Текст книги "Hollywood Dirt"
Автор книги: Alessandra Torre
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
CHAPTER 25
It turned out that the window didn’t roll all the way up. It was broken. Which was just as well since it was too hot to be in a truck with no air conditioning and no airflow. Brad DeLuca chuckled; Cole rolled the window back down, and took the phone that Brad passed him.
“The guy said he’s at 4 Darrow Lane. Do me a favor and look it up on my GPS.”
Cole opened the maps app and found the address. “It’s two miles away. Keep straight for a bit.”
The attorney nodded, and they continued on for a moment in silence, Cole spreading his feet and bracing out against the rock of the truck.
“I haven’t driven a truck in years.” Brad commented. “I’ve missed the stick.”
Cole laughed. “Yeah. I miss my Ferrari’s stick right now.” Maybe they could trailer it over. The truck hit a large pothole, and his hands found the dash and held on. Maybe not. His car wouldn’t last its first trip down a dirt road. He glanced over at the man, his fierce profile different in the light of the afternoon sun, his strong hands loose and relaxed on the wheel, his body as comfortable in the old truck as it had been at the Beverly Hills restaurant. Maybe DeLuca wasn’t such an asshole. Maybe he was exactly what Cole needed—someone who wouldn’t kiss his ass—someone who would give it to him straight, without the expensive bullshit that everyone in Hollywood sprinkled on their gluten-free parfaits every morning.
His optimism was punished with DeLuca’s next words. “I told that guy at the airport that I’d have his truck back in an hour. So I’m just dropping you off with this guy. His name is Bennington—he’s the location scout for the movie so he should know his way around town and be able to get you settled.” The sun shifted behind a cloud, and the outside world grew a little darker.
Cole glanced toward the sky. “Bennington?” he repeated.
“Yeah. Bennington Payne. I didn’t pick the guy’s name.”
Cole smiled, glancing down at the phone when it chimed. “Turn right here.” They eased around the bend, and Cole glanced back at the road they’d just left. They hadn’t passed another car since they left the airport. It felt strange after a lifetime in LA, a city where rush hour stretched twenty hours a day, and cars became second houses. He’d been to remote locations before, had filmed a samurai film in the Netherlands, had spent two months in Alaska, but this was the first time he had really felt the openness, the quietness, the solitude of a place. Maybe it was because the divorce papers and Justin’s accident were so recent, the two key parts of his life, of his armor, breaking off at once, his skin underneath raw and delicate. He watched the fields go by, perfect row after row of uninterrupted green and white. The phone buzzed in his hand, and he pointed to the right, to the large plantation house, ivory columns stretching up three stories, the wide front porch complete with a half dozen rockers, the ensemble framed by a chorus of hundred-year oaks. “That’s it.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Ben watched me in confusion, one perfect brow arched high as I tore through the house, a laundry basket in hand, scooping everything off every surface, my feet slapping at the floor, my damn bathing suit riding up my crack. The tampons, can’t forget those. I rushed into the bathroom, the yellow box dumped in, along with half of the contents of our medicine cabinet. Tonight would be fun, Mama screaming for Preparation H while I fished the remote control out of the loaded-to-the-brim basket.
“Shh!” I hissed at Ben, going through a mental checklist of the things I had time to do versus what was critical.
“He’s not going to come inside.” I heard Ben’s sentence through the fog of self-preservation and skidded to a stop, the laundry basket bouncing, a roll of toilet popping out and tumbling down the hall ’til it came to a stop alongside Ben’s foot.
“What?”
“They’re just coming by to pick me up. They probably won’t even get out of the car.”
Of course. I took my first actual breath in. That made perfect sense. Why would they come in? They probably won’t come to a complete stop—will just roll by and pop open the door, yelling and waving for Ben like he was chasing a train. I set down the laundry basket on the kitchen counter and glanced down at my bathing suit. “Okay. Great. I’m gonna change.”
There was a loud knock on the door, and my eyes flicked to his in panic.
