Текст книги "Hollywood Dirt"
Автор книги: Alessandra Torre
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
CHAPTER 47
I knew, my fingernails tapping against the side of the phone, that I was making a mistake. Dialing Scott was opening a door that I had taken great pains to superglue shut. But I did trust him. Even if I hated him.
“Summer.” His voice was surprised, and that made me happy. At least I’d never been that desperate ex, the one who gets drunk and calls in the middle of the night, the one who leaves long and sad voicemails that only further cement the relationship’s death. No, I hadn’t been that ex; he’d been. I’d been the one to listen to his voicemails, tears streaming down my cheeks, his name a long and vile curse from my lips as I stabbed the button to delete his bullshit.
“Hey Scott.” I played with the edge of the FedEx envelope. I didn’t want to go see him. In the last three years, the only times that I felt regret over not marrying him was when I saw him. I’d spent countless hours since then carefully arranging my life to avoid as many Scott sightings as possible. And now, here I was. Chasing down the man to save a few dollars on legal fees.
He coughed into the phone, and I could picture him clear as day, pulling at the knot of his tie, his eyes dropping to the side as he tried to think of what to say. Maybe his eyes dropped to the framed picture on his desk of his new wife and their little baby. I’m not bitter. He was the hottest property in Quincy. I wasn’t surprised then, and I’m not now, that he was forgiven quickly and snatched up. They bought the Lonner place when the old man passed. They were also one of the few families in Quincy that Ben and I didn’t call. I just couldn’t.
“I have a contract that I’d like you to review. It’s all Greek to me. I just want to understand what I am signing and have you point out anything that looks bad.”
“Okay. I can do that.” He sounded eager, ready to please. Some things hadn’t changed. “Send it to Shelley, my assistant. She’ll make sure I get to it today.”
“I know who Shelley is.” My blood heated below my skin. Shelley had been a bridesmaid, one of the fateful seven. She hadn’t ended up in the hospital that night. Lucky girl.
“Of course you do. I just—it’s something I’m used to saying.”
“Of course it is.” I didn’t want to mock him, but the words came out that way. Bitter. Sounding bitter hadn’t been part of the plan, and I bit my lip.
He said nothing, and I said nothing. Next would come an excuse to get off the phone. He was never good in a fight. Preferred to sleep off the anger and pretend that everything was fine in the morning.
I spoke before he had a chance. “It’s a talent contract. They want me to be in the new movie.” I hadn’t planned on telling him. I’d planned on the contract sideswiping him, his brow furrowing higher and higher as he sorted through the lines of the contract, his head snapping up at the figure—$500,000.00—and at the description: a leading role in The Fortune Bottle. His stomach would roll with a mixture of pride for me and regret at his loss.
“Really?” It was a mild question, just enough interest in the word to validate a response from me.
“Yes. Cole wants me for the lead.” It was a foolish, prideful thing to say—completely unnecessary for our business relationship, yet completely necessary for my ego. I wanted to prance my success before him with the exuberance of the Quincy High marching band.
“Cole?” Scott didn’t like my casual familiarity with his name. Not a surprise.
I mumbled out a sentence, covering the receiver with my hand, then moved it away and spoke into the receiver. “I’ve got to run Scott. I’ll send the contract to Shelley.” I hung up the receiver quickly, before I waited for a response, before my voice wavered, before I lost the ground I had just gained for the first time in a long time.
I rested my head in my hands and replayed the conversation. I did okay. He behaved. That made it easier. Though, ever since he got married, he’d been the picture-perfect husband. That shouldn’t have made me mad; it should have made me happy.
It didn’t.
CHAPTER 48
Cocky back in the tub, fresh corn sprinkled down. Cell phone on the counter, one Voss bottle drained and in the trash. Earbuds in, vintage Sublime playing, his feet rattled down the steps and hit the grass.
