Текст книги "Hollywood Dirt"
Автор книги: Alessandra Torre
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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
CHAPTER 88
This was a stupid stupid stupid idea of mine. Especially because, riding back to Quincy, I was stuck in the far back of the truck, listening to a twenty-two-year-old girl prattle on about Emma Stone as if anyone gave two craps. Apparently Emma Stone was Carly’s favorite actress. And she saw that movie that Emma and Cole were in together—you know, the one with the theme park killer? And she loved it. And she really really really thought that Emma Stone and Cole should do something else together. A love story. And she wanted to know if Emma Stone was as sweet in person—KILL ME NOW. Seriously. I just wanted them to pull this car over, let me hop out into the street, and then just plow me down. Cole would probably enjoy it. And I could finally end the torture of listening to this woman.
She had a tattoo on the back of her neck. I would have pointed it out to someone, but that would have lost me my bet and—thirty minutes earlier—I was so excited about winning that I overlooked the little discrepancies that made her different than me. Like her chest, which was definitely bigger. And the belly button ring, sparkling out from the bottom edge of her shirt. Ida Pinkerton would not have a tattoo or a belly button ring. The tattoo was of a dove. Why would someone want a dove permanently etched on the back of their neck? Or anywhere else for that matter.
When I was fourteen, I’d wanted a tattoo. Had big plans for my eighteenth birthday: the Chinese symbol for grace tattooed along my ribs. Because, yeah, what was more graceful than a country hillbilly with a rib tattoo? Thank God that I outgrew that phase. Otherwise I’d have nothing to sit back here and mentally trash talk about. I sighed and settled deeper into the tiny third row. Tattoo and belly ring aside, the girl was perfect. Ridiculously perfect. I peeked at the photos they shot of her. Photos where she was butt naked and smiling sunnily into the camera, not an ounce of insecurity on that face. Nothing like me, my sniffling, baby self, curled into a ball on my trailer’s couch. Lord, I must have looked dumb. I was surprised that Cole did all this, allowed all this. I was surprised he didn’t just laugh at me and tell me to toughen up. That was probably what I would have done to a girl wasting everyone’s time and money.
I looked up front and saw him watching me. He glanced away, and I looked down. I felt sick. It was probably from riding in the back.
CHAPTER 89
It turned out that sex scenes have rehearsals just like a traditional scene. That would have been a good thing to know when I was in a stage three panic. It might have calmed my nerves to understand that Cole and I would walk through the scene fully clothed, just to understand what was happening, which cameras would be where, what would be said when. Also, instead of the camera operator right there by the bed, they were using the remotely operated cameraheads. Meaning there was some illusion of privacy. Unlike our kissing and office scenes, there wouldn’t be someone right there looking between my legs.
We were on the fourth set, which was supposed to be Royce’s bedroom. It was the ugliest bedroom I’d ever seen, but I guess, back in the thirties, that was what you got. Dark green carpet, horribly wallpapered walls, and a plaid bedspread: that was the décor a bachelor had. Not exactly the sleek Mad Men look I was expecting, but that was why these guys made the big bucks, and I watched YouTube videos on scrapbooking.
I’d also been wrong about the lights. I’d pictured the huge bright spotlights that we’d filmed under. But here, on this set, it seemed almost dim. And instead of five cameras, there were only two. Much more manageable. There was also no crowd of people. The grips and caterers and production assistants upon production assistants all gone, there were only six of us and—in the big room—it felt almost empty. It felt almost, with the dim lights, intimate. And that, for some reason, bugged me. It shouldn’t have. I wasn’t the one on the bed. Carly was. She was the one who’d been giggling like a banshee, even though Don had asked her twice to be serious. And she was the one on her back, naked as the day she was born—no pasties for her—her back arched off the mattress as Cole ran his lips down the center line of her stomach, one of his hands moving up one thigh. My stomach flipped in an unnatural way and I turned away from the bed, my hands shaking as I pushed my hair away from my face.
