Текст книги "Hollywood Dirt"
Автор книги: Alessandra Torre
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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
CHAPTER 94
This was the second time in four weeks that I was shaving for this man. Like, really shaving, in places that a good girl didn’t allow to see the light of day.
My giant epiphany from earlier, the one where Sex With Cole Masten would heal all of my problems? That thought process had lost steam, sputtered out and was hovering on the brink of death. I shouldn’t go over there. I should bail. Sit on my couch with my mother, eat banana pudding, and watch sweet little Jacob give his last rose to that skank who jerked him off on their Mystery Date even though ex-nun Anita was obviously so much better for him. Yep, I could definitely bail. I mean, what would be the consequences? He’d think poorly of me? That box was already checked. And now that I sat my butt down and thought about it, why was I primping for a night with a man I didn’t like? And who didn’t really like me?
Oh, right. Because he was Cole Masten. Because he’d poured gasoline on the fire of my arousal with his last performance, and there wasn’t another man alive who would be able to recreate that. Because, even though I liked to pretend I hadn’t seen it, pieces of the real Cole had peeked at me. Moments with Cocky. Moments with me. Moments where I saw a man better than the myth. And I wanted, before he hopped on his big jet and returned to California, before he moved on with his life and forgot all about Summer Jenkins, another taste of that man. Even if it ruined me for life. It had to be incredible to be my damnation. Otherwise it would just be another lay, easily forgettable, easily moved on from. Funny how that worked. Sex with him was my drug, and the better the high, the more I would crave it when it was gone. That night, I was succumbing to my addiction, and would take the hit despite the consequences.
So there would not be banana pudding, or The Bachelor, or a crossword puzzle with Mama. Nope. I rinsed the razor out under the bathtub’s tap and fully committed, in my mind, to the decision.
“I need your help.” I spoke rapidly into the house phone, my nerves at a level that couldn’t possibly be good for my mental health.
“I knew it!” Ben chirped. “You’re finally taking my advice and taking those waves straight. Please tell me you are spending all that movie star cash and flying me down there to use the straightener myself.”
I paused, my hand on a duffel bag, stuffed in the back of my closet, that I hadn’t used since high school. “No.”
“Shit,” he said glumly. “Needing fashion advice?” His voice took on a more hopeful lilt.
“Sort of…” I yanked at the bag’s handle, and half the items in the closet fell out. “I’m going over to Cole’s house tonight for sex, and I don’t know whether I should pack an overnight bag.”
Total silence. Quite possibly the quietest my adorable little Ben has been all year. “Repeat that?” he finally asked.
“Shut up and help me,” I groaned, pulling a pair of vintage Nikes out of the bag and examining them dubiously.
There was a long pause, then he spoke, “Is this a relationship hookup or just sex? In other words, are there feelings behind this?”
“No. I mean, intense dislike. If you count that as a feeling.”
“Ooh… hate sex.” He sighed dramatically. “I’d give my right nut for hate sex with that man.”
I grimaced. “Focus Ben.”
“Can you leave a bag in the car and grab it if he invited you to stay the night?”
“No.” There was no way on God’s Green Earth that I was driving my truck to Cole’s and leaving it parked out front all evening or—worse—all night long. If I did, every soul in Quincy would hear about our activities by tomorrow morning’s coffee brew.
“Then don’t pack a bag. Stick a toothbrush and change of underwear in your purse. Everything else you can wing until tomorrow.” He paused. “What are you telling Mama Jenkins?”
I laughed. “Mama Jenkins has all but pushed my butt out the door in his direction. She seems to think Cole is her only shot at grandchildren. She found the condoms I bought and threw them in the trash.” I’d been so embarrassed when I’d opened the lid and saw the small gold box. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that condoms did more than stop pregnancy. Instead, I gingerly removed the box, wiped it off, and hid it in my rain boots. Apparently my underwear drawer no longer counted as an acceptable hiding place.
“What happened to virginal vaginas being one of her requisites for marriage?”
I sat on the edge of the bed, kicking off my flip-flops and laughed. “I think she gave up on that scenario when she walked into the house and heard Scott’s hyena orgasm.”
“Who?”