Cole hadn’t run on solid footing in years. Not since Four Songs of India, when they’d been filming in the middle of nothing, in an area where, with sunglasses on, he was just another white face. And now, where he could run five miles and see only a handful of houses, it felt safe. If felt worth a try.
He started slow, taking a left out of the Kirklands’ long drive and heading away from Summer, away from town. It was hot outside. Muggy hot. Different from California. But then again, everything was different from California. Dirt underfoot instead of pavers. Live oaks towering instead of palm trees. Summer instead of Nadia. He stopped, a puff of dust created, and put his hands on his knees, breathing hard. God, this girl was like a virus, attacking his weak immune system and making a home in his veins. He stood, his hands moving to his hips, and turned in one slow circle, noticing and appreciating everything that wasn’t Summer. The breeze that cut through the heat. The sway of white cotton, stretched out beside him in a perfect row. No paparazzi, no cameras. No one to see him, watch him, judge him. He could have a breakdown, right here on this road, and no one would be the wiser.
He didn’t have a breakdown. Instead he began to run again.
Harder.
Faster.
Farther away from her. Nadia, and that sick, deceitful world.
Farther away from her. Summer, and that distracting, judging, innocence.
Harder.
Faster.
Farther.
The dirt flew out from underneath as he ran.
Well… let’s see. I think I first heard about Summer being in that movie from Jenny, she works at the post office. I don’t know who Jenny heard it from, but I didn’t believe it. I mean Summer? Our Summer? She’s pretty, but she’s no Minka Price. And she’s not even from Quincy.
We have in our notes that she moved here when she was five.
Exactly. You can’t play someone from Quincy unless you are actually from Quincy. Otherwise you just don’t know the dynamics of the town.
Unless you’re Minka Price.
Well, yes. Now my daughter, she would have been perfect for that role. Much better than Summer. Her name’s Heather. You should write that down. Heather Robbins. She works at the local flower shop, but she could get time off if Summer doesn’t work out.
CHAPTER 49
I wasn’t exactly sure how Quincy found out about my role, but I could bet the leak came from Scott. Or, more specifically, from Shelley. I knew the minute I forwarded the email with my contract, her email address carefully typed in the upper field, that I was signing a death sentence to my life of anonymity in Quincy.
I’d watched movies; I knew how other places worked. How celebrities were fawned over and stampeded in public. That would never happen in Quincy. We liked to gush from the privacy of our homes, stalk through word of mouth and gossip. The more we pretended not to care, the more important something was.
I could feel the buzz roll through the town. I got the extra-long looks, the side glances from people whose children I grew up with, heard the whispers stop as I walked by the Benners’ coffee shop. I knew Cole would find it strange. I didn’t expect for me to also fall victim.
“Not one call!” I threw the ball of dough down on the wax paper and pushed my fists into it, being rougher than necessary with my kneading.
“Are you surprised? You know how people are in these parts.” Mama looked up from the Sunday paper, scissors in hand, a coupon half cut.
“I know.” I rolled the dough over and pressed my palm into it. “I just thought… somebody would call.”
“You got a heap of calls a few weeks ago. That damn phone wouldn’t stop ringing.”
“About the movie. About Cole.” I sprinkled a fresh bit of flour down.
“Ahh… you want them to call about you. To congratulate you.” I heard the scissors when she put them down on the table, and I stared forward at the rose wallpaper. I couldn’t see her face right then, the sympathy in it. “It’s okay, Summer. To want some attention.”
I pulled my hands from the dough and looked down, yanking a dishtowel from the ring and wiping off my hands. “It feels stupid. Weak.”
“You’ve been alone in this town for a long time. Punished for something not your fault,” she said quietly. “Everyone’s licking their wounds right now. They don’t want to be seen as a fair-weather friend—showing up just because you’ve had some excitement.”
I’d take a fair-weather friend. In high school, I’d had plenty of friends, our social standings ignored in a united stand against growing up and taking on life. And as Scott’s girlfriend, then fiancé, I’d had his friends. It’s been a long, cold three years with only my mother to lean on. And right now, with Ben’s imminent departure, I’d take anyone. Even if their friendship was opportunistic and fake.
