Текст книги "Never Say Never"
Автор книги: Emily Goodwin
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
Chapter 2
I rest my elbows on the stall and watch the mare sniff the feed bowl in front of her. Her nostrils flare, and she hesitantly nibbles on the grain.
“It’s all right, girl,” I say softly. “That’s your food.” Phoenix looks at me, ears going back ever so slightly. Along with the burns, Phoenix got pneumonia. She’s in rough shape, and looking at her breaks my heart all over again. Her medicine is crushed up and mixed into her feed. She’s been picking at it all morning, and I’m afraid if I step away she might tip the bowl and not get it before I leave for work.
She’s already put on a considerable amount of weight, and the burns on her neck are starting to heal. Her tail was singed off right up to the bone, and her black face is covered in scars. Some so deep fur can’t grow back. Others are lined with white fur. Her ribs show with each movement. She is depressed and lonely, and I know she needs to bond with someone, and that someone should be me. It has to be me. I’m the only one. But I can’t.
Looking at Phoenix makes the burns on my body tingle with pain. Looking at her reminds me of the smoke filling my lungs, of the roof flaking apart above us, bit by burning bit, until it collapsed. Looking at her is painful.
She’s only three, but her eyes are those of an old horse. A horse who has lived in agony, in fear. I’ve seen that exact look before—a look that says “I give up”. It’s a look I battle every day not to wear on my own face.
“You’re a good girl,” I tell her and stick my hand out. Phoenix lifts her head, stretching her neck out to sniff my fingers. She doesn’t come any closer. She won’t come any closer. “In time,” I say and take a step back. I stretch my arms over my head and look around the barn. Mom would never let it get this untidy.
It’s a small barn, with six stalls and a heated room that houses grain, saddles, and the various supplies needed. I spent my childhood out here. This place has been my safe haven, my escape. And it still is. Being in here used to be my second favorite place, the first being on a horse. I haven’t ridden since Mom…since she left. Every day I think about riding. And every day I don’t.
I slide open the stall door, needing to change the padded bandages and clean her wounds. Phoenix spooks and shies away.
“It’s okay,” I say and reach into my pocket, pulling out a treat.
Her nostrils flare as she inhales the scent of the treat. I keep my hand out and walk to her. She snatches the treat and turns her head. “It’s okay,” I repeat and put one hand on her neck. Spraying her wounds with antiseptic spray is a challenge. I don’t want to chase her around. Instead, we do this treat-per-spray thing that seems to be working.
She flinches when the cool mist hits her bare skin, but she doesn’t shy away. “Good girl,” I praise. I mist her with the spray again. I get the entire section of charred skin on her neck before she moves. “I know,” I say softly. “It hurts. I have burns too.”
She looks at me as if my words make sense. “You’ll get better. I am. Little by little.” I finish her treatment and then clean stalls and sweep the aisle before work. There are four horses at the barn right now. Shakespeare, which is my twenty-four year old retired show horse. Benny is Mom’s stubborn-as-hell thoroughbred. He is dark bay, tall, muscly, and gorgeous. We pulled him from the slaughter pen just minutes before he would have had his head bashed in and been strung up for meat. Sundance was taken from a neglectful home months ago. He’s put on more than enough weight and is physically sound. Mom had been working with him, getting him broken to ride so she could find him a new home. His training came to a screeching halt after the accident.
Phoenix made horse number four.
We kept the barn as empty as possible, besides Shakespeare and Benny. That’s what Mom did. Saved horses, horses no one wanted, horses left for dead. She gave them a second chance, healing them mentally and physically. She trained them, made sure they were ready, and then found them forever homes. Benny wasn’t supposed to stay, but Mom was never able to get him out of his biting habit…or his habit of chewing hair. She couldn’t let him go to a home knowing he might randomly bite you or eat your hair any chance he got.
I go inside, calling Chrissy in from the back pasture, groaning when I see I only have thirty minutes before I have to get ready for work. I grab my ponytail and sniff my hair. Yep. I smell like horse. I have to take a shower.