I had forgotten, for a moment, that I hadn’t ever told Ben about Scott. Also forgotten, until right then, about the magazine article. “My ex. Have you been online today?” I hadn’t. Casey had made me swear to stay off all social media and websites. Before I left the Franks’, I read the article. It made me sick, my anticipation of each word giving it extra weight, the worst part being the quotes from local ‘anonymous sources.’ It made me hate every inch of Quincy, their low opinion of me so much harsher when printed in black and white and broadcasted to the entire nation. Don sent me home early, Cole’s head turned my way when I walked out, but I didn’t pause, didn’t meet his eyes, didn’t want to do anything but get into my truck, drive home, and crawl into my bed.
Momma met me at the door, and I didn’t ask why she wasn’t at work. I just dove into her open arms and sobbed. Sobbed like a little girl. She sat with me in bed, handed me tissues, and listened to my incoherent ramblings while rubbing my back. At some point, while her hand smoothed back my hair, I fell asleep. And when I woke up to the smell of chicken and vegetable soup, I wasn’t upset any more. Instead, I was pissed. At Scott, at Bobbie Jo, at Variety Freaking Magazine. I wanted to chop down ten trees, run fifty miles, take my gun to the big oak out back and empty a hundred clips. I wanted to screw and be screwed ten ways from Sunday by Cole Masten, and I wanted it immediately.
I had gone into the kitchen and kissed Momma on the cheek. Had a bite or two of soup, then excused myself into the bathroom. Used two razors and half a can of shaving cream. Stuck my box-o-condoms in my purse and dressed, pulling on the only sexy panties I owned, then a blue Tommy Hilfiger sundress that Ross had had on discount. It was then that I got stuck, my brain catching up with my libido, the simple logistics of the hookup foreign to me. That was when I’d called Ben. Ben, still in Vancouver, hadn’t yet heard my news. Either Canada didn’t give two craps about a no-name actress in Georgia, or he’d been too busy, but either way, I didn’t chase down the subject. Instead, I made excuses and hopped off the call as soon as possible, telling him I’d call him tomorrow.
Ben was right. Me showing up with an overnight bag would be weird. Really weird. As we clearly worked through in the Franks’ dining room—this was not a date. This was for one thing. One thing that I badly needed to work out the funk that was collecting in my system. My earlier thought process had merit. He would be my distraction. An earth-shattering, toe-curling distraction.
I grabbed my purse and kissed Mama goodbye. Then I opened the back door and jogged down the steps, heading to the fields, his home visible in the setting sun, lights on inside, his truck parked in front. Behind me, at the end of the Holdens’ long drive, a cluster of strange cars squatted outside the locked entry fence. We’d never locked that fence, not in the six years I’d been on the plantation. But Casey had called during my nap and warned Mama. Told her to tell me to stay put, to not talk to anyone, to avoid them. I took a deep breath and entered the fields, pushing everything out of my mind with each step farther away from the vultures.
A distraction. That was all this was.
Maybe an entire box of condoms was a little intimidating. I should have opened it and just pulled out one or two. Or three. Was this a one-sex visit? Scott and I had never had sex more than once per twenty-four hour period. But I read books, I watched Showtime, I knew that other couples were not the prudes that Scott and I were.
Not that Cole and I were a couple. It was a figurative reference.
It was stupid for me to wear flip-flops to walk there. My toes were already covered in dust, and I was only halfway there. Cole was not going to want to have sex with a girl with dirty feet. And it wasn’t like I could invite myself in and then ask to wash them off.
Rainboots. That would have matched this sundress and still kept my feet clean. Though the whole boot-removal process was a pain. And super unsexy, my hands gripping one boot while I grunted and wheezed through the contortions required to get a rubber object off a sweaty foot.
I should have eaten more. I was already hungry and those two bites of soup were tiny. When I was chicken-sitting at Cole’s, I raided his kitchen, and it was pathetic. The man appeared to live off milk, beer, and ham sandwiches.
I came to the end of the field and stopped. Before me, the Kirklands’ backyard, green grass stretching fifty yards in either direction, the white fence keeping the wildflowers at bay, the large home looming up and breaking the canvas of the night sky. And in the middle of the yard stood Cole, his hands on his hips, his white T-shirt stretched tight over a muscular chest, workout shorts on, his eyes on me. My dirty feet and I waited, stuck in place, and tried to think of something to say.
CHAPTER 95
He had been so worried she wouldn’t show. When she’d stepped out of the Franks’ house, her head had been down, her eyes not meeting his. He was sure that she’d change her mind, would leave him hanging. But now, coming to a stop outside the fence, she was here. He skirted around Cocky and walked over to the gate, resting his weight on it and looking at her.
“You came,” he said.