Scratch that. Maybe it was for the best that my phone hadn’t rang.
CHAPTER 50
Cole Masten came to call in the summer heat on a Tuesday afternoon. I was on my knees, halfway down the Holdens’ drive, when his ridiculous truck pulled in.
I heard the engine and looked up, instantly recognizing the vehicle, and eased to my feet, wiping a hand across my forehead. I was covered in sweat; it had dampened my tank top, a drop of it running down the middle of my back as I stepped out of the drive and nodded an out-of-breath hello. His window rolled down, a whiff of cold air floating over, and I fought the urge to crawl face-first through the opening. Too bad that’d put me in his lap. A perfectly clean lap, from all appearances. His sparkly white V-neck shone from the inside of the cab, the neck leading to his gorgeous face, covered in a layer of unshaved stubble, past a scowl on those lips and up to the glare of his green eyes. I spied a water bottle in a center console’s cup holder, and eyed it. Ice Cold. Frost on the outside of the glass. Cole’s hand covered the label and he picked up the bottle, holding it out.
“Want it?”
I swallowed my pride and took the gift, looking at the bottle before twisting off the cap. Voss. Never heard of it. I tilted the bottle back and greedily chugged half of it before stopping, wiping off my mouth with the back of my hand and putting the cap back on. “Thanks.” I nodded to the bottle. “Where’d you get this?”
“That grocery store on…” He waved in the general direction of the town. “In town.”
“You went to Publix?” I raised my eyebrows, surprised.
“No. I paid Ben to get me a list of stuff.” He eyed the half-full water bottle that I offered back. “You don’t have any water?” He didn’t reach for it, and I unscrewed the top again. No point in it going to waste now.
I shrugged. “And ruin your opportunity to help a damsel in distress?” I tilted back the bottle and finished it. “It’s a fairy tale concept. You should be familiar with it.”
“You’re hardly in distress.” He pointed to the Holdens’ house. “How far’s that? A hundred yards?”
I stared at his well-kept brows and wondered if he plucked them. “Did you have a reason to come here?”
“You’re not answering your cell. I’ve been trying to call for three hours.”
I tossed the bottle on the ground, next to a discarded tool belt. “I don’t have a cell. That’s the house phone number. And I’ve been out here.”
“You don’t have a cell phone.” He said the words slowly, as if they might make more sense that way.
“Nope.” I didn’t feel the need to explain that I had no reason to be available or contacted twenty-four hours a day. Plus, I spent eighty percent of my time at home. Who would I chatter to while in line at the deli? Who would I need to call on my way home? It had also been the teensy matter of cost. I made five hundred bucks a month. A cell phone could have easily eaten up twenty percent of that. The home phone at our house was free, along with the internet, cable, and utilities, courtesy of the Holdens. No brainer.
“You need a cell phone. At least for the next four months. If you want to go back to your life of reclusion after that, be my guest.”
“Fine. When I get my check, I’ll get a cell phone.”
He eyed my clothes, then nodded to his passenger seat. “Hop in. We can go get one right now. I’ll pay for it.”
I shook my head. “I’ve got one more post to put in. I can’t leave this fence half fixed. The horses’ll get out.”
For the first time, he seemed to notice my surroundings, the hole digger leaning against the fence rail, the two-by-fours one rail down, the nail gun on the grass. “You’re putting in this fence? Isn’t there someone…?”
If he said more qualified, I swore to myself that I would use that nail gun on his beautiful arm.
“… else who can do that?” He looked around, like there was a team of handymen hanging out behind us.
“The guys are off today,” I said tartly. “Why don’t you run along to the Gap and let me work?”
He stared at me for a beat, then burst out laughing. I stepped closer and glared, and let’s all pretend, for a moment, that my change in proximity had nothing to do with an increase of air conditioning access. “The Gap?” His laugh died down to a chuckle. “Summer, I stopped shopping at the Gap when I hit puberty.”
