Текст книги "Fighting the Fall"
Автор книги: Jennifer Snow
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
Chapter 2
Later that day, Parker’s eyes flew across the script as she retrieved the pages from her printer.
It was good.
The dialogue was fresh and edgy and the character she would be auditioning for, Jessica “The Crusher” Carlisle, was one of the best female leads she’d ever read. Based on a true story, the movie was about a single mother whose marine husband died overseas and her everyday struggle to find the courage and strength to keep fighting inside and out of the cage. It was powerful and exactly what she’d been looking for. The script was funny, touching, and full of Oscar-worthy moments. Even the secondary characters were relatable and appealing. Excitement gathered in her chest as she flipped to the front of the script. She didn’t know the screenwriter or the director and the e-mail from Ian had warned her it was a low-budget indie project, but it didn’t matter. It was brilliant.
Going to her computer, she Google searched the director, but his IMDB credits were two other indie films with budgets less than five hundred thousand and casts no larger than ten actors. Neither had done well at the box office or at the film awards.
She stared at the paper coming out of her printer as the rest of the script collected in the tray.
Was this the right part for her? She was used to working with big-name directors, high budgets, and leading men whose name rivaled hers for the first screen credit. Would this role be viewed as desperation in the eyes of her peers? An admission of defeat?
The last thing she wanted was to accept a role that would only further destroy her career and confirm she was done. She’d worked too hard over the years to make sure her acting career didn’t fizzle out in adulthood, the way most child actors’ careers did. Too many of her former costars were working normal nine-to-five jobs now, struggling to land roles in theater productions or commercials, trying to hold onto their dream. She knew she’d been lucky to have had the extended career she did, and she wasn’t ready to walk away from it all. She still had so much to offer, so much passion for film.
As the printer spit out the last page of the script, she picked up her cell phone. Whenever faced with a career decision, she always called her grandmother, a former Hollywood actress who’d raised Parker from seven years old after her parents died in a house fire. She didn’t remember too much from that life-changing event, but she knew it had been the end of her normal childhood and the start of her path to stardom. The overnight transition from her middle-class home in Phoenix with her parents to the luxurious lifestyle with her grandmother in LA had been just the beginning.
Three rings later, her grandmother answered. “Hello.”
“Hi, Abigail.” Her grandmother always insisted she call her by her first name, never by the dreaded title of Grandma. At seventy-nine years old, her grandmother didn’t look a day over fifty, thanks—in part—to the cosmetic procedures she continued to have done.
“Hi, darling, I was just thinking about you this morning.”
“You were?”
“Yes. I saw a review of that movie you were in last year, Dancing on Fire . . .”
She cringed. Labeled as the Dirty Dancing of the decade, her latest film had brought in low numbers at the box office and depression-inducing reviews from critics. She’d had her doubts about the film, but Brantley had convinced her to take a chance on it anyway, claiming that it might be the project to save her downward-spiraling career after the last few box office disasters. She’d trusted his judgment against her gut and her agents’ warning, even though her “downward-spiraling career” had only started when she’d started to accept roles in his film projects.
He’d been the original director on the project, but had been replaced when the male lead refused to work with him. After their breakup halfway through filming, she was relieved that he had been replaced, but by that time, she also realized the movie was going to be a bust, not a boost to her career, and it was already too late.
She kicked herself whenever she thought about how stupid she’d been to trust him. Their relationship had been only as real as the ones depicted onscreen. Based on a mutual love of movies and a desire to be one of Hollywood’s powerhouse couples, it had lacked depth and a strong connection.
She wasn’t in any hurry to enter another one.
“Which review?” she asked. “The one from the LA Times claiming the only good part of the movie was the final credits or the one from USA Today that said ‘Parker Hamilton’s portrayal of a ballerina would have been more believable had the actress learned how to dance . . .’” She knew every critique word for word, and they shook her confidence every time she considered auditioning for a new role.
“No, this one was actually quite positive.”
She sat straighter. “Really? Where are you reading it?”
“The Phoenix Valley Review.”
She sighed. Her grandmother’s community newspaper was hardly the starred review she’d been longing for. Still, she said, “What does it say?” She must really need an ego boost these days if she needed to hear this.
