man had some abs. And pecs. And delts. And they were niiiiice. Better, I’d venture to say, than they played on camera, even. I swallowed. Hard. Hoping I wasn’t actually drooling.
    “ Is it that bad?” Trace asked, turning his arm over to look at his wound.
    “ What? Oh. Uh, no. No, it, um, looks okay.” I struggled to find my voice, mentally slapping myself back to reality and my nurse’s duties.
    As I’d guessed in the car, the cut didn’t look too deep - just enough to hurt like hell and bleed like a stuck pig. I carefully wiped around the area with a damp cloth, then sprayed Bactine on the wound.
    “ Sonofa-” Trace sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Jesus, that hurt.”
    “ Big baby,” I teased him. Though I could tell the anti-bacterial had jolted him wide awake now.
    Time to find out just what the hell was going on here.
    “ So just what the