Текст книги "Hollywood Dirt"

Автор книги: Alessandra Torre

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

CHAPTER 67

When the door to the production trailer burst open, it brought with it a wave of heat and beauty. Cole looked up from the storyboards and locked eyes with Summer, who blew across the room like a tornado on tilt.

“There’s no love story between Ida and Marcus,” Summer snapped, throwing down the script, pages fluttering between them. In the small trailer, conversations stalled, and he could feel the attention turn their way. “I’ve read the book. Three times!”

It was good to know someone had read the damn book. Cole glanced down at her temper tantrum of a mess and back up, raising his eyebrows mildly. “It’s a movie,” he said, turning back to the storyboards. “The writers are adding some excitement. It’s normal. You’d know that if you were in this business.” The dig was unnecessary, but he couldn’t help it. This woman turned him into the devil.

“I read the first script. The one you sent over with my contract. Ida and Royce hated each other. Why would Royce…” she snatched up a page from the ground and read a line. “pushes Ida against the file cabinet and kisses her passionately.” She balled up the page and threw it down to the ground, and he could see, in her eyes, the panic. Panic. An unexpected reaction.

“We’ll use that here.” Don made the dangerous move of stepping in, putting a soft hand on her shoulder. “You don’t understand. The passion from their hatred will make it hotter.”

“No,” Summer said, her face hard, her eyes on Cole. “It doesn’t make it hotter. It makes it stupid.”

“Aww… come on, Summer,” Cole chided, moving closer, his hand reaching out to pull at her wrist. She fought him, yanking it back, the meeting of their bodies not happening. He leaned down and whispered, right against her ear, the smell of her apple-scented lotion enough to make him want to empty out the production trailer right that moment. “Sure it does.”

She jerked back and twisted away. “If he kisses me on camera, I’m going to lose it,” she shot at Don, pointing an accusatory finger in Cole’s direction.

“I know you will,” Cole laughed, crossing his arms to restrain them. “You’ll fall apart under my mouth, baby.”

Summer screamed in response, her hands thrown up in frustration, and spun to leave, her script left behind, the slam of the door loud in the full production trailer.

“That went well,” Cole mused. He linked his hands and rested them on his head, rolling his shoulders back. Panic. She’d had panic in her eyes. Fuck.

“What do you expect?” Don said. “You threw this on her without warning. I told you we should have met with her this morning, gone over the changes to prepare her. But no, you just wanted to dump it on her via call sheets and sides.”

“Dump it on her? I was People’s Sexiest Man last year. She’s not mentally adjusting to a war camp for God’s sake. How hard is it to kiss me?”

“It’s actually three kisses,” a dark-haired PA to his left pointed out. “And a grope.”

He gave her a hard look, and she withered a little.

“I’ll go talk to her,” Don said. “Eileen, you shoot number four, and I’ll talk to Summer. I want to try to get fourteen shot at eleven, so let’s get our asses in gear and get this done.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Cole stepped in. “You shoot four, and I’ll talk to her.”

“No,” Don snapped. “With my luck, you two would make up and any authenticity to the scene would disappear. Just stay away from her, and be ready at eleven.”

Cole chewed on his cheek, then nodded. “Fine.” Don was right. He should stay away from her. Because right now, the only thing he could picture was the panic on her face. And that look, that vulnerability? It made him want to comfort her, to protect her. And those urges were dangerous, they turned things between them a different way. A way that made him more vulnerable too.

CHAPTER 68

SCENE 14: ROYCE AND IDA: OFFICE KISS

“I want blue. Something cool and refreshing.” Cole pushed the ad copy toward me, and I fidgeted, scratching the back of my stocking with the toe of the vintage Mary Jane heels.

“The focus groups liked red better.” I avoided his eyes when I spoke, running my finger over the edge of a stack of cards, lining them up against each other. I was supposed to be hesitant in this scene, uncomfortable. It was an easy role to play. I felt so lost. On the set, in the role of actress, in the lust/hate relationship that Cole and I seemed to have.

