Lindsay Lohan stiffed the famous Chateau Marmont hotel to the tune of $46,350.04, and she is now persona non grata. TMZ has obtained a letter from the General Manager of the hotel. — Lohan BANNED from Sunset Strip Hotel, TMZ.com
Lindsay called the smartest person she knew after the Chateau Marmont escorted her from its premises.
“James,” she sobbed. “You have to let me come over. Those bastards are trying to tear me down, after months of the best publicity money can’t buy. They owe me!”
“I feel you, Linds,” said James Franco, his speech slow and deliberate. “Those destined for true greatness are always made to suffer. I’ve studied this. It’s a classic narrative. A hero’s journey. It’s, like, universal.”
Yes, she had suffered. She had been imprisoned many times. She had been made to confess her crimes on prime-time television, stripped naked and forced to wear the scarlet lips of Marilyn Monroe. Still, Lindsay persevered, evading arrest and defying death in her rented Porsche. But when the staff of Chateau Marmont — who had once regarded her as a daughter — thrust yet another copy of an unpaid bill for $46,350.05 into her empty hands, something inside her broke. “Carbon Copy: TMZ,” the envelope read.
“But you can’t come over tonight,” James continued. “I’m teaching a film class at NYU. The students are examining my body of work, and they’re nearly done with Never Been Kissed.”
“Good-bye, James Franco.” As she said it, she tipped her head to the light so the surrounding photographers could frame her profile, the glint of tears on her cheek. One of her favorite photogs bit. “Lindsay! Are you dating James Franco?” Sweet solace, they still loved her. She batted her lashes, coy. “A lady never tells.” She would rise from the ashes yet.
But like the phoenix, before she could rise, she had to burn. How dare the Chateau Marmont double-cross her? After everything they’d been through? When she brought Lady Gaga to Chateau Marmont for a sleepover, she had ensured that every moment was documented and well-lit. She had hosted parties so epic multiple ambulances were required. She was their star, their enfant terrible, the pyrotechnics to their Michael Bay movie, the Godzilla to their Tokyo skyline.
“Siri,” Lindsay said in a loud, clear voice, “Call Lady Gaga.” Flashbulbs popped.
Hello you little monster, I’m on yet another world tour. Leave a message and I’ll call you back after Rio.
“Damn.” Lindsay bit her lip, drawing out her best pout. She was a falling star, but whose pocket would catch her?
James, Gaga, Chateau Marmont, she turned the names of her betrayers over in her mind. James, Gaga, James, Gag — her eyes lit up as she realized it. The James who made the ladies gag. She would call James Deen, the well-hung boy next door, the final frontier in porn.
Lindsay had met James in her last starring role, his first crossover to the silver screen. She had taken him under her wing, taught him to channel his passion into words, and he looked at her in a way no man had before, like he didn’t care about her breasts at all. The attraction had been swift, fierce, deep. Their dates had ruled the “U.S. Showbiz” page of the Daily Mail online. And also, he had a really nice house.
The pap from OK! drove her there in exchange for an upskirt. Her hand hesitated on the bell, but James was already opening the door at his huge mansion. Soon his arms were around her, and she could feel the thrum of his pulse just under the skin and how happy he was to see her.
“I couldn’t be away from you,” Lindsay declared, though it had been some months. “I’ve come to stay, James. To see if this thing is real.”
“What’s mine is yours,” James replied.
Those were the magic words, her favorite words, and she melted against him for a kiss. He responded hungrily, their mouths a tango of passion as they tumbled from the foyer to the living room and sunk into the shag carpet. With the heat of James Deen’s body all around her, Lindsay Lohan was home.
For a porn star, James didn’t have sex like it was a job. He made love like a maestro, with tremendous ability in his compact frame. His hands on her were those of a master craftsman, knowing just where to touch and caress.
“You know, I was supposed to play Linda Lovelace in Inferno: A Linda Lovelace Story co-starring Matt Dillon,” she confided to James while he demonstrated the trick from Bang My Juice Boxxx 2. “I would have represented your world all the way to the Academy.”
She sank to her knees to demonstrate her Lovelace skill set, and when James pulled her up, he seized her body with vigor renewed, a vitality that made her gasp. He was in top form, brilliant, as when he’d won the Unsung Swordsman at the 2009 Adult Video News Awards in 2009. And she, she was incandescent like a young Kim Basinger in Nine and a Half Weeks. Catching a glimpse of her own body mid-writhe, she wondered if she should have thought to film the encounter. But for once her life was private, hidden from the world of pictures; for one night their famous faces, bodies, and ecstasy were for only each other. An audience of one. Still, old habits die hard, and as her body shuddered with pleasure, she found herself searching the windows for a telltale telephoto lens.
Spent from the evening of journeys and pleasure, Lindsay slept until morning, safe in James’s arms and on the road to redemption — until the car accident the next day, which totally wasn’t her fault.
Amelia Casey is a romance novelist. Her most recent book, Taken by the Highwayman, makes Lady Anabel Mayward’s nethers thrum.