I felt a silent hand at my back and turned my head, careful not to look at the bed, wanting to cover my ears and drown out the sounds of Carly. “It’s not that bad,” Eileen whispered, her mouth close to my ear. “I promise, your part will be easy.”
I closed my eyes and nodded, pretending, for both her sake and mine, that my performance is what I had been stressing over.
CHAPTER 90
“This part is easy.” Cole rested his hands on either side of Summer’s head, and she nodded. Looked away. He could feel her leg bouncing against the bed. “Congratulations,” he added. “You won.” He smiled, and her eyes moved to his, absolutely no reaction on her face. He shifted a little, uncomfortable, and wondered if he’d missed something. “Are you nervous?”
“No.”
That had to be a lie. First, the evasion eye contact in the car. And now, her mouth was tight, eyes unmoving, her fingers tapped against the side of her legs, an unending rhythm, and he wanted to grab ahold of them. And her legs. Hold her still and make her look into his eyes and tell him what was wrong. Because it didn’t seem like just nerves. It seemed like she was also mad. And over what? She’d won her bet, gotten her way. She should be happy.
“Okay, guys, we’re ready to begin in five. Summer? Cole? You guys set?” She nodded, and he nodded, and then, silence fell, and it was just the two of them. No initial lines. No choreography. They were just supposed to kiss and caress, and she was supposed to give them all of the reactions that would replace the ones that the college chick had done. The sheet between them was thin, but she’d insisted on having it there, as well as her shorts and the strapless bra. He, on the other hand, hadn’t changed from the first shoot, was still wearing the cock sock that had made Summer’s eyes widen, her cheeks turn pink when he’d dropped the robe.
Silence fell on the set, and he stared down at her. There were so few times when he could really stare at her. She often caught him when he did, as if she could feel the weight of it. But in this moment, on camera, he was allowed, and he drank his fill, his eyes dragging from the light brown of her eyebrows to the thick fur of her lashes. Her golden eyes flicked to his, and he said nothing, did nothing, just watched the minute jumping of her pupils, their twitch as they settled. He rested his weight on his knees and one hand, lifting the other to her face. She didn’t look, didn’t react, just stared at him. His fingers soft, he ran the tips of them across her cheekbones and down to her lips, a dark red lipstick on them, typical Ida and nothing like Summer. He suddenly wanted it gone, and opened his mouth, sticking his thumb in and closing his lips around it. Her eyes dropped and she watched as he dragged the digit out, his teeth scraping at the pad. When he gripped her face, his fingertips rough against her cheekbone, earlobe, and jaw, she tensed beneath him. When his wet finger smeared across her mouth, taking the red with it, she opened her lips, and a hard sigh fell from him when she caught his thumb in her teeth, her eyes on him, then sucked it, going deep and then slowly pulling off. His thumb felt a hundred sensations that his cock wanted and—in that moment—there was no one else in the room, everything disappearing but the two of them.
The minute his thumb left her mouth, he dropped down atop her, his hand gripping the back of her head, his mouth crashing onto hers, and he kissed her like he’d wanted to from the start, rough and wild, her tongue fighting back, their kisses missing their mouths as much as they hit them.
Cole grabbed her, rolling onto his back and putting her above him, his hand yanking the sheet down, pulling the clasp of her bra, and the piece was suddenly gone, and her breasts were tumbling free onto him, and he groaned, pulling her down, the soft weight of them against his chest so beautiful, so incredible that he lost his fucking mind. He bit her ear, wrapped his hand deep in her hair, and pulled it tight, his mouth going to her throat, and then he was back to her mouth, and her hands were covering her chest and he remembered the scene, the fucking scene, and rolled back over, shielding her from the camera, his mouth softening as he pulled the sheet back up, his whisper at her ear almost silent. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
She tugged on his hair and brought his mouth back to hers, and he didn’t apologize again.
What happened between them when they touched… it was nothing like Nadia and nothing like the blonde and nothing like every other woman he’d ever had.
And that difference scared the hell out of him.