“Hey, girl,” Shondra says as I speedwalk through the lobby. Her nails end an inch past her fingers and are painted a fiery orange, matching the god-awful color of her eyeshadow. Her hair is up in a topknot, and she has on a dress that clings to her thin body. “How are you?”
Her green eyes meet mine, and I know her question is genuine. Word got out that I recently lost my mom and am struggling with the farm. Everyone pities me.
I fucking hate it.
Pity doesn’t do a damned thing. If they feel so bad, then bring me a bag of oats or buy a few bales of hay. I put on my fake smile.
“I’m okay,” I say. “Hanging in there.”
“Good. A few of us are going out for drinks. Weebly lets us out early on Fridays if we get our shit done on time,” she says.
“Oh, that’s good to know.” It’s the end of my first week. And no, I didn’t apply anywhere else. This is the closest press, and I’m barely making it now with a ten-minute drive into town for work.
“Want to come with?” she asks. “We’re just going to Cronie’s. Nothing fancy,” she adds with a shrug.
“No, thanks,” I say. “I have plans with a friend tonight. Maybe next time?”
“Sure thing.” She taps her acrylic nails on her desk and bites her lip, looking out the window. I go through the door into the workroom and take my seat at my desk. It’s in the back, close to Mr. Weebly’s office. I wonder if he did that on purpose.
There aren’t a ton of people working at the Yellowstone River Times, and most have been here for years. No one is rude at all, but I don’t fit into their tight-knit group. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I have no desire to make new friends.
Am I closing myself off? Maybe. Do I care? Not at all.
I fire up the computer and get to work, going through the edits of the article I wrote. My topics are assigned, and hardly any of them are newsworthy. Today, I read through my passage about Ginger Hetwick turning one hundred. I went and visited her in the nursing home two towns over. She’s wheelchair bound and has dementia. She couldn’t answer any of my questions.
I sigh as I approve the edits and send it back. It will appear in the Sunday paper. How much time has to pass before I can start speaking up, start telling Mr. Weebly that these articles aren’t the ones I want to write? It’s my first job. I don’t want to mess it up. I don’t want to come off as a know-it-all who just graduated. Everyone starts somewhere. Plus, I really need the money. I can’t afford to get in bad graces with my boss until I have something saved up.
My mind wanders to Phoenix, and the scars on my side start to burn. Suddenly I’m smelling smoke, hearing the horrible screeches of dying horses. Black surrounds me and I’m yelling out for Mom. I can’t see and I can hardly breathe. I scream for her between coughs.
And then she’s there, leading Phoenix through the billowing darkness. Her mane is on fire. It’s one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever seen. Mom tells me to go, to get outside to safety. I remember nodding and pulling off my jacket. I throw it over Phoenix’s mane and smother the flames. I hook my arm over the frail horse and she leads me out.
She saves me.
But it’s too late for Mom.
And now I’m sitting here at my desk, tears running down my face in black streams from my makeup. I tip my head, causing my shoulder-length dark brown hair to fall into my eyes. I flatten my hands on the desk, feeling the cool metal surface. I’m not in the barn. I’m here, at work. The smoke still wafts around me, the scent of charred flesh poignant in the air. My stomach churns and I shoot up, unsure if I’ll make it to the bathroom in time before I get sick.
I run through the workroom, aware of the stares I’m getting, and dash into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. I put both hands on the sink and lean over. Instead of vomit, a sob comes out of me. I suck it back. I am not going to cry at work. My body shakes as I hold it in, tears falling down my face.
Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I’m not ready. But what choice do I have? I can’t stay home, lying on a couch and crying all day. On top of paying household bills, I have grain and hay to buy. Phoenix has hefty vet bills, and I’m already getting a cut on the costs. I have to do it for them. Sundance and Phoenix can’t get their second chance if I let grief consume me.