Abigail cleared her throat, and Parker could hear the paper on the other end of the line as her grandmother read, “Dancing on Fire has to be Parker Hamilton’s best film since Lego Barbie . . .”
Okay, maybe this review wouldn’t make her feel better. She’d starred in sixteen movies since her second role at nine years old playing a little girl who builds a Barbie doll out of Legos and the doll comes to life.
“‘She was graceful and elegant and her character was wonderfully flawed . . . A hit for Ms. Hamilton . . .’ The rest just goes on about the movie’s plot,” her grandmother said.
Short and sweet. “Can you . . . uh . . . save that for me?”
“Sure, darling.”
“Anyway, I was calling because I have a new part I’m considering auditioning for . . .”
“That’s wonderful. Who’s the director?”
She flipped to the front page of the script. “Kilroy Clarke,” she said slowly, still unsure if auditioning for this part was the right thing to do. She’d heard of indie projects never getting finished because of lack of funding. Would they even have a budget to pay her high salary quote? The script was so good, she wasn’t sure she cared.
“Kilroy Clarke . . .” Abigail was repeating the name over and over, trying to place it. “Is he an international?”
“No. He’s an independent filmmaker. You’ve never heard of him either?” She’d been hoping her grandmother would have. With her sixty-plus years in the movie industry, there were few people she didn’t know.
“No. I’m sorry, darling . . . I can ask around. See if someone can put me in touch with him.”
“No,” she said quickly. “That’s not why I’m asking.” For years her grandmother’s influence and contacts had helped secure her roles. This time she wanted to do this on her own. Get the part because she deserved it, without having to wonder if Abigail’s influence had swayed the decision to cast her. “I was just wondering, that’s all.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. It’s fine.” She bit her lip as she retrieved the rest of the script from the printer and stared at it.
“What’s wrong?” her grandmother asked in her silence.
“I’m just undecided about whether or not to audition.” The day before she’d been excited and eager, but Tyson Reed had made her doubt her decision. Was he right? Would it be impossible for her to look and act like an MMA fighter in such a short period of time? After the reviews from Dancing with Fire, the last thing she needed was another role where she couldn’t live up to the demands of the character.
“Have you read the script?” her grandmother asked.
“Yes, it’s brilliant.”
“Then audition. Trust me, those are few and far between these days.”
Her grandmother was right about that . . . and even fewer were coming her way. She released a deep breath, decision made. “Okay, I will. Thanks, Grandma.”
“I don’t know who you’re referring to. There’s no old lady here.”
* * *
It was pitch black in his bedroom when Tyson sat upright, tossing his covers aside. He’d heard something, and he listened for a repeat of the noise that had just woken him. A quick glance at the clock revealed it was just after two a.m. The last time his sleepless eyes had drifted to the clock it had read one fifteen. Somehow between then and now, he’d finally managed to fall asleep.
And now he was wide awake again.
He waited.
Another loud crash had him on his feet in seconds. The noise was coming from the gym. Pulling on a pair of boxer briefs and grabbing the baseball bat he kept next to his bed, he raced from his apartment and down the stairs.
He’d expected to see the back door open or a broken window, but the door was still locked when he reached for the handle.
Whoever was inside his gym knew the security door code.
He wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.
Typing in the code, he yanked the door open and went inside the dark gym. The only light came from inside the office; he knew he hadn’t left it on. O.C.D. from a young age, he followed routines and checked things to the point of annoying even himself. The light had been off when he’d ended his training and left the gym just before midnight.
He moved closer to the office, peering through the slightly open blinds. There was still someone in there. Adrenaline pumped through him and he was fully awake and ready to take on an army as he reached the door.
Inside the room, the glass from the trophy display case on the wall covered the floor and a man sat among the shards, his back to him, fumbling with the combination on the safe. “Hey! Get the fuck away from that.” He hit the desk with the bat for added threat.
The guy turned slowly as though unaffected by the words or the sound of the weapon Tyson held, ready to use if necessary. “Hey, little brother,” he said when his gaze met Tyson’s.
Tyson lowered the bat as he stared in disbelief at the guy sitting on the floor of his office claiming to be his brother. A man he hadn’t seen in almost three years and who bore no resemblance to the thin, strung-out guy in front of him. But he thought he recognized light blue eyes that matched his own, even though they were bloodshot and dilated. “Connor?”
