Текст книги "Hollywood Dirt"
Автор книги: Alessandra Torre
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
CHAPTER 5
Mama and I lived in the former slave quarters of what was once the largest plantation in the South. I acted as caretaker of the plantation, making sure the groundskeeper kept the grass at two inches or less, kept the pecans picked, and the house spotless. The Holdens spent five months a year at this home, the other seven months hopping between a Blue Ridge cabin and a California home. They were an oddity in Quincy, one of the rare families that took periodic leave of our city limits. I’d heard the snide comments, seen the sniffs of disapproval when their seats sat empty at Easter Service. It was ridiculous. The whole town was ridiculous. A bunch of rich folks squatting on their money until they died. Everyone silently tallying up each other’s millions when no one really knew who had what. The core group had all started the same: forty-three initial Coca-Cola investors put in two thousand dollars each in 1934. On that one day, in that one moment, they were all equal. Over the next twenty years, with stock sales, purchases, reinvestments, marriages, divorces, and bad decisions, some networths sky-rocketed, some became paupers.
Now, it’s a guessing game of who’s richer than whom. It doesn’t really matter. It’s all more than any one generation will ever be able to spend.
Six years ago I accepted care of the Holden estate in return for free board and five hundred bucks a month—a very fair trade for a job that takes around ten hours a week. Mother moved into the cottage’s second bedroom and covered the groceries and household items. Yes, I was a twenty-nine year old woman who lived with her mother. One who didn’t do drugs, party, or have sex. I read books, drank the occasional beer on a hot afternoon, and did the Times crossword puzzle on Sunday afternoons. I hadn’t attended college, I wasn’t particularly gorgeous, and I often forgot to shave my legs. On the upside, I could cook some mean dumplings and bring myself to orgasm within five minutes. Not at the same time, mind you. I wasn’t that talented.
And, right then, with whatever Bennington Payne had up his sleeve, I was his best bet. Even if I wasn’t one of the elite. Even if I was a Quincy outcast.
CHAPTER 6
I pulled a chicken from the fridge and placed it in the sink, running water over it to finish its thaw. Turning to Bennington, I caught his study of our home. “Like what you see?”
“It’s very homey,” he said brightly, taking a seat on one of the dining chairs.
I hid my smirk with a turn back to the sink. “Spill, Bennington. What do you need in Quincy?” I yanked open the freezer door, grabbing bags of vegetables.
There was a last moment of hesitation before he spoke, his words suddenly quick on their tumble out, the feminine lilt masked by a briskness that spoke of a big city. “I’m from Envision Entertainment. I’m a location scout. I need to procure spots for—”
“The movie,” I finished, setting aside the chicken and filling a large pot, proud of myself for having at least one piece of information.
“Yes.” He looked surprised. “How’d you—”
“We’ve all known since the day the mayor was called,” I said dryly. “You might as well have put up a billboard on 301.”
“So then there shouldn’t be a problem,” he said eagerly. “If everyone knows a movie’s coming, then I’ll just approach the plantations—”
I cut off his enthusiastic response with a quick shake of my head. “No one’s gonna let you film at their home.”
That stopped him, his face turning an interesting shade of gray that clashed with his blond highlights. “Why not?”
“Why would they?”
“Money? Fame? Bragging rights?”
I laughed. “First, no one in Quincy needs money—present company excluded, of course. And even if they did need money—which they don’t—they aren’t going to broadcast it by allowing your film crews to take over their plantation.” I ticked off the first point on my fingers.
“Second, this is the old South. Fame isn’t a good thing. Neither are bragging rights. The more you brag, the more flash you show—that’s a sign of weakness, of insecurity. You can tell the truly wealthy from their confidence, their grace. People here don’t show their wealth, they hide it. They covet it.”
The man stared at me as if I spoke Greek. “But all the mansions,” he sputtered. “The big gates, the diamonds…” His eyes darted around my humble abode as if my threadbare space would hold some proof as to his point.
“All old wealth,” I said, waving a hand dismissively. “Purchases made back when they were cotton farmers with new money. Back when Coke went big and the whole town celebrated their wealth together. That was almost a hundred years ago. Two generations back. Have you seen any new construction in town? Rolls Royces with air conditioning and satellite radio?” I waited, turning off the water and setting the pot on the stove.
“So what do I do? I need a mansion. Preferably two. Fifteen other locations to shoot at!” His voice squeaking, he dug a shaky hand in his pocket and pulled out a bottle of medication, his panic attack occurring without a single wrinkle in his forehead. I looked in fascination and fought the urge to poke it and see if it moved.