“Red means stop.” Cole’s voice was tired, one hand rubbing at his eyes, the other pulling at his tie. I wish we didn’t have to do this scene today. I had asked Don, begged Don, when he had come to my trailer—begged him to push this scene—for us to do it in a few weeks, once I had the acting thing down, my kinks worked out. What I didn’t say to Don was that I needed more separation from my sex with Cole to this kissing scene. Twelve days. That was all it had been so far. Twelve days, which still seemed like only twelve hours. When would I forget how his fingers felt on my skin? The tone of his voice as he had gasped my name? When would I forget how he felt inside of me? When would I forget the incredible sensation that had shaken my body? Part of me wanted that answer to be never. Another part of me just wished it had never happened. You can’t miss something that you didn’t know existed.

“You don’t use a color that means stop when you want someone to buy something.” His voice hardened. “It’s common sense, Ida. Use your brain.”

“I don’t care if your literature says that red means stop. The blue… when combined with the dark cola, looks weak. The red has more punch, looks more iconic.” I hold up the card, the cursive script of the logo standing out against the red mockup. “It looks patriotic.”

“Blue is patriotic, too.”

“Yankees wear blue,” I pointed out, and this was easy, the lines falling into place and coming easily.

“We’re not doing red,” he said flatly.

“Let’s ask the other investors.”

He stopped messing with his tie and looked up at me. “Let’s not.” My finger, which had been picking at an itch on my arm, stilled. This was it; it was coming. He twisted in his chair, turning it to the side, then slowly to the front, considering me.

I waited for the next line, my lungs tightening, the simple act of breathing in and out in a normal fashion a chore.

“Come here,” he said softly, pushing on the edge of his desk with one smooth-soled dress shoe, his heavy chair rolling back. He waited, his hands on each arm, his knees spread, the dress pants stretched tight over his frame.

“What?” I breathed out the question in a mild state of panic. This was off script. He was supposed to ask about my husband, or lack of.

“Come here.” He nodded to a place before him.

“I’m fine right here.” I set down the ad cards.

“I’m not gonna bite you, Ida. Come here.”

I shouldn’t have moved. Ida wouldn’t have. Ida would have primly told Mr. Mitchell where he could stick it.

I moved. I walked on uneven floors in unsteady heels over to him and stopped, five feet or so away, my hands clasped before me. I could feel the soft hum of the camera beside me, could hear the shift of our audience behind me, the loud click of someone’s walkie. Cole’s eyes never left mine, his stare burned up the path between us, and he rotated his chair slightly, ’til he faced me. “Closer.” The word came out a little hoarse, and he cleared his throat. “Closer,” he repeated.

I moved closer, one slow step at a time, my heels loud in their clicks against the wood, then I was before him, and he rested his head back against the chair and looked up at me. “Sit. On the edge of the desk.”

My hands reached behind, found the ledge of the desk, and I leaned back, grateful for the support.

“No,” he corrected. “Sit on it. Or I will put you on it.” The order in his voice, the image of his threat… it stirred a feminine place in me that shouldn’t, in this moment, surrounded by onlookers, be touched. I pushed up on my toes and worked my way onto the desk, my skirt pushed up by the action. I pulled at it, crossing my legs and covering myself as best I could. Surely, Don would call for us to cut. Surely, someone would stop this waste of valuable film time.

“Do you know why I hired you, Ida?”

I lifted my eyes from the tassels on his shoes. “No.”

“No, sir,” he corrected.

I pursed my lips and said nothing.

“Do you want to know why I hired you, Ida?”

“Not particularly,” I said tartly. “Sir.”

He pushed off the arms of the chair, standing up in one fluid motion. I tensed, waiting for him to step forward, but he didn’t. He stayed in place, his hands slow and deliberate as they rolled up one white shirtsleeve to the elbow, then moved to the other. “I hired you,” he said quietly, stepping forward and stopping before me, his eyes dropping to my legs. I lost a breath when his hand settled on my knee, and I uncrossed my legs, pinning them together, my hand pulling down my skirt. “I hired you because you walked into my office in your cheap little dress, and I thought ‘I bet that woman will be one hell of a lay.’” His hand moved higher, up under my skirt, and I stiffened, my hand falling on his forearm and pushing, resisting. He chuckled, his second hand pulling my legs apart, and, with a sudden jerk, he slid me to the edge of the desk, my knees spread, my skirt pushed high enough to expose the ridiculous garter straps. His eyes met mine for a moment, his fingers light and slow as they drew lines across the bare skin of my upper thighs, tracing the edge of the garter straps to the place where they crossed my panties, a lace set that matched. “I hired you because I pictured you right here, on my desk, moaning my name.”