I feel like I’ll never be happy again, like I’ll never be able to move on from the fire and the guilt and start life again. I lift my head and look at my reflection. I look like Mom. I have her green eyes, her high cheekbones. My hair is a shade darker, but there is no mistaking I’m her daughter. I realize that I’ve lost weight since the accident, a result of not eating I’m sure. It makes my cheekbones more defined, making me look even more like Mom. I tuck my thick hair behind my ears and study the face looking back at me. She’s almost unrecognizable. Dark circles, uncovered by makeup, contrast with the vivid green surrounding my pupils. The ends of my hair are a bit ragged and in need of cutting, but nothing inside of me drives me to put effort into my appearance anymore. It’s just not worth it.
I close my eyes and swallow the thick lump in my throat. I have to do it for Mom, to continue her life’s work of making life better for others. You can’t save them all, she used to say. You won’t change the world, but you can change the world for one horse at a time.
And that is exactly what I’m going to do. No matter what, I’m not giving up. I’ll make it work somehow. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find my own second chance.
Chapter 3
“I think it would be a great move,” my agent says, handing me a script.
I raise an eyebrow as I look it over. “You’re fucking joking, right?”
“I’m not fucking joking. Do you want to get typecast? You just finished the Batman remakes. You’ve got two more seasons of Shadowland. Don’t get me wrong, Aiden; you’re good playing the misunderstood hero. It’s time for a change before that’s all you can get. You’ll get old someday, and old actors don’t play superheroes,” he says back without missing a beat. After four years as my agent, Thomas doesn’t put up with my shit.
“I know.” I plow my hand through my hair. It’s down to my ears and annoys the fuck out of me. I keep it like that only for my character in Shadowland.
“Look.” Thomas takes off his glasses and leans forward, and I know he’s about to say something blunt. “You want to be a household name, right?”
“Of course,” I say back. “I am—”
“No,” he interrupts. “You’re well known with the action genre fans, but not with everyone. Not yet.”
I flick my eyes back to the script in my hands. “Go on.”
“This movie puts you in a whole new category.”
I can’t refute that. “But…” I start, and read the title, feeling something die inside of me. Is it my manhood? “It’s a chick flick. I mean, come on. I’ve never even heard of this guy,” I say as I tap the name of the author whose book is being adapted to the film.
Thomas shakes his head. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. And I suggest you step into a bookstore. His books—and the film adaptations—do well. Read the script. I’m calling you in the morning, and you’ll tell me you want this so I can tell the director you’ll be there for the screen-test.”
I huff but curl the script in my hand. “Fine. But don’t hold your breath. This guy…this cowboy…isn’t me.”
“None of the characters you play are you,” Thomas says in a dry tone. Yep, he’s done with my shit. I can’t blame him, really. I got my start in acting right out of school and landed the leading role in a trashy musical in West End. It was poorly written and could have ruined my career, but I fucking loved it.
Being on stage, being under the spotlight, and being someone else…it’s everything I’ve ever wanted. For a few hours I can stop being Aiden Shepherd and be someone else. My real life dissipates into oblivion when I’m on stage. I become my character. I don’t have to be Aiden, don’t have to deal with whatever the hell I should be dealing with.
On a whim (okay, I was slightly drunk), I went to an open casting for a leading role in Shadowland, and holy fuck, I got a call back. Things moved from there. I got an agent, another call back, the role, moved from London to California, then got more roles. Over the course of four years, I went from not making enough to get by to more money than I knew what to do with.
Playing the villain-turned-hero in Shadowland has changed my life. There is no mistake about that. I live and breathe that show. Knowing that it will wrap up after this current season is terrifying. I haven’t admitted that to anyone, and I don’t ever plan to. I’m Aiden Shepherd. Young, talented, attractive…I shouldn’t have fears this early in my career.
I leave the café in sunny L.A. and drive to my house, thinking over Thomas’ words. Typecast. It was a four-letter word among actors. It wasn’t something I wanted to be. But fuck, I like dark, badass characters. I like the underdog coming through, against the odds, kicking ass and taking names.
The last four years passed so fast, sometimes I wonder if they were real. We filmed three seasons of Shadowland and I did the Batman movies. It kept me in the here and now and out of the past.
I can’t go back there. I can’t think about the shit that happened. I can’t. If I do…well, it isn’t fucking pretty.