CHAPTER 26
“Are you sure this is the right place?” The porch board under Cole’s left heel was soft, and he shifted his weight onto the other foot, his eyes taking in the embroidered curtain covering the window. Inside, there was the murmur of voices, the shuffle of steps.
“Yes,” DeLuca said shortly, glancing at his watch for the umpteenth time. “This is it.”
They had bypassed the main home and pulled up to a tinier version with two vehicles parked in front—an old Chevy truck and a Ford sedan with Oklahoma plates. The car was probably the scout’s—a rental. The truck… well, who knew what hillbilly would be–
The door swung open, a tall blonde standing there, Cole’s eyes dropping past her face and landing on her swimsuit—a faded black one-piece with jean shorts hastily buttoned as he watched. Her hair was wild and long, as were her tan legs, stretching down forever and ending in pink toe nail polish. Nadia would laugh at that polish, would snicker under her breath and mutter ‘juvenile’ or ‘white trash.’ She’d also raise her brows at the tan, her hand frantic in her bag for some sunscreen, the reminder to apply taken seriously, all while texting her assistant to book her next spray tan.
“Is Bennington here?” Brad rested a hand on the doorframe, his arm blocking Cole’s view of her chest but Cole saw the flick of her eyes from his to the attorney’s, saw the slight drop of her mouth as she looked up into DeLuca’s face. Something inside of him twisted in an ugly manner. The girl had a damn movie star on her front porch and had looked away. He turned away, resting his hands on the worn wood of the porch’s railing and coughed out a laugh at the state his fragile ego had become. Wow. How low had he fallen that a strange girl couldn’t look at another man without him caring? DeLuca was a handsome guy; anybody could see that. Plus, he had the alpha male type testosterone that made women crawl over each other to his side. It was natural for the girl to look at him, for her attention to divert from Cole, especially when he had asked her a question. But still. Three Oscars in his storage unit. Her gaze could have at least lingered.
He turned back to the door, leaning against the railing and crossing his arms, waiting for this round of introductions to pass so they could get to the hotel and he could take a shower. The location scout had appeared, replacing the blonde at the door. Too bad. She’d been better to look at. The scout was hyper, his head bobbing rapidly, his hands occasionally joining in—the combination of gestures and head nods making Cole’s head hurt.
Someone had said something to him. DeLuca’s head was turned, both sets of eyes on him, expecting some sort of an answer. Cole lifted his chin, straightening off the railing. “I’m sorry, what?”
“It turns out there aren’t a lot of lodging options in Quincy but Bennington—”
“It’s Ben,” the man interrupted, practically fawning forward. Behind him, in the doorway, the girl reappeared, a baggy white T-shirt now pulled over her swimsuit, her wild hair contained in a ponytail. Her eyes met his, and he smiled, the Cole Masten smile that unlocked every door. She didn’t smile back. Shit. Everything was falling to hell, including his smile. He made a mental note to have Justin—to have someone—make him a dentist appointment. To practice in the mirror this evening and make sure that everything was working right. Maybe it was her. Maybe she was gay.
“Right,” DeLuca continued. “Ben says the lodging accommodations in town are fairly limited—that the closest town with any real hotels is Tallahassee—”
Cole’s ears perked up at this, his arms dropping from his chest. A college town. Bars. Sexy ass coeds who would beam up to him like his word was God’s. Maybe that would give the ego boost that, right now, seemed to be needed.
“—but I told him that wouldn’t work. That you needed to be in Quincy.” DeLuca smirked at him like he knew what he was thinking.
Oh, right. The rules. Cole slapped a mosquito on his neck in response, feeling a drop of sweat run down his back. “Not to ruin this delightful party,” he waved at another insect, “but could we move this inside? To the air conditioning?”
Bennington and the girl exchanged a quick look, then the girl smiled sweetly. “Certainly. Can I get y’all anything to drink? Some sweet tea, perhaps?”