My hands closed hard on his in the moment before his fingers moved again, the edge of my panties too close, my need too great, my composure a tiny step away from begging. I told him no with my grip, and he listened, pulling his hands away, back to my stockings, then my knees. When he looked at me, his hands were already back to his tie, tightening the silk back into place. “What I didn’t do was hire you because I cared about your opinion or your advice. You make a fairly decent cup of coffee and look good in a skirt. That’s why you’re here. Don’t forget that.”

“You’re an ass.” The rough words scraped through my mouth but barely hid the tears at their formation, and Cole smiled at their receipt.

“Oh yes, my dear.” He leaned forward and yanked at the edge of my skirt, covering me up with one hard motion. “That just might be the smartest thing you’ve said all day.” The response hit the script, the familiar line the only thing I could hold on to, and I did, biting back a hundred stupid feminine words. I pushed off the desk, my heels shaky when they hit the floor.

“Thank you for making your position on this point so clear, Mr. Mitchell. I’ll keep my opinions to myself from this point forth.”

“Good to hear.” He settled back into the chair, and I turned away, moving to the door, looking past the camera which focused on my face and caught the tear moving down my cheek.

Later, Don would tell me I was brilliant, that the scene was perfect—one of the few in his career that had been captured in a single take. Later, I would nod and laugh and accept his praise as if I hadn’t been breaking, as if Ida and Royce had no correlation with Cole and me, as if I had been acting and not living through the skin of Ida Pinkerton.

CHAPTER 69

Three years ago, I should have known. When I called Scott and he didn’t answer. When I went by his office and he wasn’t there. I should have known that something was wrong, I should have seen the signs and put them together. But I didn’t. I was twenty-five years old and naïve and in love, and I thought that best friends and fiancés didn’t mix.

I didn’t even pick up on it when I saw Bobbie Jo’s car parked behind the barn at his house. I thought, with a week before the wedding, they were planning a surprise for me—thought I was going to walk in and catch them red-handed with a honeymoon itinerary to Amelia Island spread out on the kitchen table. I almost left. Almost got back in my truck and drove home… to let them plan my surprise, to let them have their moment of AHA! where I would act surprised, and they would be clever, and I’d get the honeymoon of my dreams after all.

I would have done exactly that were it not for Scott’s mother. That was why I was hunting him down to begin with. She’d called me from home, needing her medication, and he was supposed to have picked it up that morning. She was in pain, and I was the future daughter-in-law, swooping in to her aid. I was feeling pretty good about myself, about my surprise, about my loving fiancé and doting best friend. I was all but bursting with happiness when I walked around the side of the house and toward the front porch. I was so busy in my personal positivity party I almost didn’t hear Bobbie Jo moan.

But I did. I heard her moan, and I heard him groan, and I realized, in the moment before my foot hit the first step, everything that I had overlooked.

CHAPTER 70

When Cole’s phone rang at six fifteen in the morning, he contemplated ignoring it. Glancing down at his watch, he kept pace, his feet quiet on the soft dirt, the fields stretching out before him, the sun low behind the trees, the sky pale pink and peaceful. He didn’t want to talk to his attorney right now, not when he was breathing clearly for the first time in days, his mind working through things that it had stumbled over for the last week.

Like Summer. There was a problem there, between him and her. A problem that had only disappeared during the twenty minutes in her bed. Too short of a time. Embarrassing, really. Nadia would have laughed at him and pushed him off. Then again, he’d never come that quickly with Nadia. He tried to put his finger on what was different with Summer, what had set her apart. He was just starting to work through that when DeLuca’s call came through. He declined the call.

He’d miss this when he went back to California. Running outside, the give of the soil beneath his feet, the breeze devoid of pollution and competitive fight. Maybe he’d try the Observatory when he got home. Run those hills and bring Carlos and Bart with him. Be aware, with every step, of the paps documenting his trip.

The call came through again, and he slowed to a walk, answering the phone. “Hello.”

The man’s voice came through a wall of static and missed vowels.

“I can’t hear you,” Cole said with a smile. “The service here sucks.”