I haven’t gone there in years. It’s been blocked out, locked away in some fucked-up vault in my mind. It’s a ticking time bomb, but hey, that’s a problem for anther day.
The next day, I leave the screen-test with a new role. I should be ecstatic, but I’m not. At all. I unlock the door to my L.A. house and step into the large foyer. It’s two stories tall, with a curved staircase leading up to the second level. The house is empty, and every single one of its eleven-thousand square feet jeers at me, reminding me how alone I am in this monstrous house. I’ve lived here for two and a half years, but it doesn’t feel like my house. Nothing in it fits me, really.
I paid someone to decorate it. There are rooms I never use, rooms I hardly even go in. My favorite part of the house is outside. The patio was made for parties. Actually, I need to have one. I trudge up the curved staircase, footsteps echoing with no one to hear them, and go into my room. I should spend the weekend sleeping and resting, since I’m leaving for that fucking cowboy movie on Monday.
I get out my phone, send a few quick messages, and go into the master bathroom. I have time for a few hours of sleep as long as I get some assistance. I break a Tramadol in half and swallow it dry. I take a quick shower then take a shot of vodka from the bottle I keep in the top drawer of my nightstand. I lay down, waiting for the drugs to take over and pull me into a dull sleep.
I wake up three hours later and still feel tired. The bedroom door is open, and I can hear people downstairs setting things up for the party. I roll over on my stomach and try to go back to sleep, but the alcohol is out of my system and my mind turns on me, reminding me of all the things I try so hard to forget.
I sigh and mentally debate what to do. There’s still enough time for more sleep, but I don’t want to take anything else and not have it wear off before the party starts. I need an hour or two of good, sober behavior before hells breaks loose. If I take the rest of the pain pill, I might be in a fog when my friends come over. I have Adderall, but I hate taking that shit. It makes me anxious as fuck.
I get up, knowing there is stuff I should be doing, like going over lines. Instead, I open my MacBook and scroll through comments on my Facebook fan page, replying to just enough to give me good fan interaction but not too many to appear needy. Basically, I give them something to make them want more.
Claire texts me, making sure I’m awake and decent before she brings me espresso and something to eat. I hired her as my assistant before I could afford her, and she’s stuck with me through everything. Though she’s my employee, sometimes I feel like she’s one of the only friends I actually have.
Four hours later, the house is filled with some of Hollywood’s hottest. I play the perfect host, talking and greeting everyone, taking pictures for our social media accounts before I get so wasted I’m puking off my own balcony. Kennedy Jamison, a singer turned actress—and my ex—walks in with her arm laced through the arm of another A-lister. Both women look fantastic, and both smile and wave to me through the crowd.
Kennedy was on Shadowland with me for two and a half seasons. We were lovers on the show and took that romance off screen. Things were good for a while, and then I couldn’t fucking stand her. We just didn’t mesh, and she was constantly putting anyone and everyone down to feel good about herself—including me. She’d been in the scene since she was a child and couldn’t handle getting passed up by me, who’d only been in a few years at the time.
We split the day before she found out she was being killed off in Shadowland, and I’ll just say things didn’t go too well after that. She went through periods of hating me, trash-talking me to anyone who’d listen, then she’d turn around and want to get back together. I occasionally hated myself, but not enough to ever get back with that crazy bitch.
I didn’t invite her. But whatever. She’s here and she’ll suck my dick if she’s drunk. When a blowjob is my silver lining, I know the night isn’t that bad.
I should have stopped drinking hours ago. Someone should have seen how far gone I was and taken the bottle of Scotch from my hands. Someone should have noticed the fresh cuts on my arm, three in a row in perfect straight lines. I’m surrounded by dozens of friends, yet no one cares I’m lying face down in my yard in a puddle of my own vomit.
Truth is, half these people would love to see me break down, to watch my life become a train wreck. Because that’s how they are. They don’t give a fuck about anyone but themselves. I listen to the party going on around me and realize that I have to take a piss—bad. I struggle to my feet and wipe vomit off my face as I stumble into the house.