CHAPTER 27
It only took eight minutes for my hero worship of Cole Masten to nose dive into a sea of dislike. His looks weren’t the problem; if anything, the man leaning against my railing was even better looking than on a movie screen. I studied him when he turned around, when he gripped the railing and looked out on the Holdens’ farm. And I saw a bit of pain—in the hunch of his shoulders, in the chew of his cheek, some torture in the eyes that had turned back around and met mine. I thought then, my hand resting on the doorknob, looking out on the front porch that held two of the sexiest men I had ever seen, that there was something there, in him, something whole and raw and beautiful.
Now, I know what I saw. I know what that something was. It was asshole, pure and simple. It was spoiled rotten—I get what I want because I deserve it, you are beneath me—asshole. I’ve experienced men like him before. Carl Hanson grew up on the same dirt I did, attended Quincy High just like me, danced with me at the Homecoming Dance, and rode dirt bikes with me in the summer. Then he graduated. Went to New York after UGA. Found out what Daddy’s money could buy him, found out what life outside our county line was like, and came back a few Christmases later. Looked so far down his nose at me I could see the specks of cocaine in his nostril. He palmed my ass like he owned it at the church winter social, and I punched him smack in the nose. Broke the knuckle of my index finger doing so, but it was worth it. Mr. Hanson paid my hospital bill. Came over and had tea with Mama and me and delivered a pile of apologies for the asshole that his son had become.
I had nine more knuckles and a well-healed tenth. If Cole Masten planned on following up his visual examination of my body with any action, I’d let him know how hard girls in the South could punch.
The start of my dislike began with his request to come inside. It was rude of him, the action a personal dig at my faux pas of not inviting them inside. One rude action pointing out another rude action did not cancel each other out; it just bought you an extra ticket to the Dickhead Show.
I should have invited them in; I know that. It was hot as blazes outside, the sun just low enough in the sky for the mosquitoes to journey out, the scent of fresh humans luring them closer. But the house was a mess, and Ben had promised me they wouldn’t come in. It was the only thing that had allowed me to open my front door with any composure. Because sure, I was in my bathing suit and some cut off shorts, but at least they wouldn’t know that my house was messy. That my bathroom trash had not been emptied. That the Honey O’s box from that morning was still sitting opened on my kitchen counter. All was salvageable until the pretty boy had to go and gripe about wanting to come in. So rude.
Cole Masten’s second strike came three minutes later, the men awkwardly standing in my living room while I flew around like a crazy woman attempting to get drinks.
I watched Cole from the corner of my eye, in deep discussion with his attorney, and noted the delicate white skin—skin that would bake in our sun. Each summer we literally fried an egg on the pavement. Just one egg, a local one from a local chicken, the egg carried and presented with great ceremony by our mayor. The frying was done on the previous summer’s hottest day of the year, and it was always an event, time taken out of everyone’s non-busy schedule to bring potluck items and huddle around the Smith Bank & Trust parking lot to stare at one of Mama Gentry’s sad little eggs. Sometimes they fried quickly; other times it was unseasonably reasonable and only a few bubbles of excitement were produced. So yeah, eggs fried in our sun. His California pale skin would crinkle up like crispy bacon. I contemplated, while opening cabinets and searching for glasses, my damp suit getting itchy, offering him sunscreen, a friendly Welcome to Quincy gift. I hadn’t. Instead, yanking open the dishwasher, I made a side bet with myself that the next time I saw him, he’d look like a lobster.
“I need to run,” the first man said regretfully, tilting his head toward the door. “Got a truck to return and a plane to catch. My wife will have my head if I don’t make it home in time for dinner.”
He left the group and walked toward me, my hands stalling in their reach into the dishwasher. I set down the glass in my hand and shook the hand he offered. “Thank you so much for your hospitality. I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”
“Summer,” I managed. “Summer Jenkins. Can I fix you a tea for the road?”
He chuckled. “No, but thank you. I appreciate the offer.”
Wife. That was what he’d said. His wife would be upset if he didn’t make it home. Not much of a surprise, all the good ones were taken. And he’d had manners too. I left the kitchen and opened the front door for him, waving goodbye, my smile dropping when I shut the door behind him and noticed the dust on the door’s window. Great. Disasters at every turn. I suddenly thought of Mama, and I glanced at the oven clock. Four PM. Still an hour and a half until she got home from work. Plenty of time to get Cole and Ben out of here and clean up, get a casserole in the oven. Maybe one of those Stouffer ones. Carla at the IGA promised me they tasted homemade, but we’d be able to tell. You couldn’t fake authenticity, not in these parts.
