Текст книги "Hollywood Dirt"
Автор книги: Alessandra Torre
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
CHAPTER 42
A rooster. I thought he’d find it funny. We could laugh about it, in Cyndi Kirkland’s ridiculous rooster house, and make amends. Get our friendship off on a better foot, one that didn’t involve insults and barbs and impromptu kisses. I woke up that morning determined to get over my insecurity in regards to kissing and to get on the right side of the asshole that was Cole Masten. I needed this money, I needed this role, and if I happen to suck at kissing, so be it. A present was the most obvious solution to the problem. I would have made him something to eat, but he had curled his lip at my apple cobbler so I had to think outside the box. And when I thought of a rooster, it seemed perfect. Funny, light-hearted, a country gift for a city boy. I didn’t expect the man to fall backward like I’d put a bomb on his doorstep. Didn’t expect him to glare at me like he was, right then, my hands gently wrapped around his new pet.
“Are you crazy?” he gasped, pushing to his feet and brushing himself off. Not much to brush off. Cyndi Kirkland’s floors were cleaner than a Holiday Inn room on inspection day. “Literally, I need to know this, for the future of the movie. Are you insane?”
The baby chick clucked nervously in my palms, and I slid him back a few steps, closer to the protection of my chest. Against my fingers, his heart beat a rapid patter.
“Well?” he demanded, and I blinked.
“That’s a serious question?” I responded. “I thought you were just asking it to be a smart ass.”
“No. It’s a serious question. What normal person brings someone a fucking bird as a housewarming present?” He gestured to the baby chick, and I had the ridiculous urge to cover up its tiny ears to protect it against the swearing. I should have. Just to see the look on Cole’s face.
“I am not insane,” I responded. “And it’s not a baby bird. It’s a baby rooster.” I nodded in the general direction of Cyndi Kirkland’s decoration insanity. “I thought it’d be funny.”
“Oh, it’s hilarious.” He raised his hands to his head and turned away. “This whole thing is fucking hilarious. I’m gonna have a nervous breakdown over how fucking hilarious this is. What am I supposed to do with that? Eat him?”
I started back, bringing the tiny body to my chest. “No! He’s a pet!”
“I—” He pointed to me, then to the baby chick. “I can’t have a pet. I don’t have anywhere to keep a fucking rooster, Summer.”
“Would you please stop cussing? It’s so… unnecessary.”
The man’s eyes widened before rolling upward, and I turned away before I set down my heartfelt gift and meat-cleavered this man to pieces. I carefully cradled the chick against my chest, his little beak pecking at my shirt, and opened the pantry, then the kitchen cabinets, looking for different items, Cole’s footsteps loud as he walked behind me and stopped.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
I didn’t answer him. I found a large plastic bin in the back of the pantry, holding bags of dog kibble. I unloaded the bags and gently put the chick in it. Then I left it there, on the floor in the pantry, moving to the back door and opening it.
“Don’t leave that thing here!” Cole shouted after me, panic edging the sides of his words.
“Chill,” I grumbled, moving to the edge of the lawn and yanking at some taller pieces of grass, gathering several handfuls before I trotted back inside, dropping the grass in with the chick.
“I mean it,” Cole rambled, following me as I opened cabinets, finding a small bowl, then a lamp from the living room. “I can’t have a pet. I’m too busy. And I don’t know a damn thing about chickens.”
“It’s a rooster,” I repeated. “Or, well, he will be when he grows up. Fred sexed him for me. That’s why he has those little spikes on the top of his head.” I used the sink, filling the bowl half full of water and setting it in the corner of the plastic bin. Plugging in the lamp, I put it on the floor, next to opposite end. “You’ll need newspaper to line the bottom. The lamp is for heat. Baby chickens need a lot of warmth. Keep it on, even at night.”
“Summer!” His hands closed around my shoulders, and he turned me around, looking down at me, his face dark, our bodies close in the small space. “You are taking that thing with you.”
“No,” I said firmly, reaching down and pulling off his hand. “I’m not. It’s a gift, and you don’t refuse gifts. It’s rude.”
I moved around him, snagging my towel from the floor, and walked to the door, glancing back as I opened it to find Cole, his hands on the edge of the plastic container, looking helplessly from me to it, the pose distractingly sexual given his lack of shirt.
“Newspaper. Find some and line the bottom. Oh, and Cole?” I smiled sweetly, and he looked at me. “You’re welcome. And welcome to Quincy.”
I shut the door and skipped down the back steps, moving through the yard and out the gate before he had a chance to respond.
Okay, maybe mending fences had been my goal. Or maybe, I just wanted to give the man a jab back. Kissing might not be my forte, but sparring… I could do that just fine.
CHAPTER 43
As God as his witness, if Cole knew a place in this small town to hide a body, Summer Jenkins would be dead.