“Yeah.” She shifted her purse higher on her shoulder. “I brought condoms. Or…” She blushed. “A condom. You know. If…” She brought a hand to her mouth and giggled. “Oh my Lord. I’m an idiot.”
He laughed. “I have condoms but thank you.” The dusk light made her hair look pink, the wind picked up wisps of it and took it across her face, and she suddenly looked vulnerable. It was a new look on her and stirred some alpha male instinct deep within him, one he didn’t recognize. He put one foot up on the fence. “Before you come in, I wanted to propose something.”
“I don’t want to talk about the night of the dinner,” she said quickly. “If we could just, right now, ignore that.”
He shrugged. “Fine by me. It’s your thing. You change your mind, I’m here.”
“What’s the proposal?” She narrowed her eyes in suspicion, and he wondered, for an insane moment, if a child of theirs would have hazel or green eyes.
“Twenty-four hour truce.” He gestured between the two of them. “You and I have some aversion to civility. It’s a Friday night. We don’t have to work tomorrow. For the next twenty-four hours, no fighting.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “What about when you act like an asshole?”
“I won’t.” He smiled. “Promise.” It’d be hard not to push her buttons, especially when he enjoyed seeing her worked up. But he’d behave for twenty-four hours. He wanted to explore more of the girl who hid behind all of that fire.
“I don’t know if I trust your promises.” She stepped closer, dropping her arms and resting them on the gate.
He shrugged. “Then you can call me an asshole and storm out. Which is pretty much what you were already planning on doing after you got your use out of those condoms. Or condom. Or…” His grin widened. “Whatever.”
“That is true…” she mused, a wicked gleam in those hazel eyes. “I practiced my dramatic exit and everything.”
“I often fail at behaving.” Cole leaned forward, against the rail, his voice conspiratorial. “So don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll get to use that at some point.”
He pulled at the gate, then stopped. “Deal?”
“Are you going to turn me away if I don’t agree?”
“Ummm… yes.” He held the gate in place, half open, his body blocking the entrance.
“You’re a terrible liar,” she teased, stepping closer.
“Well, you know. I haven’t had much practice.” He smirked. “Deal?” He held out his hand.
“Deal.” She reached forward and shook it, her handshake strong despite such a tiny palm.
“Where’s your bag?” he eyed her purse, which was too small to hold much of anything.
“I didn’t bring one. I thought… you know. This was just sex.” She pulled at the bottom of her sundress.
God, she was adorable. “You’re staying the night.”
“Maybe.” Her eyes narrowed.
“You are.” He smiled and stepped aside, swinging the door open, Cocky squawking from the far end of the yard, his wings flapping as he half bounced, half flew, half ran over to her. She met Cocky halfway, dropping to her knees before the rooster, her hands light as they skimmed over his back and his comb. Cole watched her, a foreign lump in his throat. He cleared it with a hard cough and shut the gate, turning back to Summer. “You eaten? I was just about to grill some steaks.”
“Steaks?” she looked up, surprised.
“We don’t have to eat.” God, this was awkward.
“No.” she pushed to her feet. “Steak sounds great. Want me to whip up some sides?”
“Uh… sure.”
She brushed off her hands and grabbed her purse, setting off for the back porch with purpose. On the ground, Cocky squawked his indignation at being left.
“Hush,” Cole chided him. “You’ve already gotten more play than me.” He looked up at the house, the light windows giving him an uninterrupted view of Summer’s entry to the kitchen, her hands twisting up her hair then hitting the faucet, her head down as she washed her hands.
Twenty-four hours. The truce had been nothing but an excuse to spend more time with her. A dangerous gamble, but one he needed to take. There was something about her, something that had tugged on him since the moment they had met. A tug that had become an addiction. An addiction that he needed to cure. Twenty-four hours without the distraction of fighting would be his fix. Without the lure of unattainability, the hours would wear the shiny sparkle off her. She’d lose her mystery, would lose her charm. Then, with just one month left of filming, he’d have her out of his system and be ready to return to LA.
Leaving the rooster on the porch, he climbed up the stairs and pulled open the back door.
They cooked in silence, Summer finding some frozen okra and corn in the outside freezer, her hands quick as she riffled through the Kirklands’ kitchen, setting up skillets, grabbing items, cracking open the window above the sink. Cole watched her from his spot on the back porch, the grill on low, his back against one of the big porch posts. Nadia had never cooked. She’d had other things to do, more interested in eating at a place that would get her seen rather than a meal at home. And their chef knew what they both liked, so it never seemed necessary. To Nadia’s credit, Cole had never cooked either. Putting meat on a grill and taking it off before it burned. That was the extent of his talent.