I returned to the kitchen, Ben’s phone to his ear, Cole Masten looking dubiously at my couch like he wasn’t sure it was fit to sit on. I cracked the ice in its tray and plucked out a few cubes, dropping them in his glass. Ben could fend for himself, his Tervis still sitting half-full somewhere in this wreck of a house. “Tea?” I called out.
The man turned away from my couch and eyed me. “Sparkling water, please.”
That right there was the second strike. I smiled, the expression born more of spite than of sweet. But in the South, our smiles are our weapons and only a native knows a snarl from sincerity. “I’m afraid I don’t have sparkling water.” You are not a man, I thought. A man doesn’t drink sparkling water; he chugs tap water from a hose after changing his oil.
“Still is fine.” He turned away from me and took a careful seat on the couch. I turned back to the sink, my eye roll hidden. Still is fine. Oh, it’d be still. Still in my tap, the same place it was this morning. I twisted the faucet’s knob and filled the glass. Turned it off and carried the glass over, moving a coaster and setting it down. I raised my eyebrows at Ben who was still on the phone, his hand making some sort of justaminute motion so I sat down on the recliner. Glancing over, I saw Cole Masten study the glass before taking a sip.
“How was your flight in?” I asked.
The man looked at me when I asked the question, his eyes traveling over my legs as he swallowed the first sip of water, then took a larger one. It was a shame, really, to have that much beauty. God could have divided up his thick eyelashes, strong features, hazel eyes, and delicious mouth among three men, therefore giving more women a chance at happiness. Instead, Cole Masten hit the jackpot. A jackpot that was tipping back his glass, taking his time with his answer, his delicious neck exposed, his mouth cupping the glass, a hint of his tongue…
God. I shifted in my seat and pulled at the neck of my shirt, looking away. Suddenly wished, more than anything, he and Ben would hurry up and leave. Let me have my house back, let me have a half hour or two of peace and quiet before my mother arrived home. It was a desire that made absolutely no sense. Every red-blooded American woman would claw my eyes out to be that close to HIM. Maybe it was the small town country in me—the same stupidity that had me saying ‘no thanks’ to college applications and to finding a ‘real job.’ Maybe it was the fact that I was raised to believe that ‘real men’ had manners, and weren’t picky, and didn’t wear aftershave that attracted mosquitoes.
Ben hung up the phone and, in the next minute, Cole Masten got his third strike.
CHAPTER 28
This might just be the worst two weeks of Cole Masten’s life.
Losing Nadia. The Fortune Bottle at risk. Justin’s accident. Going with Brad DeLuca to Quincy. A horrible decision. What was he thinking? It would have been okay if Justin had been here, getting him settled, arranging his schedule, keeping Cole the right balance of busy and relaxed. Justin would have been dealing with this scout, keeping Cole’s hands clean, keeping him from sitting on some stranger’s couch and sipping her water. What had she asked? Oh, right. About his flight.
He took a sip of water to avoid answering the question. Such an innocent question, pointless small talk. God, when had he last made small talk? Or polite chit-chat? Or anything that didn’t involve “Yes, Mr. Masten” or “Of course, Mr. Masten” or “Absolutely, whatever you want, Mr. Masten.” Small talk was for a different breed of people—people with time to burn and relationships to build. He hadn’t needed to build relationships, not for a very long time. He’d had Nadia and Justin. He’d had an agent, manager, and publicist. All requirements covered, nothing further needed.