“It would seem…” I said slowly, snagging a glass and filling it with water, “that you need a local source. Someone who Quincy knows and trusts. Someone who can target the landholders who would be amendable. Someone to handle negotiations with the local vendors, hotels, and city officials.”
“But that’s my job,” he protested weakly, accepting the glass of water, his throat bulging as he gulped it down.
“And what are they paying you for that?” I leaned back and crossed my arms, staring down Ben in hopes he’d break. I hadn’t really expected him to break. I’d expected him to brush off his girly suit and ignore the question. But I was wrong and I fought to keep the surprise from my face when he answered.
“A hundred and twenty,” he said primly, crossing his legs and straightening the fabric of his pleats, as if he were regaining some semblance of composure by spilling his guts.
“Thousand?” I shouldn’t have even asked; it was a stupid question with an obvious answer. He wasn’t sitting at my scratched table for the price of a vacuum cleaner.
“Yes. But that’s for five months of my time. Negotiations, red tape management, the—”
“I’ll do it for twenty-five, cash.” I stepped forward and held out my hand, my face set, poker-stare in full force.
“Fifteen,” he countered, already rising to his feet and eyeing my outstretched palm.
“Twenty.” I glared. “Remember, I’m the only hope you have.”
He reached out with a smile and shook my hand, his grip firmer than I expected. “Deal.”
I squeezed his hand and flashed my own smile back at him. But, between me and you? I’d have done it for five hundred bucks.
CHAPTER 7
Ben was staying at the Wilson Inn, a mistake, but one I didn’t blame him for making. Quincy has two major lodging options: the Wilson Inn, a three-star motel, and the Budget Inn, a place my cockroaches would turn their noses up at. What lies below the internet’s radar are our bed-and-breakfasts, seven of them in the square-mile radius of Quincy proper. I told him to pack up and booked him a room at the Raine House, the nicest of our B&Bs. We set a date for eight the next morning at the coffee shop on Myrtle Way. I told him to bring cash and I’d bring names.
The next morning, over a cracked linoleum table, I added a little Southern into Ben in the form of grits and gravy. And he added five thousand dollars’ worth of Hollywood into me with crisp green bills. We worked for four hours, ending the meeting with a clear game plan and a schedule for the next week. He drove off in his rental car, and I started calling names on our list.
It wasn’t an easy sell. Say my name in Quincy and a typical upper-crust face will curl in distaste. Try to then wrangle a favor out of them and you might as well be digging into rock with a plastic fork. But I knew my place. I rolled over and played weak. I groveled and kissed wrinkled buttocks and made sure they felt superior. And I got Ben four appointments out of twenty calls made. I hung up the phone a few hours later with a tired smile, happy with the outcome. It was more than I had hoped for out of Quincy. Maybe three years has been long enough, maybe the mud on my face was starting to wear off.
Or maybe, between the movie and the cash, some Quincy residents were willing, for just one quick moment, to overlook my sins.
CHAPTER 8
“Mr. Masten, tell us about your wife.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re familiar with her.” He smiled, and the woman blushed. She crossed, then re-crossed her legs.
“When did you know that Nadia Smith was it for you?”
“We met on the set of Ocean Bodies. Nadia was Bikini Babe Number 3 or something like that.” He laughed.
“And you were Cole Masten.”
“Yeah. I walked into my trailer one day and she was stretched out on the bed in a string bikini. I think that was probably when I knew. When I saw this gorgeous brunette, without a shred of self-doubt, lying on that bed as if she belonged there. She’s gonna kill me for telling this story.”
“And that was it?”
“Tracy, you’ve seen my wife. I didn’t really have a chance.”
“You’ve now been married almost five years, which, in Hollywood, is quite a feat. What would you tell our readers is your best advice for a successful marriage?”
“That’s a tough one. I think a lot of elements make for a successful marriage. But if I had to pick one, I think honesty is crucial. Nadia and I have no secrets between us. We’ve always said¸ it’s better to just get things out in the open and deal with them, no matter the consequences.”
“I think that’s great. Thank you for your time, Mr. Masten. And good luck on The Fortune Bottle.”
“Thank you, Tracy. Always great to see you.”
CHAPTER 9
Mama and I had a routine, our life a well-oiled machine that worked. Nights I cooked dinner, she did the dishes and cleaned up. On the weekends, we cooked together. Most of our social life revolved around cooking, growing, or eating food. But that was life, especially for a woman, in the South. Other women might take offense to that, but I liked to cook. And I loved to eat. And nobody made food that compared with what came out of your own garden and kitchen.
I get that living with Mama wasn’t exactly the sexiest concept around. I knew that some people found it odd. But we’d always gotten along, and given our limited incomes, we’d needed the financial assistance of each other.