She finished just after him, scooping out fried corn and an okra-tomato-corn medley on his plate. They ate on the back porch, the fan keeping the heat off, Cocky in the yard.
“He’s a good chicken,” Cole mused, putting a piece of his steak in his mouth.
“He comes from good stock. His mama is beautiful.”
“You know his mom?” Cole looked surprised, and she laughed.
“I don’t know if knowing her is the right word, but yes. She lives on our plantation. She’s produced about twenty Cockys for us. Want to meet her?”
He surprised her by nodding. “Would she recognize him?”
“I don’t know how much thought process there is in a chicken’s head. She recognizes me. Knows I bring them treats. She won’t recognize him, or won’t care. They aren’t the most nurturing mothers once their chicks are grown.”
“I understand that,” he murmured and was grateful when she didn’t press it. “Treats?” he said, tilting his head. “I asked the feed store for treats and got laughed out of there.
She laughed, sucking some steak juice off the side of one finger, and his thought process went dormant for a moment. “Scraps. Boiled eggs, pasta, corn cobs… they love that stuff. Oh, and string cheese.”
Cole stared at Cocky and felt like the worst parent in the world.
Cole had been discovered at seventeen, standing outside a club on Sunset Boulevard when, his fake ID in pocket, he had smiled shyly at some women in line. Walked closer and asked their names. They were older than him but attractive. Had seemed friendly. Laughed off his flirtations but one of them handed him her card. Told him to go home and to call her on Monday morning. That woman had been Traci Washington, and she’d been casting a teenage rom-com. Cole had carried her card in his wallet for a week before he called. The moment he did, everything changed. He had ‘it,’ and that teenage movie turned into a string of movies, which turned into the Cole Masten Empire. Washing dishes was not a thing that he had ever done. He pushed his hands into the soapy water and looked over at Summer. “We can just leave these. That girl comes on Monday.”
“Monday?” Summer repeated. “It’s Friday night. You’re not gonna have a sinkful of dirty dishes for three days. The place will smell.” She leaned over and ran the water, her body brushing against his, and when she dug into the sink for a sponge, he enjoyed the view down her dress. She caught his stare and elbowed him. “Focus. Just get the food off and stack them on the counter. I’ll load them after I get everything put away.”
For purely peace-keeping purposes, he obeyed, his head down, eyes on the plates, the food coming off cleanly, the chore quick given that there were only two of them. He heard the clang of a pot and glanced over, seeing two dirty skillets stacked with quick precision next to him. Finishing those, he drained the sink and grabbed a hand towel from the hook, drying his hands. He stepped back, to give her room, and watched her work.
“So… how do you think it’s going?” she glanced over at him as she yanked out the trash can, snatching items from the counter and tossing them in, her movements fluid and unrehearsed, this act one she’d done a thousand times. He thought suddenly of her audition, on the porch, and made a mental note to add a cooking scene with Ida into the movie. Somehow. Though he could think of no clear fit. He had to be careful. This movie wasn’t his personal memory box with which to store pieces of Summer. She stopped before him and waited. He focused on her questions.
“Well. We’re behind. Script changes always push us behind.”
“I’m not talking about the timeline,” she snapped. “I mean us. The flow. The scenes.” She turned away from him and bent over, opening the dishwasher, and he suddenly realized why Doing Dishes With Summer was always a good idea. And it had nothing to do with caked-on food and everything to do with the fact that there was nothing more beautiful than Summer loading the dishes in a sundress. When she bent over, her skirt lifted, and he wanted to drop to his knees and more properly enjoy the view. When she straightened, pulling her hair back and into a ponytail, he stared at the lines of her arms, the curve of her waist, the cut of her calves. She was barefoot now, her feet dusty, and when she reached up for a hand towel she went on her tiptoes, and he almost groaned.
“Cole?” Her feet had turned, and he looked up, to her sweet beautiful face, her eyebrows raised because, oh right, she must have asked another question. The woman never shut up with her questions.
“Come here.” He had meant the request to sound friendly, but it ripped from his throat with a growl. He gripped the edge of the counter that he leaned against and willed himself not to let go.
She stepped forward, her movements slow as she ran the towel across the backs of her hands. Then she stopped, and he smelled just a hint of her soap and couldn’t stop himself anymore. He reached forward, pulling her the rest of the way toward him and against his body.