CHAPTER 91
“This is bullshit! Learn your marks and stay on them!” Cole threw up his hands and glared at me, and sohelpmeGod if there weren’t a hundred people staring at us, I would have his nuts in a vice. A steel one. With teeth.
“You’ve moved the marks five times in the last two hours. Make up your mind and there won’t be a problem!” I pushed on his chest with both hands, and the damn man barely wobbled. This was what I got for neglecting my chores and spending my days prancing around a movie set. Cole stepped closer to me, and his voice dropped.
“Touch me again, and I’ll put you on your damn mark and hold you there.”
I stepped back. When he was that close, something in my body lost control. I thought it would fade. It hadn’t. We’d shot four scenes since our fake bedroom scene. None of them had been sexual in nature, yet I still wanted to hump this man like a dog in heat whenever we were in arms’ reach. It was getting ridiculous.
“Cole, Summer,” Don’s voice rang out. “Let’s take five. Summer, you’re looking a little shiny.” Makeup ran forward, a powder brush in hand, and I looked away from Cole and smiled a polite greeting. We were in the front room of the Frank plantation, lighting crews angled up the grand staircase, beaming a thousand watts of hot light down on us. Mary stuck a Tervis tumbler in front of me with iced tea. I took a sip, careful not to mess up my lipstick. We were on our nineteenth take, hours spent on a simple scene that should have been knocked out easily. Interesting that the quickest scenes we did were the ones that had heat. I didn’t know what that said about us.
When the front door swung open, it was lost, no one looking up, our mid-shooting break taking center stage. But when the door shut, the wind caused a suction, its slam a little too strong, and the sound caught my ears. I turned my head and there, in the doorway, stood a tall woman with white hair, blood-red lipstick, a pencil skirt, and sky-high heels. She was looking right at me, a cell phone to her ear, briefcase in hand, and my stomach twisted. Brecken’s boss. I knew who she was, had seen the senior publicist meet with Cole countless times, the clip of her heels always causing a scowl to come over his face. But this time, her steps effortless despite the heels, her face hard and stressed, I knew she wasn’t coming for Cole. I knew, this time, this was about me.
Don intercepted her, his hand held up, his headphones pulled off. “Casey, we’re filming. Not now.”
Cole waved his hand, frustrated, a growl in his throat. “Make it quick, Casey.”
“We’re rolling in two,” Don said, squaring off with Cole. “Whether you’re done or not.”
“I’m not here about Cole.” I think I was the only one who heard her perfectly modulated tones.
“Don, run through Summer’s marks with her; that’ll eat up another ten minutes, easy.” Cole’s jab was tossed out with a glance in my direction, to make sure I was listening. I wasn’t. I was pushing to my feet, off the folding chair, the makeup applicator chasing me down with a big fluffy brush. I knew I couldn’t run from this, a part of me, in the gut, had known since the day Ben mentioned this job, that this was a side effect.
The Rehearsal Dinner wouldn’t go quietly into the night. Not now that I was a celebrity or was going to be a celebrity. Casey skirted by Don, and I stepped forward, and we met like enemies on the Persian rug in the middle of the Frank parlor.
“Summer.”
“Yes?”
“We have something we need to talk about.”
CHAPTER 92
It had been a simple enough prank. And that was really all it was meant to be: a prank. Something to smack my wedding party on the back of the head and punish them for their betrayal.
Because they’d all known. I’d left Scott’s house that day and had driven to Corrine’s house. Walked into a houseful of my bridesmaids, their hands busy with net, lace, and rice, their bubbly chatter stopping when I’d walked in. Stacey, Scott’s secretary, had been the first to speak. “Hey,” she’d said, and my sensitive ears heard the red flag in her cautious tone. “I thought you were in Tallahassee today.”
“That was this morning.” I’d breezed through the girls and into the kitchen, ripping a paper towel from the roll and dabbing at my eyes, grabbing the wine bottle, freshly opened on the counter, and taking a generous swig. I’d pasted a smile on my face and stepped back into the doorway. “Where’s Bobbie Jo?”