“Well, wherever you idiots shop.” I waved a hand in frustration and turned back to the broken fence. Last night we’d had a bad storm. It had washed out the ditch along this patch of fence line, and I’d woken to find the fence on its side. Thank God Hank had brought the horses in for the storm. Spots would have jumped the downed fence and teased half the horses in Thomas County before noon. I’d spent a day chasing her down with Hank before. It was a pain in the ass—excuse my language.
Cole surprised me by opening his door and stepping out, one tennis shoe hitting the dirt, then a second. He wore jeans that, I swear, if I squinted hard enough, had iron lines on them. “I’ll help,” he offered.
“Help me finish the fence?” Now I laughed. “Please, pretty boy. Get back in the truck before you get dirty.”
He didn’t like that. I could see it in the set of his face, the way his eyes changed. He turned away from me, walked to the back of the truck, and put down the tailgate. When he returned, his hands gripping either side of my hips, I jerked back. I pushed against his chest, preparing for another unwanted kiss, and squealed in surprise when instead he lifted me up, my hands suddenly holding on instead of pushing away, my struggle ending when he set me gently on the open tailgate. He leaned in, his hands moving from my waist to the truck, corralling me in, his mouth close to mine. “Stay,” he whispered, and there was a moment of eye contact before he pushed off, brushing off his hand on the back pockets of his jeans as he walked to the truck and turned it off. I heard the back door open and got my second surprise when he returned with the baby chick in his arms. “Hold him for me,” he said gruffly.
I took the chicken, which was really no longer a chick. It had grown in the last two weeks; it had long legs, big knees, and a comb that had become red and soft. The rooster peered up at me, then back at Cole, and shook out its feathers.
“Just set him on the tailgate and let him move around,” Cole instructed, turning back and examining my handiwork on the new sections.
I found my words and used them. “You brought the chicken? With you?”
“I thought you might want to see him,” he called out, pushing on the top of a new section, as if to test its strength.
“It’s a split-rail fence,” I called out. “You have the line posts and then—”
“I know how to build a fence,” he interrupted, turning to me.
“Really? What fence have you ever built?” I challenged.
“Ever seen Legends of Montana?” he asked. “I spent six months on the ranch there. Bought the damn thing when I was done with it. I can build a fence, Summer.” He stared me down, and I shrugged. It was a good answer.
“Then build the fence.” I gently set the rooster next to me and tucked my hands underneath my thighs, swinging my feet out a little to get some space. The bird promptly put one gentle foot on my bare thigh and hopped up. Cole smiled at the bird, glared at me, and reached down, grabbing the pole diggers and walking to the last crooked pole. He tossed down the diggers and grabbed the pole, working it back and forth a little in the dirt before pulling up on it.
“You should take off your shirt,” I called out. “It’s gonna get dirty.” He looked over his shoulder at me, his hands still on the post. I don’t know why I said that, don’t know where the flirtatious tone had come from, and why it had chosen then, right then, to come to life.
“You should take your shirt off,” he called back. “I’m not going to be the object of your ogling.”
I laughed. “Puh-lease. We’ve all seen what you’ve got.” And we had. He went full frontal in The Evidence Locker. America swooned, and my vibrator got a fresh round of batteries. He turned back to his work, and I settled in. It was nice eye candy, even with his shirt on. And, after a few minutes of watching him, I relaxed. He did know what he was doing. Probably more than me. He was certainly quicker than me. His shirt was just beginning to stick to his back when he finished the job, grabbing the leftover wood and tossing it into the bed beside me, the chicken hopping to the end of my knee and looking up at him.
“Hey buddy,” he said, scooping him up and setting him down on the ground.
“I can’t believe you brought him with you.”
He shrugged. “What else is he going to do? Sit at home and stare at nothing?” He sat next to me and the truck sagged a little under the additional weight. “You really don’t have a cell phone?” he asked, turning to me.