The man tried to stand, but lost his footing and fell back to the floor, his hand landing on a fragment of glass. Instantly blood trickled the length of his arm, but he didn’t seem to notice as he ran his other shaking hand through his long, greasy hair. “I’d get up . . . but . . .” He laughed as his eyes drifted closed and his head fell forward.
Fuck. Tyson moved toward him, careful to avoid with his bare feet the thin, sharp pieces of glass and the small pool of blood collecting on the hardwood floor. He set the bat against the desk and, bending down, he lifted his semi-conscious brother under the arms. Placing him reluctantly in the leather chair behind the desk, he crouched in front of him and snapped his fingers in front of his face. Connor’s head just rolled to the side. “Hey! Connor!”
His brother was limp, unmoving and bleeding all over his office chair. Unbelievable.
“Fuck me,” he mumbled before slapping his brother’s cheek. Hard.
Connor’s eyes flew open, a look of panic in their hollow depths and he immediately tried to stand up.
Tyson pushed against his chest. “Stay put,” he said, reaching behind him for his first-aid kit on the shelf. Better to start by cleaning him up to stop the blood from spreading further around his office. The thought alone made him ill and pissed him off. “Give me your hand.”
“No, it’s f . . . fi . . . fine.” Connor held the bleeding hand away.
“Give me your fucking hand or I’ll knock your ass out,” he demanded, yanking it away from his brother’s body.
His brother offered zero resistance, and he let his hand fall onto his lap of his dirty, torn jeans. He wasn’t wearing any socks inside his running shoes and the T-shirt he wore reeked of weed and alcohol.
Tyson opened the bottle of antiseptic and poured it quickly over the wound, grateful to see there was no glass stuck in it.
“Ow . . . Jesus!” Connor said.
Well, at least he was straight enough to feel something.
Next he wrapped it in gauze and secured it with tape. “There. Now can you tell me what the hell you’re doing here, trashing my gym?” He could take a guess about why he was suddenly getting a late-night break-in from Connor, but he folded his arms and waited for his older brother to speak.
Connor wiped the sweat from his forehead and swallowed several times. “Do you have any water, man?”
Dry mouth—a side effect of heroin use.
He leaned forward and grabbed a bottle of warm water from the case on the supply shelf, but held it away when Connor reached hungrily for it. “Talk first, then you can have it. What are you doing here?” he asked again.
“I needed a place to go, and I had nowhere else.” He reached for the water.
Tyson shook his head. “How did you get in?” A quick glance toward the front door, illuminated by the exit sign revealed it too was still locked. No broken glass or signs of forced entry.
“The code on the back door. You’ve used Mom’s birthday for every code you’ve ever had,” Connor mumbled.
Tyson’s jaw clenched at the sound of his brother just mentioning their mother. Unfortunately, what he said was true. Tyson did use the same code for all of his security passwords. The fact that his brother knew that was the most shocking part. “Are you high right now?”
“I’m always fucking high, man. Can I have the water now?”
Tyson tossed it at him.
Connor struggled to open the cap.
Seriously? Tyson watched him struggle, not wanting to offer the slightest bit of help or sympathy. His brother had done all of this to himself and he had no one to blame for his current state. His inability to open a simple bottle cap was pathetic, and Tyson was disgusted looking at the guy he’d once looked up to when they were kids. What felt like a million years ago.
He looked away, scanning the damage to his office. The safe was still closed, though he suspected it was Connor’s inability to control his trembling hands that had prevented him from opening it, not the mystery of the security code. But the trophy display case that housed their father’s championship trophies and his father’s three division-win championship belts was destroyed. Broken glass was everywhere; inside the case, several trophies were on their sides, and the wooden display holding his Kempo and Kung Fu belts had fallen off of the wall. On the floor was his computer monitor, the screen busted—obviously the tool used for breaking the display case.
Anger simmered in his chest as he grabbed the water from his brother, opened it, then shoved it back into his unwrapped hand. “I’m guessing you’re here for money,” he said coldly. The idea that his brother meant to steal their father’s accomplishments and sell them at one of the pawn shops on the strip made the veins pulse in his forehead.