There was another staccato string of words, asshole and summons coming through clear.

“I’ll call you from a landline when I get home.” Cole ended the call and turned off the phone, killing his music at the same time. It didn’t matter; he’d think more clearly without it.

It had been a mistake, changing the scripts. Infusing sexuality into The Fortune Bottle might work well for the movie, but it was raining hell on him. It’d taken every bit of his self-control to stand before Summer, her skirt around her waist, her lace panties, the contrast of her skin against the dark stockings, the dainty garter… his fingers had twitched against her skin, his common sense on a thin ledge, his lines forgotten, the set and crew forgotten, everything fading but the tremble of her and the images of everything he wanted to do to her. He’d been rock hard when he had yanked her skirt back into place and stepped away, had walked to the viewing room bathroom and found pre-come coming out of his dick. “We didn’t get the kiss,” he had griped to Don. It had been easy to feign irritability, to scowl, to call her a rookie. It had been easy to argue with Don when he’d said that the kiss didn’t matter, that the scene was even hotter from the lack of kiss. Foreplay, Don reminded him, can be the hottest thing. And wasn’t that the damn truth.

But today, they would need to get the kiss, would need to document that transition in Ida and Royce’s relationship, to properly build for the sex scene that would eventually come. Jesus. He would kill himself on that day. There was no way, without some release, that he’d last.

A truck approached from the opposite direction, and he jogged right, to the side of the road, his hand mimicking the driver’s and lifting in a wave. The truck rumbled by slowly. Another thing that would never happen in Los Angeles—a friendly wave to a stranger. Especially not from him. A wave would prompt the car to stop, then others, a crowd mobbing him for autographs and selfies, a start that wouldn’t have a finish until he was called an asshole and documented on every gossip rag and Twitter feed as such. He hadn’t been approached once in Quincy. It was odd. Almost scary. He’d wanted to ask Summer about it, had set it aside as a safe topic for the next time they were cordial. That’d been three weeks ago. Cordial just didn’t seem to be in the cards for them.

Before his six years with Nadia, he’d screwed plenty of costars, most of them. It was normal, with four months together, socializing with the crew a non-possibility, for the leads to gravitate toward each other. Lines were often run late at night over drinks. And lines and drinks typically led to drunk kisses and drunker sex. Costar sex had often been good but never great. Then he had met Nadia, fallen for Nadia, and never looked back, never been tempted, never yielded to a costar’s pathetic play at an affair.

And sex with Nadia had always been good, it had been the basis of their relationship, now that he stepped back and examined it. But sex with Summer… that experience had been another league entirely. He had lost his mind in those moments in her bedroom. Touching her, the feel of being inside her, her kiss, her sounds… he had let himself, in her bedroom, enjoy her, want her, worship her. He’d been, in that moment, completely hers. And that, more than their tension, more than Brad DeLuca and his threats, is what scared the absolute hell out of Cole.

He rounded the bend and headed home, extending his stride and pushing the last half-mile hard. He needed to shower. Jack off. Get in some type of a reasonable mind-set before he called DeLuca back and then headed into town.

SCENE #22. That was on the docket today. Rewritten to incorporate the kiss that didn’t happen yesterday. He kept his eyes straight ahead, on the narrow strip of clay, and didn’t look to Summer’s house. A kiss. Child’s play.

Between the swing of his stride, he felt himself grow hard at the thought, and he groaned in protest.

He was fucked. Absolutely, unequivocally, fucked.

CHAPTER 71

“I need you in California this afternoon.” Brad DeLuca didn’t mince words, his greeting skipping straight to the point. Cole stuck the end of the hose in the kiddie pool and twisted the nozzle. Cocky liked the kiddie pool, especially on a day like today, where it was gearing up to be in the high nineties.

“I can’t go to California today.” He watched the pool fill and lifted the towel from his neck, drying off his head, still wet from the shower.

“Yes, you can, and you will. I spoke to your director, and he’s shifting the shooting schedule, said it will be no big deal.”

“You spoke to my director.” Cole mused, spraying a burst of water in Cocky’s direction, when DeLuca had time to sleep.

“I wasn’t going to waste your time by calling you for something that couldn’t be done. I verified that it can be done, and now you’re going. Justin has already set up a flight for you at eleven.”