Four girls didn’t lie well as a group. There was an uncomfortable stammer, someone saying ‘Working’ at the same time as Bridget said, “She isn’t feeling well.” With another swig of wine, I’d turned back to the kitchen.
“I’m gonna head home,” I’d called over my shoulder. “I don’t feel well.”
The girls had chimed in a chorus of regrets, their vocal cords suddenly working just fine. I’d stuck their extra, unopened bottle into my purse and pasted a smile on my face. Wiggled my fingers at them and heaped out my thanks for their tireless bridesmaid efforts as I walked back through and out the door.
It was what I had deserved, befriending the cool crowd of women in Quincy. They hadn’t really ever been my friends. They’d ignored me in high school and only buddied up when I’d started dating Scott. Scott’s friends had been their boyfriends, husbands, and brothers, our three-year relationship the only grounds that our friendship had been built on.
I had driven home to Momma, tears dripping down the stupid purple mascara that Avril Lavigne looked good in, and Bridget had raised her eyebrows at. And that night, one pruned toe playing with our bathtub drain, I had devised My Plan.
My Plan had been simple. My Plan had been foolproof. My Plan had been, according to Variety Magazine in that fateful issue that changed my life, diabolical.
I thought diabolical had been a strong adjective, used by a magazine editor who had clearly never read stories of Herodias or Jezebel. I mean, let’s face it. Nobody died.
CHAPTER 93
“How did I not know this?” Cole exploded, throwing a Coke can against the wall, the contents splattering on some poor PA. “How did we not know this?” He held up a magazine and waved it wildly, the flap of its pages loud in the quiet room. I couldn’t see the cover from my seat, his motions too fast, but I had seen him reading it, had seen everyone reading it, copies passed out like candy. I hadn’t taken one. I had simply taken my seat at the end of the table and waited for punishment.
“We didn’t think we needed to do a full work up on her.” Some man I’d never seen spoke up, his hands nervously adjusting the bridge of his glasses. “I mean, look at her.” He gestured in my direction, and I looked down at the table, the chastised child. “We ran criminal, background, and porn searches—did the blood work. Everything came back clean.”
Porn searches? They talked about me like I was a prop in the scene, one without feelings or emotions or explanations. Though, as far as explanations went, I had none. What I had done was terrible. And whatever was printed in that magazine… it probably painted it exactly in that light.
“It wasn’t that big of a deal,” I spoke up from my corner of the table. “And it was years ago.”
“So you already know what this is about?” Casey rested her weight on the table, her long red nails matching her lips.
“My rehearsal dinner?” I guessed.
“The Rehearsal Dinner From Hell,” she read loudly, her words over enunciated, her fingers shoving a glossy cover in my direction. It skidded halfway down the table and stopped. No one furthered its journey, but I could see the cover picture from where I sat. It was Scott’s and my engagement photo. Some creative mind at the magazine had drawn horns on my head and given me a tail. I looked away and saw Cole, staring at me, his weight against the wall. Our eyes met, and I couldn’t look away. I tried. I failed.
“Why didn’t you tell us about this?” Her voice rang out across the room, and I felt like I was eight years old, in Mrs. Wilson’s class, fessing up to forgetting to feed Sparky the Goldfish. I wanted to look at Casey, wanted to look at the floor, wanted to look anywhere but couldn’t pull away from Cole’s stare.
“Clear the room,” Cole spoke, a copy of the magazine crumpling in his fist. “I need to speak to Summer. Alone.”
No one moved, save for that Coca-Cola-drenched PA who started to stand, then realized no one else was, and plopped back down.
“I mean it.” Cole turned to Don, who sat next to Casey, his hands pressed to his temples. “Film the entry scenes. Have extras stand in for us. I want a chance to talk to her alone.”
Don looked at Cole for a long moment, then stood. No one, out of the ten who left, looked at me. It was three years ago, all over again.