He could break his brother in half so easily in this moment. The only thing keeping him still was the thought of his upcoming fight. His brother was lucky. He didn’t need assault charges . . . or any unwanted, negative attention drawn to himself or his gym right now.
Though he suspected his brother’s sudden appearance was going to do just that.
Connor shook his head, draining the bottle. “I told you, I just needed a place to crash.”
He’d certainly crashed all over this office.
“I’m not giving you any money.” That had never been the solution before and he’d learned that lesson the hard way.
“I don’t want money . . .” Connor paused as he surveyed the damage he’d done, almost as though seeing it for the first time. “Fuck, man. I’m sorry.” He ran a trembling hand over his scruffy face. “I do need money . . .” He blinked and looked as though he struggled to remain conscious. “But I . . .” His head drooped and his eyes shut again.
“Connor!” He shook his shoulder.
No response.
Fantastic. What the hell was he supposed to do with his unconscious, strung-out, addict of a brother?
Wake his sorry ass up and get him out of the gym.
He sighed, knowing that wasn’t something he could do.
Instead, he kicked at the glass, making a pathway toward Connor. Then with barely any effort, he lifted his brother, careful to avoid the still-bleeding hand that had stained the gauze a bright cherry red. Tiptoeing around the glass, he carried the comatose guy out of the gym and up the stairs to his apartment. He tossed him onto the sofa and he didn’t even wake up.
Tyson moved away from him and battled a myriad of emotions as he stared at his older brother passed out on his couch. “Great timing, Connor. Perfect. Fucking. Timing.”
* * *
“So, the audition is a week from today in LA,” Ian said through the speakerphone on her cell.
“Which studio?” Parker asked, slightly out of breath as she struggled to lift a ten-pound weight over her head in her home workout room. She’d been in there maybe three times since she bought the house. Equipped with every cardio machine invented, free weights, and a separate area for yoga, the space was a fitness-enthusiasts dream; but not a big fan of sweating, she had always relied on a strict diet to stay slim.
“No studio,” Ian said. “The address is 4 Caly Way in Glendale.”
She frowned, setting the weight down. Five bicep curls and already her arms were burning. Glendale? The audition wasn’t even in LA? Again, her stomach felt queasy. Why couldn’t this script have come from well-known writers and a big production company? “Is that a hotel?”
“Um . . . no . . . I think it’s some sort of community center thing . . .”
“What?” She opened a bottle of water and took a gulp, studying her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, for the first time unhappy with the image staring back at her. Tyson’s words about her not having the right body shape and muscle mass was her biggest worry. No gym in a ten-mile radius had agreed to train her—except Cage Masters, and she’d rather die than train there. The place had been dirty, the equipment had been old and worn, and the owner’s sleazy, unconcealed interest had her practically running back to her car. So, she’d decided to build strength on her own.
Who knew weight training was so hard?
“I told you, this is an indie film. These guys have very little budget and they aren’t wasting it on a fancy hotel ballroom suite to hold auditions,” Ian was saying.
“Why don’t they just hold them in their backyard?” she mumbled, more annoyed by her lack of strength-training progress than the audition location. “Anyway, at least it’s California.” She was dying to get back to the coast. Maybe she could hire a personal trainer there to help her if she got the part.
When.
When she got the part. Affirm and visualize the outcome you want, she reminded herself.
“Parker, are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes! I’ve read the script. It’s the part I’ve been looking for.”
“The movie might not even make it to the big screen . . .”
She bit her lip, hesitating. She’d never worked hard for a part in an independent before. All of her previous movies had been blockbuster films with big budgets and big-name producers and stars. “It doesn’t matter. I want this role.” Besides, it wasn’t as though she was turning away projects these days.
“Okay . . .” He still sounded reluctant about the whole thing.
“What?” She would have thought her agent would be happy to keep her busy and off his back for a while.
“The casting call sheet we received from the director said preference will be given to actors with athletic builds . . . preferably with some MMA background. I just don’t want you to assume this is a done deal because of who you are. You will probably be one of the biggest names they will see next week, but that doesn’t guarantee you the role.”
She stared at her tiny waist, large chest, and wide hips. Damn it, why couldn’t she be just a little less curvy? Her body shape had always been an asset before. Now it looked like it was going to bite her in the ass. Great. “I’m not assuming anything. I just know how badly I want this part and I know with the right training, I can look the part in three months.” She wasn’t as confident as she sounded, but she was determined.