“Nope.” I watched the chicken run, quick and fast away from the truck. “Why were you trying to call?”
“Don wants to have a meeting. He’s coming in tomorrow, wants us to run through some lines together. Why haven’t you signed the talent agreement?”
“My lawyer has it. I’ll call his office, find out where he’s at on it.” Scott had called twice, the first time leaving a message, the second time having the poor luck of getting Mama. It wasn’t a pleasant experience for him. I had giggled into my bowl of cereal and mentally urged her on. I guess, seeing my job wasn’t secured yet, I should probably call him back.
“You have an attorney?” He looked so surprised that I was almost offended.
“Yes, we country folk hire legal help just like you do.”
“I didn’t mean…” He looked down. “We need it signed. If there’s any issues, we need to know that as soon as possible.”
“Okay. I’ll call him tonight.”
“Wow.” He looked over at me, and his arm brushed against mine. “Evening service? I need your attorney.”
I laughed, thinking of his attorney. “I’d rather have yours.”
“Oh, that’s right.” His voice darkened. “I forgot the fawning session on your front porch.”
“What?” I pushed off the tailgate and faced him. It felt better, having some space between us. I could actually breathe.
“You were drooling over him. You have Cole Fucking Masten on your front porch, and you were staring at him like your damn panties were about to combust.”
I tilted my head at him. “Oh. My. God. You’re jealous.” He was. I could see it in the pinch of his forehead. Jealousy I recognized, even if I hadn’t seen it for a long time. Scott had had jealousy down to a science. “And who refers to himself with the F word as a middle name?”
“The F word?” he questioned. “Your country-girl mouth doesn’t get dirty?”
With his words, the feel of the conversation changed, putting us in territory I felt uncomfortable with. Yes, my country girl mouth could get dirty.
Jackass.
Asshole.
Prick.
I had a whole list of words I could have screamed at him. Instead, I turned away and busied myself, chasing down his chicken, who ran from me and over to him. Cole carefully moved off the tailgate and picked the rooster up.
“When can you meet about the script?” The question came quick and businesslike from his mouth.
I shrugged and tried not to stare at the way his T-shirt sleeves had ridden up his arms, revealing more of his bicep. “Tomorrow? I’m open whenever.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow morning and set a time. We’ll do it at my place. Don’s shacked up at that tiny motel.” He’s lucky Ethel Raine wasn’t in earshot. She wouldn’t hesitate to cut off his balls and serve them for breakfast with grits and biscuits.
“Fine.” I put my hands in my back pockets and watched him open up the truck’s back door and carefully put the bird inside. Then, without a word of parting, he got in the front seat, slammed the door behind him, and pulled off, the recent rain softening the dirt, a wet sound of suction left behind as he floored it. I stepped to the side and watched him hit the end of the driveway, the red truck turning around in the yard and barreling back in my direction. I leaned against the new fence, arms resting on the rail, and watched him fly past, a quick glimpse of the chicken’s head poking up along the bottom of the back seat window. I guess he had changed his mind about getting me a cell phone. I was glad. The last thing I wanted was to go anywhere with that man. It had been one thing to dislike him upon our first meeting. But now, as time passed and pieces of him came to light, I felt more and more off-balance around him. There were times when he seemed almost likeable, other times anything but. Right then, sitting next to me, the occasional brush of his arm or leg… it had been too much. Too much man, too close. Too much magnetism when he smiled, too tempting when he flirted, too big of a hole dug by him being nice. I couldn’t let his charm, his temptation, drag me into that hole and push me down. For him, flirtation was nothing, a country girl finding him attractive normal. For me? Falling for the unattainable Cole Masten might just break all of my bones upon impact.
I couldn’t break. Not for a man who didn’t deserve it, not for a man who would split town even faster than me. We were both, when filming wrapped, getting out of here. There was no point in seeking out good in a man like that.
I watched his truck turn at the end of the drive and accelerate off, toward the Kirklands’.