When the door shut, I spoke. “Cole…” I didn’t even know what I had planned to say. I just knew I had to speak; we had to have something between us other than empty space.
“You should have told us. We can control something that we know about. This…” he set the crumpled magazine down on the table and tapped at its surface, “this we can’t control. Not now. Right now every tabloid and entertainment publication has someone, as we speak, getting on a plane and coming to Quincy. And they will talk to every one of your friends, and every Chatty Cathy they can find, and you will be a Trivial Pursuit answer before the end of the week.”
Every one of your friends. Ha. Good luck finding those.
“I don’t care.” I looked down at the table when I spoke, a dried glob of something… was it ketchup?… on its surface. With all of the Franks’ money, you’d think someone here would have cleaned that.
There was the sound of slickness on wood, and I turned my head, watching him walk down the long length of the table, his fingers braced on the wrinkly magazine, sliding it down.
Closer to me.
Three places away.
Closer to me.
Two places away.
He stopped. “Repeat that?”
I looked up into his face, and forgot, for a moment, how much I hated him. “I don’t care.”
“You will. Maybe you don’t right this second, but you will.”
I shrugged. “I don’t think so. I’ve been an outcast in this town for three years. I can’t imagine caring if some soccer mom in Nebraska also thinks I’m psycho.”
“It’s not just moms in Nebraska. It’s everyone in this industry.”
“No offense, but I hate your industry. This is a one-shot thing for me. Then I’m taking my money and running.”
“Really.” He laughed. “You get a lead role in a feature film, and then you are going to just disappear?”
I didn’t smile, I didn’t smirk, I just stared at him and made sure that he understood the words out of my mouth. “Yes.”
He slid the magazine the last seat length toward me and stopped. My thigh jiggled against the seat, and I wanted to stand, wanted to change this dynamic of him looking down on me, but I didn’t. I sat in my chair like a good little girl and tried not to look at the front of his pants. He half-sat against the edge of the table, pulling the magazine around and before me, and his new position was even worse. There, one leg cocked up, the other one on the floor, I could see the outline of him. He was not hard, but I… in this horrible situation, was turned on. I couldn’t help myself. It was a chemical reaction between us that didn’t understand anything else.
He moved his hand from the magazine, and I forced myself to look at that instead, at the glossy photo from a time when I thought that teasing my hair made me look sexier. It didn’t. It made me look trashier. I see that now, and I have no doubt the observation will be so helpfully pointed out by someone like Nancy Grace or Kelly Osbourne or… I swallowed hard. I told him I didn’t care, but part of me did. Part of me had just recovered from being ignored. I didn’t know if I had the strength to now be ridiculed.
When he said my name, it was an exasperated sigh, and I looked up to see him rubbing at his neck, his eyes closed, his features tight. “Summer…” he let my name fall and stretched his head back. “You are so different from every other woman I know.”
“Thanks.” I said the word without the slightest bit of sarcasm, and he laughed.
“Whether you value your reputation or not, we need you to meet with Casey. Let her do her thing. You may have to go on a couple of talk shows and tell your side of it.”
I frowned. I had a hang nail on my left thumb, and I picked at it, my hand twitching when my nail dug too deep. “I don’t really want to talk about it.” It was none of anyone’s freaking business; that was the truth of it. And plus, dragging out my drama with Scott now… when he had a wife and baby… it seemed dirty. Rotten. Whether or not I had forgiven him was secondary to the life he was currently living. A life, which was most likely already being rocked by this article.
“You don’t want to talk about it on camera? Or with me?”
I choked out a laugh. “With you? Why would you care?”
“I need to know if I should keep ambulances on speed dial for the crew.”
I twisted my mouth and tried to hide a smile. He was too close, sitting there. I could smell a hint of his cologne, and I wanted to lean forward and get more of it. “The crew? I’d be much more worried about you, Mr. Masten.”
“Don’t do that.” His words were husky, and I looked up in surprise, my hangnail forgotten and saw his eyes on mine, and in them… I have seen that look before. In my bedroom. Right before… well…
“Don’t do what?” I shouldn’t have asked the question. I should have looked back down and changed the subject. But I didn’t. I pressed.