“Did you at least find a place to train? An MMA fighter willing to help you?” he asked.
“Not yet . . . but I will.” One way or another, she had to convince Tyson Reed to help her. Since leaving his gym the day before, she’d stuck close to her phone, hoping to hear from him. She’d have thought two thousand dollars would have been enough incentive for him to at least try to help her. But he hadn’t called.
“Okay, well, I’ll e-mail you the audition details this afternoon. But Parker . . .”
“I know, I know. Don’t get my hopes up.” Too late, she thought disconnecting the call.
* * *
He rested his forehead in his hand and closed his eyes, completely exhausted from lack of sleep the night before. He’d spent two hours cleaning up the mess in his office and disinfecting everything before his fighters arrived that morning. So far, no one had been in his office to notice the broken display case.
Thank God he’d decided to keep living above the gym to be close and keep an eye on things. If Connor had succeeded in taking what he’d come to steal, he’d have a lot more explaining to do that morning. In comparison, the broken glass was easy.
He stared at the display case, not wanting to think about his father’s reaction had the trophies and belts been stolen. He was grateful the older man had left for Japan that morning and would be gone for a while.
Of course Connor had insisted that morning when he finally came to that he’d had no intentions of taking them.
“Come on, man . . . you know I wouldn’t have actually done it,” he’d said, coming out of the bathroom looking a million times better than he had the night before.
Unfortunately, it was probably because he’d done more than just shower in the bathroom for almost forty minutes. He’d noticed a small bag of cocaine in Connor’s pocket the night before. He’d been tempted to destroy it, but he refused to get even remotely involved in his brother’s drug use. He’d given him a place to sleep and shower, because short of calling the cops, he’d had no other choice, but this was as far as their time together went. “I don’t know anything about you anymore. I haven’t seen you or heard from you in almost three years.” He still didn’t know exactly why his brother was there now or what he really wanted.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t think anyone wanted me around.”
He was probably right about that. “If you’re looking for me to disagree, you’re going to be waiting a long time, so why don’t you just say what it is you want and be on your way.” He already knew it had to do with money, and he’d already taken five hundred dollars out of the safe the night before. It was sitting in an envelope on the counter in front of him.
He’d gone back and forth a million times last night on whether giving Connor any money was the right thing to do, but ultimately, he needed his brother out of his gym and out of his life. This was one complication he couldn’t deal with right now. The biggest fight of his career was two months away.
But his brother’s answer had caught him off guard. “I want to get clean,” he’d said. “And I need help.”
Help. Like the help their mother had been trying to get him? His gut tightened and his jaw clenched. “There are lots of clinics . . .”
Connor had stood. “I don’t need a clinic. I need my brother.”
Every part of him wanted to offer the envelope—the get-out-of-my-life money—to his brother and then get back to his own life, his training, his fighters . . . “And just what do you think I can do?” No one had been able to help Connor before. Before, when they’d all still cared enough to try. Before his problems and his addictions had hurt the one person Tyson had loved more than anyone else.
“I just need help getting back on my feet . . . a place to stay, a job. I can help out at the gym.”
He shook his head, his expression hard. “You stay out of my gym.”
Connor looked away.
Tyson slammed his hand down on the counter in front of his brother. “Do you hear me? Stay out of my gym,” he repeated. If his father saw Connor hanging around, all hell would break loose and he didn’t want any of this affecting his fighters. Connor attracted trouble everywhere he went and he didn’t want that anywhere near the life he’d built for himself.
“Okay. I’ll stay away from the gym, but can I stay here at least . . . just for a few nights?”
No. Tell him no. Give him the money and let him disappear again, like he would eventually anyway.
“Please Tys. I’m in trouble, man.”
Shit. Of course he was. It couldn’t possibly be as simple as just wanting to get clean or pretending to want to try. “I don’t need this bullshit right now.”
“I know. You’re defending the belt soon, right?” His brother raised his fists and made several weak jabbing motions. “I saw your championship fight. I was so proud of you, man.”
Why did those empty words mean so fucking much?
“I’ll stay out of your way, I promise. I need to hide out for a bit . . .”