He stood in his new kitchen and stared down at a tiny bird that stared right back up at him. And then scratched at the edge of the plastic. And then stared at him some more.
He left it, him, whatever, there and jogged up the stairs. Grabbed his cell off the bed and, damn the time change, called California.
The hospital was not very accommodating, the nurse hesitant to put the call through, her tone flipping when he said the two magic words that made all doors open: Cole Masten.
The phone rang six times, Cole pulling on his shirt, before Justin answered.
“Cole.”
“Justin. How are you?”
“I’ll live. Sorry I can’t be kicking ass and taking names for you down there.” His voice was weaker than normal, his words slower than standard, and Cole felt a moment of guilt for his early call.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I’ll let you get back to bed.”
“Shut up, man. I’m surprised you’ve survived without me this long. What’s it been, three days?”
Cole laughed. “Yeah. It’s been hell. Literally. Satan would be comfortable in this heat. How long before you’re back in my corner?”
“Doctors say four weeks. I’ll be out of here in about a week, but I won’t be able to travel until around the time filming starts.”
Cole stood at the top of the stairs and looked down, swallowing his list of requests. “Get better. I need you back.”
“You know it. And call me if I can do anything from here.”
Cole only nodded, his feet trotting down the stairs and back to the kitchen. Back to the bird. He hung up the cell, eyed a thin telephone book that sat underneath a cordless phone, and headed toward it.
“Coach Ford and Buick, this is Bubba.”
Cole glanced down at the ad and reaffirmed the number. “Yes, do you service the Quincy area?”
“Sure we do. Quincy, Tallahassee, Valdosta, Dothan. We’ll service anybody that brings us business.” The man’s tone was hearty, a bellowing voice that probably couldn’t whisper if it tried.
“I’d like to purchase a truck.”
“Wonderful! We’re open ’til seven. Do you need directions?”
“No. I’d like to buy one over the phone and have you deliver it.”
There was a long silence. “We don’t really do that. There’s financing paperwork, an inspection check, the test drive…”
Cole let out a long, irritated sigh. Maybe he should have called American Express. Let them handle this shit. “I’m paying cash. I’ll give you a credit card number and someone from your dealership can bring the paperwork with the truck. Okay?”
Another long pause. “I think I better let you talk to Mr. Coach.” There was a muffled shout and the huff of breath, as the man seemed to, from all sound indicators, run. Cole stared at the chicken and wondered if he should name it. It was kind of, despite any level of common sense, exciting. He’d never had a pet before. His father had always said no, and Nadia was against anything that might, at any point in time, smell, make noise, or cause inconvenience.
Cole wandered over to the fridge and opened it up. Stared at empty shelves and wondered what to feed it. He needed a vehicle; that was the first step. Then he and the bird would get whatever they needed to survive.
Bubba came back on the line, this time with the dealership’s owner. Cole introduced himself and, ten minutes later, had verbally chosen one of the six trucks they had on the lot. They promised delivery within the hour, and he hung up the phone with a newfound sense of accomplishment. Maybe a few weeks without Justin would be a good thing.
“Well,” he said to the bird, “I guess it’s just me and you.”
Damn Summer. Damn her to hell.
CHAPTER 44
It took twenty minutes in his new truck—a red F250 Super Duty—to find Quincy’s version of a pet store, a long white building with the words FEED AND TACKLE in big, red letters along its side. When Cole stepped in, Summer’s tub under his arm, the store’s lone inhabitant looked up from his counter at the back of the store and grunted a hello. Cole stepped gingerly forward, his new boots squeaking as he walked past horse collars, mud boots, bags of horse feed, and an enthusiastic display of rat traps. He got to the counter and set Cocky’s tub on the worn wooden surface. The chick’s name had come to him while driving, a humorous play on words but also wholly unoriginal. No biggie. There was only one Cole Masten; if he had a less than uniquely named rooster, so be it. He waited for a moment for the recognition, the traditional ‘Hey, aren’t you...’ but the man just glanced at the tub, then at Cole, his mouth opened enough to roll his toothpick to the other side and then it closed.
“I just got a baby rooster,” Cole started.
“I can see that,” the man drawled. He leaned forward, his chair creaking, and peered through the thick plastic. “Why’d you bring it with you?”
“I don’t know. I thought it might need to be checked out, or you might have questions, or it might not be able to be left alone…” Cole’s voice trailed off, and he realized exactly how stupid he sounded.
“It’s. A. Chicken.” The toothpick in the man’s mouth fell out as he spat out the words. “It’s not a pet. You don’t name the thing and give it a bedazzled collar.”
“What does it eat?” Cole snarled, taking Cocky’s tub down off the counter and setting it on the floor, his boot pushing it to a safer location, a little to the side.