Eleven. Cole breathed a little easier. Plenty of time to shoot twenty-two and then hit the airport. Worst-case scenario, if Don wasn’t happy, they could reshoot it later in the week. “Why do you need me there?”

“You’ve been summoned. It’s an initial play at mediation. Nadia’s team is trying to look good; though, I can tell you from the tone of our communication, they are anything but cooperating.”

“So it’s a waste of time.”

“Not at all. I spoke to them this morning and gave them an ultimatum. Told them tomorrow is their last chance to stay out of court. They gave us three options on dates for the mediation, and this is our best shot. If we could knock out The Fortune Bottle issue now, especially since you’re clean as a fucking whistle, then the rest is easy. You could be fully divorced by Christmas.”

Clean as a whistle. He didn’t feel clean. With everything happening with Summer, he felt dirty as fuck. He said nothing and opened the back door, Cocky perking up his head. Divorced by Christmas. That would be good. And Nadia would definitely want to avoid court. Maybe this mediation could be it, one giant stress removed from his life.

“How are you handling things?”

Cole looked at Cocky and contemplated bringing him to the set. He’d have to ask Summer to watch him while he was gone. There wasn’t really anyone else.

“Cole?” DeLuca prodded. “I don’t want you drinking your feelings away. Nadia’s not worth it. You’ll know that one day.”

“I’m fine,” Cole snapped, leaving Cocky in place and pulling the back door shut and heading for the front, grabbing his keys off the counter.

“Don’t give me that. You want to play tough on the set, fine, but be upfront with me. I have a shrink that is brilliant. Why don’t you talk to him? Just vent, or break down, or do whatever it is that you Californians do when you have a broken heart.”

Cole laughed, his hand on the front door, the cordless phone pinning him to the house when he really wanted to get to the Pit. “Brad. I’m fine. I swear to you on God’s green Earth that I am not pining over Nadia.”

“So you’re over Nadia.” Brad’s voice was skeptical, and it ate up valuable time. Cole glanced at the rooster clock by the door and tried to calculate how many takes they’d have time to fit in.

“Yep,” he said shortly.

“I thought I told you to stay away from pussy.”

Cole’s attention returned to the call. “What?”

“You can’t get into a relationship right now. Absolutely not. We’re walking into our first round of mediation, and we need you to look wounded and struggling. If you’re in a new relationship it’s going to paint Nadia’s affair in a different light.” The man’s words rolled out focused and deadly.

“I’m not in a relationship.” It was true. Summer and whatever their thing was wasn’t a relationship. It was an obsession at a convenient time. If it helped him to get over Nadia, even better. It, like his obsession over racehorses and The Fortune Bottle, would fade. Probably before this movie even wrapped.

“I swear to you, Cole, if the media catches wind of this, you will be crucified. Right now, you have all of America in your corner. You are Jennifer Fucking Aniston and she is Angelina Jolie covered in shit. Don’t join her in the shit, Cole. Not until we have your movie in front of a judge, and I have it in your name, wrapped up in enough legal tape to make sure that Nadia never touches it. Then, if you want to take this girl to the premiere and roll her around in the millions this will bring you, go for it. But not before then. You know better than anyone how these bloodhounds will sniff out stories, Cole. Don’t hand them one on a silver platter.”

“I’m not in a relationship, I’m not seeing anyone, and I’m not fucking anyone.” He bit out the last line in easy concert with the truths and rested his forehead on the door, willing the man on the other end to buy his words. It wasn’t really a lie. He wasn’t fucking Summer, he had fucked her. Past tense. Wasn’t going to happen again. Probably. “If you want me on a plane by eleven, I have to go.”

DeLuca sighed into the receiver. “Fine. I’ll see you in LA. Justin’s arranging a driver for you at the airport.”

“Okay.” Cole ended the call and straightened, tossing the phone onto the couch and pulling open the door, the sky full of morning light, a sparrow flying off the porch railing at first sight of him. Cole jogged toward the truck, squinting in the direction of Summer’s house and was pleased to see her truck wasn’t out front.

He climbed into the cab, starting the big diesel and heading toward town. It would be a busy morning. SCENE #22. The first kiss between Royce and Ida.

He’d knock that out, then he’d fly to Los Angeles, and rejoin the demons.