Hide out? This just kept getting better. “In your brother’s home? In your family’s gym? Won’t this be the obvious place to find you?” Years of drug use had really messed up his brother’s once-genius brain. Connor had graduated high school two years early, and the school counselors had labeled him “gifted.” He could have gone on to any college he wanted on full scholarship and done something with his life. Instead, he’d turned to drugs as a way to quiet his overactive thoughts and his life had quickly spiraled out of his control.
He’d slumped onto the couch, looking defeated. “You’re right. Coming here was a bad idea. I’ll get dressed, and I’ll disappear,” Connor had said.
Good. Let him go. The faster he vanishes into thin air again, the better.
“There’s . . . um . . . five hundred in cash. Take it,” he said, nodding toward the envelope.
His brother’s smile was sad. “That wouldn’t even buy me an extra day, man.”
Fucking Christ. How deep had his brother dug himself now? He shook his head. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want any part of this. His brother’s mistakes kept coming one after another and they’d all paid too much for them already. “This isn’t my problem,” he’d said, determined to keep it that way.
“I know.” Connor had stood and moved toward him. “You were always the good one. I won’t bring you down with me. I’ll be out of here in ten minutes.”
Connor had disappeared into the bathroom, where his freshly washed clothes waited for him. Then his cell on the counter had beeped with a text message.
When Tyson reached for it and saw the words scrolling across the top, his heart stopped. It wasn’t the threat from his brother’s drug dealer that made him pause, but the screensaver pic of him, his brother, and their mother taken when they were in junior high, before life got complicated and messed up, before they’d taken different paths, before they’d lost her. That was the thing that made him pause.
He set the phone down and placed his palms against the counter as Connor came out of the bathroom. “How much do you owe?” Tyson asked, not looking at him.
“Really Tys, it’s not . . .”
“How much?”
“Five thousand.”
He closed his eyes. He had nowhere near that amount. All of the money from his fights went right back into the gym—into his fighters, into promotion, into his own training. “How much will they settle for?”
His brother nervously licked his lips. His knees shook as he sat on the couch.
He was coming down—the drugs no longer having much effect after years of abusing them—and soon he would need his next fix. If he meant what he said about getting clean, he was in for a rough road, starting any minute.
“Two, maybe three, but it won’t hold them for long.”
Five thousand dollars all gone into his brother’s veins. “I’ll have it in a few hours . . . In the meantime, stay in the apartment. Do not go out, do not open the door to anyone, and do not come near the gym.”
Connor had nodded eagerly. “Yes, okay . . . yes. I promise, I’ll figure this out. I’ll pay you back. I mean it this time, Tyson. I want to get clean, fix the mistakes . . .”
He held out a hand, not interested in hearing false promises, false apologies, or any sort of claim about fixing the past. There was no fixing the past. “Just stay put and away from me. That’s all I’m asking you to do.”
“Okay. I will. You won’t even know I’m here.”
The words echoed in his mind. Hadn’t he heard those words from a different kind of trouble just the day before?
He sat staring at the office phone. And now he was about to invite that trouble right back into his life as well.
* * *
An hour later, after several other attempts at the exercises listed in the issue of Women’s Health magazine she subscribed to but never read, Parker sat on her pool deck, her feet in the cool water. The early October sun was high in the sky, but the air had a definite trace of fall coolness and she knew that within a month it would be time to close up the pool for the winter months. She hoped she’d be back in LA soon. Being away from the glamour and glitz of the bright lights, the shopping trips on Rodeo Drive, and being apart from the moviemaking process was torture. But it was even harder to be in LA when she wasn’t filming. Watching the excitement from the sidelines was worse.
She picked up her cell phone and stared at it, willing it to ring. She hated the idea of having to reconsider training at Cage Masters. She shivered, remembering the way the sleazy-looking owner of the run-down, dirty gym had looked at her. Desperate or not, she couldn’t go back there.
With a sigh, she dialed Punisher Athletics. It couldn’t hurt to see if Tyson had changed his mind. Persistence had always been her friend in the past.
Three rings, then an out of breath, “Hello. Punisher Athletics.”
“Hi. Can I speak to Tyson Reed please?” She’d offered him two thousand for the week but at this point she was ready to pay him anything he wanted for his help.