“Corn.”
Cole waited for more. And waited.
“Just corn? Nothing else?”
The man raised his eyebrows. “Its. A. Chicken. There ain’t no Chef Boyardee prepackaged meals in nine different flavors. You want to get fancy, buy the FRM brand. It’s twice as much and doesn’t make squat shit bit of difference.”
“Where’s that?”
“Two rows left, at the end. It comes in fifty-pound bags. Think you can lift that?” Cole swallowed, his eyes on the man’s, and wondered what his publicist’s reaction would be if he cold-cocked this hick.
“I can lift it,” he said evenly. “Anything else I’d need for it? Medicine or vitamins or shots?”
“It’s. A.—”
“Chicken,” Cole finished. “Got it. How much for the bag of feed?”
“Eighteen bucks.”
He pulled out his wallet and tugged out a twenty. “Here. Keep the change.”
He slapped down the bill and crouched, lifting Cocky’s tub carefully and taking it out to the truck. He set it down on the passenger seat, buckling it in, then returned to the store, throwing the feed bag over his shoulder with ease while the man behind the counter looked away and spit into a red Solo cup.
CHAPTER 45
BATTLE LINES ARE DRAWN:
CODIA IS OFFICIALLY DEAD
The divorce between Cole Masten and Nadia Smith has moved into high gear, with each side lawyering up and court documents flying furiously back and forth between the pair. Nadia, who recently won her first Academy Award for Heartbroken, is allegedly going after an equity stake in The Fortune Bottle, Cole Masten’s latest film, which begins filming in just two weeks.
I was engaged once. Three years ago. I thought I was in love. But love shouldn’t hurt, shouldn’t dig through your chest, carve out your heart, and serve it like a meal. Or maybe it only hurts when it’s real. Maybe when breakups didn’t hurt—that was when you knew the love was false.
I wondered if Cole and Nadia’s love was real. I wondered how much he was hurting. I wondered how much of his asshole behavior was pain, and how much was just him.
I hadn’t spoken to him since I dropped off the baby chick. Word around town was that he had a new truck and bought a mess of chicken feed. So I guessed he kept the chick; I guessed he was settling in. Ben met with him twice about locations, and brought me over a script. I shrugged when he delivered it, tossing it onto the table, and scurried about finishing the batch of chicken salad I was working on. But as soon as he left, I devoured it. Settled into the recliner and ran my fingers reverently over the top page. It wasn’t bound, it wasn’t protected, it was just a fat stack of pages, held together with one giant clip. I flipped over the top page and started reading.
Three hours later I took a break, standing up and stretching. I stood at the sink and filled up a glass, looking out the window, across the field, at the Kirklands’. I’d been doing that lately. Staring at the house. I had known before Brandi Cone had called, her voice all high-pitched and excited, that Cole had a new truck. I had watched it being delivered, had seen a barely-visible Cole jogging down the side steps and over to the trailer. I wouldn’t have guessed him to be a truck guy. He seemed more the flashy convertible type.
Then I went back to the script. Read every line slowly, sometimes aloud. The role was manageable. Ida was an independent thinker, a secretary with a nest egg to invest. She often stood up to Cole’s character, keeping him on his toes, and they had a respect/hate relationship that morphed into friendship by the end of the movie. The fights—and the script was full of them—would be easy. The respect, the eventual friendship… that would be more difficult. But not impossible. No, for a half a million dollars, I’d charm the spots off a frog.
Filming started in just two weeks. Before, I’d have been busy helping Ben get any final details in place. Now, as an actress, I had a different set of things to handle. Just one teensy problem: I didn’t know what they were.
“I feel like I should be doing something,” I spoke into the phone, the long cord twisted into a knot of epic proportions, my fingers busy in its coils, trying to make sense of it.
“The other actors are meeting with voice coaches, working on their dialect. You don’t have to do any of that,” Ben said, his voice scratchy, the sound of drilling loud and annoying in the background. He was at the Pit. Cole wanted it finished yesterday, and the crew was still working out some electrical kinks. Next Monday, starting early, our construction workers would move out, the crew would move in, and our sleepy little town would be taken over by Californians. I was terrified and excited, all in the same breath. Each day felt a hundred hours long and still passed too quickly.
“So what should I be doing?”
“Waiting. Next week you’ll get an acting coach and have some media training. Have you signed the contract yet?”
I glanced over at the dining table, where the FedEx envelope lay, the hefty contract inside. “No.”
“Why?” he challenged.
“It’s eighty-two pages long. There can’t be anything good to say in that many pages.” I gave up on the knot and stretched the mess outta the exposed line, reaching over and snagging the envelope from the table. I studied the outside package, ENVISION STUDIOS printed in block on the return address form.