“Call me that. Not here anyway.” He sat back in his chair, his stare still on me, that feral, dominant stare that told me exactly what he had on his mind.
“Then where, Mr. Masten?” I dragged out his last name, and his eyes darkened, the left edge of his mouth curving up. It was official. I was going to hell.
He chuckled. “I’m not playing that game with you. Last time I walked into my house with an erection the size of Texas and you weren’t there.”
“I’m here right now.” A woman I didn’t know, one who had hidden inside of me for a long time, stood up, emboldened by the look in his eyes, by his words. I reached up and undid the top button of my shirt, then the second, his eyes closing for a minute before he reached forward.
“Stop.” His hands closed on mine, and they were so warm, so strong. I looked up into his face, which was tight with regret. “Not here. I did a half-ass job with you last time. I’m not making that mistake again.”
I digested the words, then slowly nodded. “It was pretty half-ass.”
He laughed. “Easy, Country. You’re dealing with a movie star. We’re known to have fragile egos.”
I pulled my hands free and reached for my buttons, but he brushed my hands aside, his fingers doing the job, the simple act of a man buttoning up my shirt causing something in me to weaken. “Why are you suddenly being nice to me?” I didn’t look at him when I asked the question. I couldn’t.
His hands lifted from my top button and cupped my face, turning it up, forcing the connection of our eyes. “I broke something over a man’s head when I caught him fucking my wife.” He shrugged. “Maybe you and I are more similar than I thought.”
“Not likely.”
He pulled forward with his hands and brought my mouth to his in a kiss completely different than the others—a quiet and soft kiss, one that tasted me and then let go, my eyes still closed when his hands left my face. “Don’t push me away, Summer,” he said. “Right now, you need a friend.”
“A friend.” I opened my eyes, and he was right there, those famous green eyes on mine. I laughed to take away any relationship reference he might infer. “You?”
“Yeah.”
“I have to like someone for them to be my friend.” I stepped back and hit the chair, stumbled. Of course I did. I couldn’t have one well-executed semi-witty comeback.
“Do you have to like someone to fuck them? Tonight?” My attention turned from the execution of my dramatic exit and back to him. He sat, hunched forward, against the side of the table, his hands now gripping its edge, his eyes tight to mine.
“Tonight?” I stalled, and I could literally feel the stick of my panties to me.
“Yes.” If eye contact had a leash, his would have been wrapped tightly around my heart.
I had a plethora of options in my response:
Oh… sorry. The Bachelor’s on tonight.
I have to run lines due to your incessant script changes.
Yes, I do have to like someone to fuck them, so no, tonight is not good.
I said none of those. When it came to him, I could only nod. Just off the cliff that I was going to eventually trip down anyway. “I’ll see you tonight, Mr. Masten.”
His mouth twitched, and his shoulders loosened a little. “Good.”
I had absolutely nothing intelligent to say to that. I swallowed, reached for my bottle of water, and headed for the door.
When I opened it, Casey stood there, her arms folded, nails rapping. “Let’s go, Summer. Right now. We need a game plan.”
I let out a deep sigh and let her take me. Through the kitchen and into the office. I let her walk me through containment and recovery process, one that would involve little on my part other than to behave. I nodded politely, tried to listen but all I could think about was my face on that cover, the words in those pages, what they’d say and how they’d paint me.
And, for the first time since he landed on this spit of country soil, I appreciated Cole’s magnetic sexuality, the obsession my skin seemed to have for his touch. Because the only thing I could focus on—the only light at the end of my tunnel, through Casey’s lectures and pen taps and gripes of dismay—was the fact that in just hours, I’d be at his house. I’d have his hands and his mouth on me. And I knew, in that moment, I wouldn’t be thinking about Scott, or The Rehearsal Dinner From Hell, or the article at all.
He would be my distraction. He would be, for this one night, my salvation.