Mama had grown quiet since I’d gotten the job with Ben. I hadn’t told her about the money yet, but I could feel the wings of my freedom flexing, pushing on the bones of my shoulders.
I needed to tell her about the money.
I needed to tell her about my plan, not that one had been formulated yet.
I needed to tell her that I was going to leave.
She needed to know that, soon, she would be alone.
I could hear her moving in her room, heard the scrape of a hanger on the rod, her floor creaking. It was a good time to tell her, as good a time as any. I folded down the corner of the page I was reading and closed the paperback, before setting it on the table.
Her door was open, and I leaned against the doorframe and watched her, her hair damp and in rollers, her nightgown sticking to her legs, her feet pale, toes that no one but me ever saw painted dark red. She glanced at me when she turned to the bed, the laundry half-sorted, her hands digging through the pile and pulling out socks.
“The movie,” I started. “You know… my job with Ben.”
“Yes?” She paired two socks with quick efficiency and rolled them.
“I’ll get a lot of money from it. Enough to—”
“Leave town.” She set down the roll of socks and looked up at me.
“Yes.” Leave her. That was really what the root of this problem was, and I tried to find the words to explain…
“Don’t worry about me.” She stepped around the bed and toward me. “That’s what you’re doing right? Feeling guilty?”
“You could come,” I offered. “There’s not anything here—”
“Summer.” She stopped me, putting a firm hand on my arm. “Let’s go sit on the porch.”
We turned off the front porch light in an attempt to ward off mosquitoes, the moon beaming at us across hundreds of neat cotton plants. I will miss our porch. I thought about that as I settled into one of its rockers, the tension leaving my shoulders in the first push of my foot on the railing. It was hot as Hades outside, the battle against mosquitoes a constant fight, but still. There was something about the absolute solitude that I loved. It grounded me, calmed any anxiety in my bones.
“Quincy was a great place for you to grow up, Summer.” The words floated over from her rocker, the creak of her chair moving her shadow back and forth beside me. “The people here are good. I know sometimes, with the way you’ve been treated, that it’s hard to see that, but—”
“I know.” I spoke quietly, and the words came out clogged. I cleared my throat and spoke louder. “They are.” I meant it. I’d never really know anywhere else, but I understood, deep in my bones, the beauty of the town, of the people who lived there. Even with the hatred toward me, the disdain I could feel in their looks, this town still loved me because I was one of its own. A bastard child, yes. A non-native, sure. But there wasn’t a person in our county who wouldn’t stop to help me if I broke down on the side of the road. Not a soul who wouldn’t pray for me in church if I fell sick. If Mama lost her job tomorrow, our fridge would be stocked with casseroles and our mailbox filled with donations. I didn’t think there were a lot of places in this country like that. I thought it took a town of a certain size, of a certain mindset, to be that way.
“It was a great place to grow up,” she repeated. “But you are a woman now. And you need to find your own place. I know that. I wouldn’t be a good mother if I tried to hold you back. I’m just sorry that I couldn’t, financially, put you on this path sooner.”
“I could have left before, Mama. Plenty of times.” And I could have. I could have gotten a job in Tallahassee. Or taken advantage of the Hope Scholarship and gone to Valdosta State or Georgia Southern. Gotten student loans and been on my merry way. I didn’t really know why I didn’t. It just never felt right. And my desire to leave Quincy wasn’t ever strong enough to prompt action. Then Scott and I started dating, and any thoughts of leaving were discarded. Funny how love could spin your life in an entirely new direction before you even realized what had happened. And when you did realize, you didn’t care because the love was bigger than you and your wants.
Our love had been bigger than me. That’s what had made its crash so devastating.
“Where will you go?” Mama’s voice was calm, as if I hadn’t just taken her world and broken it in two.
“I don’t know.” It was the truth. I had no idea where I’d go. “Do you want to come?”
I felt her hand find mine, her grip strong and loving. “No sweetie. But you will always have a home here, and with me. Let that give you the confidence to take risks.”
It was a sweet sentiment. I continued to hold her hand, our rockers moving in sync and tried to figure out how much, out of the twenty thousand, I could spare and how long that small amount would last her.
CHAPTER 10
“Assuming a role is like putting on another life and trying it on for size. You spend four months in that life and sometimes pieces of it stick.”
~ Nadia Smith
Cole Masten settled into the seat of his Bentley and picked up his cell. Dialed his wife’s number and pressed a button, sending the call through the bluetooth. He listened to the phone ring through the speakers and pulled out of Santa Monica Airport, heading north on Centinela Avenue toward home. The time spent in New York had been hell. Half promotional, half productive—at least he’d made some headway on The Fortune Bottle. For the first time since he’d started in this business, he felt excited by something. Maybe it was the risk of his money in the pot. Maybe it was the thought of total control—of the cast, the direction, the marketing. Total control was a rarity in Hollywood, a rarity that had cost him financially. But it would all pay off, with interest, when it hit the box office. This movie would be huge, he knew it, had felt it ever since he’d first heard of the sleepy town full of millionaires.