He swallowed the water and wondered how many of those relationships, given recent events, were in jeopardy. Nadia had been the queen of small talk, of relationship building. She’d been the one who sent liquor on birthdays or steaks on anniversaries. She’d been the one to write thank yous after dinner parties, who remembered things like kids’ names and health issues. Maybe if he hadn’t had Nadia, he’d have made more of an effort. But he hadn’t needed to; she was that arm of the unit that was them, she was…
Jesus. He stood quickly, setting his glass down on the table, and moved to the window, the location scout saying something. He didn’t listen; he rubbed at his face. He had to get his shit together. He had to stop thinking of everything wrong in his life. Maybe he needed a life coach. He dropped his hands and turned to the man, who had started speaking. “Start over,” he interrupted. “I wasn’t listening.”
The man—Wennifer? What the fuck was his name?—stopped talking, then started again, his eyes darting to the girl as he spoke. “Wait.” Cole held up his hand and turned to the girl, whose hands were reaching out, moving his glass onto a coaster. “Who are you? I mean, no offense, but why are you involved in this?”
Her eyes flashed and he, despite himself, liked it. Liked the fire in her spirit. Wished that Nadia had had more of that. Nadia’s fire was reserved for maids who didn’t show up on time, for contracts that didn’t give her points, for YSL when her dress for the Oscars didn’t fit properly in the chest. She’d rarely shared that fire with him. He’d always overlooked that, or seen it as a benefit. Now it just seemed like another red flag he’d missed.
“She’s been helping me.” The blonde’s mouth shut when the talent scout spoke, her glare shooting to him as she untangled her long legs and stood up, her face level with his chin, tilted up so that he could see full force the impact of her stare.
That was another thing that people rarely did. Looked him square in the face. People glanced away, looked down, nodded a lot. Fans were the exception, their hands and eyes reaching out incessantly, eye contact the golden ticket they all coveted.
This woman’s eyes did not covet his, they burned holes through his shell and found their way to his soul, pushing into every dark and insecure corner and finding them all disappointing. She stood toe-to-toe with him and growled out her retort. “You’re standing in my living room, sucking up my air conditioner, drinking my still water. That’s why I’m here, Mr. Masten. And I’m not involved in anything. Ben is my friend, he was here when your attorney called and bulldozed y’all’s way into our pool party.”
She was authentic Quincy, and he had to appreciate that, wished—for a moment—that Don Waschoniz, The Fortune Bottle’s director, was there to capture this moment, this spirit. She said “y’all”, and it didn’t sound forced, didn’t sound cheesy or contrived. It sounded sweet and dignified, her fire almost cute in its venom. He was Cole Masten, for God’s sake! She should be yanking down her bathing suit and bending over, not putting her hands on her hips and standing up to him. She’d be a perfect Ida—the female lead—a Coca-Cola secretary who strikes it rich alongside the rest of the investors. There wouldn’t even be acting involved; she just had to roll through makeup, stand on her mark, and speak the lines. He grinned for the first time in days, and she took a step back, her eyes narrowing. Ooh… a mean look. That translated even better. All Southern fight and attitude. If she could recreate that scowl and use it on the recipe scene, it’d be a slam-dunk.
“Get out.”
He laughed at her faint accent—not like the one that their extras had attempted—God those had sucked. They hadn’t known it; they had passed through their Californian ears just fine, but now he knew.
“I mean it.” She pointed to the door, her mouth set in a hard line. “Get out, or I swear to God I’ll shoot you.”
The talent scout moved nervously between them, patting Cole’s shoulder frantically, like a pat would accomplish anything. “She means it,” he whispered loudly. “She has guns in her coat closet.”
Cole took a step back, his eyes on her. “What was your name again?” he asked.
She growled in response, and he laughed again, letting the tiny gay man push him out the open door and into the summer heat.
Perfect. She’d be perfect.
Now, he just had to call Envision. Give Price exactly what she’d been begging for—a release from the contract. One problem solved in his first fifteen minutes in this town. DeLuca had been right to bring him here. On the ground, here in Quincy, he could get done the things that needed to get done. He could dig his hands in and distract his mind from everything Nadia.
The press wouldn’t love the loss—they would have to spin it the right way, to work with Minka on an exit strategy and PR campaign. And they might lose out on a few box office points, but his name alone would bring in the fans. And the blonde and her authenticity would be worth it. She was exactly what the movie needed.