I unzip my trousers and realize I’m in a corner in my wardrobe. Part of me is too drunk to care, and I really have to pee. Somehow I make it to the bathroom and end up making a mess on myself because I’m too drunk to stand steadily in front of the toilet.
I should feel ashamed in the morning when I wake covered in urine and vomit. But I won’t. I won’t because getting this shitfaced is necessary. Being in a multimillion-dollar house full of people—important people, people who are looked up to and loved and respected at that—should make me happy.
But it doesn’t. Nothing does, because no matter how many people come over, how many people rave about the party later and brag about hanging with party-boy Aiden Shepherd, they’re not talking about me. Not the real me. The real me hasn’t been seen in years, and the façade I put up is what they like, what they see. It works. Sometimes. And when it doesn’t…well, that’s what the drugs and alcohol are for.
They keep the darkness away.
Chapter 4
I’m out in the middle of nowhere. Literally, no-fucking-where. I only have one bar of service, making it impossible to update my Instagram or answer emails and messages from my friends. Not having social media and “likes” pouring in from anything I post makes me feel lonely.
Dread for being this out of touch with the real world has been building up inside of me since I got the role. Dread replaced the excitement, replaced feeling proud I easily landed something outside of my genre. I buried the dread by partying, fucking, and drinking. I kept it out of my mind as long as I could, but now I’m here and there is no escape.
Fuck. It’s just a movie. I can do this.
Part of me hoped I’d be told I wasn’t right for the role. It would be a bit of an ego blow, I suppose, but then I could stick to doing what I like instead of what was wise for my career. I can do that shit later.
I guess appearing on the cover of GQ and being called this year’s sexiest actor helps more than I thought it would, and the screen-test was a joke, really. All I had to do was prove I could speak with an American accent, and I can quite well. I don’t think the role will be a hard one. Boring, maybe, since there aren’t many stunts and no fighting to choreograph. I have to ride a horse—a well-trained, push-button horse that is feet from its trainer the whole time. How hard could that be?
I slump in the chair, waiting for the makeup people to work their magic on me. It’s the first day of filming, and I just arrived. Okay, I was late. There was a party I wasn’t missing last night, and I drank too much and missed my flight this morning. Claire got me a connecting flight that got me here just five hours after I should have been. But I’m here now, sitting in a cold trailer in the backwoods of Montana with my eyes closed, waiting for someone to cover up the dark circles under my eyes.
The director is world famous. He’s won a shit ton of awards. Yes, Thomas was right. This is exactly what my career needs. We’re filming the majority of the movie on-site with a little green-screen and CGI help. Today, one of the final scenes is being shot. That’s something that surprises people more often than not. Movies are hardly ever shot in order. The end of the movie takes place in the summer, and it’s summer now.
Hollywood magic can do a lot, but controlling the natural seasons isn’t feasible…yet. I feel a moment of panic as I look at the Google image of this town. Billings was the biggest city in all of Montana, yet it’s only a fraction of the population of L.A. What the hell was I going to do for entertainment at night? Being alone, having quiet time to myself…that isn’t something I do.
When I do, dark thoughts make their way into my head. I am undeniably Aiden Shepherd, unable to escape the memories that plague me. Nope. Won’t be happening. At least the hotel has a bar.
I don’t know my costars well, and I miss the familiar set of Shadowland. We’ve been together for years now. We’re like a family and always raise hell after a long twelve-hour day of shooting. Everyone assumes actors are outgoing and love social events. I like the attention. I like people fawning over me. But I don’t like putting myself out there. I like being the character, playing a role. Being me…I’m not so good at it.
After an hour of primping and wardrobe changes, we get started. It’s a change of pace, that’s for sure, and is more of a challenge than I thought it would be.
I collapse into bed that night. Eleven hours of filming and I’m exhausted. And I was wrong. Riding horses isn’t as easy as I thought, even when the horse is as well trained as Rusty, the large Quarter Horse I was riding. Just sitting there, unmoving, wasn’t bad, but once he started going forward, things would squish and bend. My poor balls took a beating. Even if there are any decent-looking women in the hotel bar, I’m not taking one up to fuck. I’m settling for an ice pack and some porn tonight.