Nadia’s voicemail came on, and he ended the call, weaving in between slower cars as he drew closer to home. If she weren’t home, she would be soon. He’d managed to finish a day early, to give them at least one extra day together before he left for Georgia. Only six weeks until filming started. He turned up the radio, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel as he downshifted and passed a semi. He’d send the staff away as soon as he got there to give them some privacy.
The sky was dark by the time he wound up their tight, curving street and pressed the button, opening the gate. He saw her Ferrari parked in the garage and smiled. Jerked his car into park and hopped out, his fingers itching to touch her skin, inhale her scent, push her down on the bed. He walked up the side path, the stone uneven beneath his shoes, the landscape lighting illuminating the tall palms in dramatic fashion as he moved to the back door.
When he walked in the house, it was quiet and dark. He stopped in the kitchen, emptying his pockets onto the counter and pulling off his jacket. There was a note to Nadia on the large marble island, one from Betty, the house manager. He glanced at it, then lifted his head, the sound of the shower starting above him.
Skipping the elevator, he jogged up the stairs, a smile on his face when he reached the second floor. It was the strange voice that stopped his smile, the laugh that was distinctly masculine, and he opened the door slowly, the light from the hall spilling into the dim bedroom, the lit bathroom illuminating in clear fashion the end of his marriage.
Nadia’s hands were on the counter. He had always loved her hands. Delicate fingers, she had played piano as a child. They were very dexterous. That night, her polish was a deep brown. The nails had coordinated with the tan granite that they dug into.
Nadia’s head was tilted down, her mouth open in an O of pleasure, the man’s head at her neck, saying something against her hair. Her feet were bare and spread, pushed up on her toes, a position that pushed out her beautiful ass. The man’s hands gripped that ass.
“I love your ass,” Cole whispered, his mouth nipping at the skin.
“Of course you do,” she giggled, rolling onto her back, destroying his view.
“I hereby claim it as mine.”
She propped up on her elbows. “Uh uh uh. That ass belongs to my future husband.”
“Then let me own it.”
She tilted her head at him, a question in her smile.
“Be my wife, Nadia. Let me worship at the shrine of you until I die.”
“Now, Mr. Masten, how can I possibly say no to that?”
The man pushed his hips forward, and he heard her gasp. Saw the flex of her arms as she pushed back against him.
Cole stepped into the bedroom, his head pounding, his chest tight. The sounds of his feet on the carpet were thunderous, yet the couple didn’t turn, his wife didn’t hear, didn’t notice. Maybe because she was too busy moaning, her head lifting and falling back against his shoulder, one of her beautiful hands leaving the counter and reaching out to the mirror, bracing against it.
“Tell me you’ll never leave me,” Cole whispered the words against her neck as he kissed the skin there.
“Never?” Her eyes opened wide in mock indecision. “Never is a very long time, Mr. Masten.”
“Tell me you’ll always be honest with me. Tell me you won’t ever leave without letting me fix whatever issue first.” He lifted off her neck and hovered over her face.
She pushed against him with a laugh. “Silly man, we won’t ever have issues. I am an issue-less woman.”
“Every couple has issues, Nadia.”
“Not us,” she whispered, her legs parting beneath him, her smooth legs wrapping around his waist and pulling him tighter.
“Never?”
“Never.”
He didn’t know how the elephant got in his hand, its ceramic body heavy as it looked up at him with a peaceful expression. It was a Buddhist piece, something Nadia brought back from India, their decorator finding ‘the perfect display post’ for it, one that sat to the right of the bathroom entrance. But he recognized, when he closed his hands around it, the fury that pushed hard through his veins. Fury he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since he was a teenager with out-of-control hormones. Now, as a grown man, Cole stepped from the dim room into the lit bathroom with the elephant in hand, both hands, because for a peaceful animal the thing was heavy. Not too heavy to distract him from the words of the man, a disgusting proclamation of emotion. Not too heavy to drown out the response of his wife, saying the three words that were to be sacred only to them, forever and ever. He felt the thin string of control break as he swung the elephant hard, from left to right, hitting the shoulder…
“Tell me you won’t ever leave.”
and then colliding with the head…
“Never.”
of the stranger fucking his wife.
The man crumpled to Cole’s marble floor, and Nadia’s scream was so loud it hurt.