“Then get an agent like a good little actress and have them look it over.”
“For fifteen percent?” I laughed. “No thank you.”
“Then get a manager. That’s what everyone in LA who can’t get an agent does. Managers only take ten percent.”
“Still too much.” I pulled out the first of three contracts and skimmed over the initial paragraph, which was filled with enough thereafters and heretos to make my head hurt.
“Summer. Either quit bitching and sign the contract or pay someone to review it. Hell, pay a lawyer an hourly fee to review it. But do something. You’re running out of time here.”
I couldn’t just sign it. Not without knowing what it said. Not without knowing what I was giving up or agreeing to. “I’ll call my lawyer,” I finally said, dropping the contract back into the pack.
“And then you’ll sign it?”
“Depending on what he says, yes.” I tossed the contracts back on the table and tried to smile at Ben’s celebration on the other end of the phone.
“Okay, go. Call him right now.” If I could see him, I’d bet a hundred dollars he was doing a little shooing motion in the midst of the construction area.
“I will,” I promised, and hung up the phone, eyeing the mess of phone line. My next purchase: a new cord. Or better yet, a cordless phone. Really fancy stuff.
I needed to handle the contract; I knew that. I needed to have a professional review it; I knew that. It was worth paying an attorney; it was smart to pay an attorney. And I had one, one who had known me my entire life, one who would watch out for my best interests and do it for free.
I picked the phone back up off the base, took a deep breath, and called Scott Thompson. My attorney. My ex.
CHAPTER 46
Cocky seemed lonely. Cole sat next to the bathtub, in workout shorts and tennis shoes, and watched him. The baby rooster scratched at the Quincy newspaper and looked up at Cole. Tilted his head and opened his beak. Chirped out a tiny sound. Cole had turned the bathtub into his new home, the lamp plugged in and sitting at the left end, three layers of newspaper lining the bottom, the tub four times the size of Summer’s pathetic creation. He was bigger this week, his legs long with giant knobby knees halfway up. Early that morning, he had puffed his chest, white down fluffing out and strutted. Cole had laughed, his toothbrush in his mouth, mid-brush, and pulled out his phone. Tried to catch video of the action but failed.
Now, he pushed off the floor and bent over the tub. Scooped up the bird and held him to his chest, the bird’s feet kicking against his chest. Walking out the bathroom and thru the backdoor he set him carefully on the back porch. Stepping down the back steps, he looked back and saw the bird carefully follow ’til he got to the edge of the first step and stop, wobbling, his head tilting down at the fall, then back up at Cole.
“You can do it.” Cole patted his leg for encouragement, then felt stupid. He crouched down and clucked. The chick squatted, then hopped.
It turned out Cocky couldn’t do it. When he landed, his baby feet stumbled against the step, his head tipping down, hitting the step before he sat back, shaking himself out, his feathers poofing. Cole hurried to his side, lifting him up and whispering apologies, moving him safely down to the bottom, where the chicken ran into the grass.
100 pushups. His palms flat on the ground, the grass tickled his nose with every down pause. Everything was in place, everything on time, ready for next week. This moment of cohesion would be ruined the moment the crew and cast set foot in town. From that moment on, it would be pure, expensive chaos. That was the nature of the beast. A beast he loved, a beast that fed him. This would be the first time it would be a beast he paid, and not the other way around. But that was a temporary situation. Because once it hit screens, then his financial future would be set. The stakes were always high, but this was truly the movie that would define him. Success or failure. Billionaire or just another LA rich guy.
He finished the set and took a deep breath, resting on one palm, then the other. He switched his weight to his fist, then started a second set. It felt so odd, being alone. Here in Quincy was one thing; it was a hundred transitions in itself. Back home would be different. Back home—he paused on his seventieth rep. He didn’t even have a home anymore; Nadia had moved out of the hotel and was back, in their bed, no doubt with that prick beside her, on his sheets, in his shower, in her fucking arms. He finished the hundredth rep with a groan and rolled over, the grass warm and soft underneath his back.
He had to stop thinking. What was funny was that the one thing he wasn’t really thinking about was Nadia. And when he was thinking of Nadia, it was only to distract himself from thinking about the blonde and her stupid chicken. He felt an unsteady weight against his shin and looked down to see Cocky, wobbling in his steps, walking along his shin. He laughed and dropped his head back against the grass.
He didn’t have time for this. He should be on sit-ups now, then burpees, then a long run, preferably up and down some hills. He sat up, his hands quick to catch the bird’s fall, and set him carefully to the side, taking a moment to scratch a spot just alongside his neck. He had read online that they liked that. Had felt a little proud when he’d found the fact himself. He’d gotten too dependent on others, on Justin.
Watching Cocky, the bird pecking at the ground in response, he started the first of two hundred sit-ups.
