Hollywood Dirt Read online

  “I brought you something.” She held up the towel, and he glared down at it. He couldn’t think of anything he’d want in a towel. Though… maybe it contained breakfast. He was hungry. He’d gone through the kitchen cabinets last night and hadn’t found anything. Another example of how much he needed Justin.

  “Is it breakfast?” he called out.

  “Are you going to let me in, or are you just going to holler down at me?” she yelled back. A distinct non-answer. He debated, then pulled back, shutting the window, watching Summer as her head dropped, and she headed to the back porch. He reached down for his T-shirt from last night, then thought better of it, moving out the door and down the hall, toward the stairs. If she wanted to barge into a man’s house at eight in the morning, she could suffer the consequences for it.

  When he unlocked the kitchen door, he got the full impact of Summer in the morning. Her hair wild and long, curling around the top of her shoulders. The top straps of her bright green tank top had a scalloped edge, the neckline dipping behind the mound of towels in her arm. Her eyes shone playfully at him, her pink lips curved into a playful smile. It was such an unexpected and beautiful combination, so different from the injured girl who had run home yesterday after their kiss. He held open the door and tried to understand what was happening. Her eyes dropped down his bare chest and to the low hang of his boxer briefs, and she blushed, turning her head, her next words directed away from him. “I could have waited for you to get dressed.”

  “I don’t think so,” he chuckled, leaning against the doorway. “You were awfully persistent with those rocks.”

  She didn’t respond, but the sun’s shine on her flushed cheeks was beautiful.

  “You have something for me?” he pushed, trying to see the toweled gift she cupped against her chest.

  “Can you put on some pants?” she snapped, looking back at him, her eyebrows raised accusingly. “It’s rude to waltz around with your junk out.”

  “Fine.” Cole swung the door shut, the edge not quite sticking, his view of Summer a thin sliver as he grabbed for his jeans, tossed on the kitchen floor last night. He stepped into them and tried to remember why, of all places, the kitchen had been where his pants had come off. Oh. Right. This had been ground zero for the first jack-off session, his eyes on Summer’s house, picturing her returning, catching him with his cock out, eyes closed, her soft gasp and then… he snapped the memory shut, twisting the fly of his jeans shut and returning to the door, swinging it open. God. Another minute of that and he’d have been hard again. “Come on in,” he called.

  Her eyes skipped over his body briefly and she stepped inside, apparently approving of his new level of dress. Funny, a fan had never yelled at him to put on clothes. Though Summer wasn’t a fan. She’d made that abundantly clear.

  She stopped in the middle of the kitchen and nodded to one of the bar stools. “Sit,” she ordered, the gleam in her eyes back.

  He sat, hesitantly, more scared of friendly Summer than he’d been of the hostile version.

  “I know last night was a little… rough. So I wanted to come over and give you a housewarming present.” She beamed, but didn’t set the towel down.

  “A housewarming present,” he said slowly.

  “Yes. To mend the fences. Between you and I,” she clarified, like he was a complete idiot.

  “You want to kiss and make up,” he risked.

  She glared at him, but he saw the laugh in her eyes. Oh… so many different pieces to this woman. “In a metaphorical sense. But what I said yesterday—”

  “I got it,” he interrupted. “No kisses. You don’t like that.”

  Her forehead scrunched in an odd fashion. “Right.”

  “So what is it?” He gestured toward the wrapped bundle before he lost all patience and swept her onto the counter. The package, he meant. Before he swept the package on the counter.

  “Oh, right!” She stepped forward and gently set down the towel on the counter, parting it in careful motions, as Cole leaned forward. When the head popped out, in one quick jerk, he jumped back with a curse, the stool flipping out from underneath him, his hands trying to grip the counter for balance, then he fell back, his ass hitting the tile floor hard, with a smack hard enough to make him yelp.

  There was a quiet pause from behind the counter, then Summer’s head came cautiously over its edge, mirroring the actions of the tiny baby chick that wobbled out from the towel’s bed and looked down at Cole.

  CHAPTER 42

  A rooster. I thought he’d find it funny. We could laugh about it, in Cyndi Kirkland’s ridiculous rooster house, and make amends. Get our friendship off on a better foot, one that didn’t involve insults and barbs and impromptu kisses. I woke up that morning determined to get over my insecurity in regards to kissing and to get on the right side of the asshole that was Cole Masten. I needed this money, I needed this role, and if I happen to suck at kissing, so be it. A present was the most obvious solution to the problem. I would have made him something to eat, but he had curled his lip at my apple cobbler so I had to think outside the box. And when I thought of a rooster, it seemed perfect. Funny, light-hearted, a country gift for a city boy. I didn’t expect the man to fall backward like I’d put a bomb on his doorstep. Didn’t expect him to glare at me like he was, right then, my hands gently wrapped around his new pet.

  “Are you crazy?” he gasped, pushing to his feet and brushing himself off. Not much to brush off. Cyndi Kirkland’s floors were cleaner than a Holiday Inn room on inspection day. “Literally, I need to know this, for the future of the movie. Are you insane?”

  The baby chick clucked nervously in my palms, and I slid him back a few steps, closer to the protection of my chest. Against my fingers, his heart beat a rapid patter.

  “Well?” he demanded, and I blinked.

  “That’s a serious question?” I responded. “I thought you were just asking it to be a smart ass.”

  “No. It’s a serious question. What normal person brings someone a fucking bird as a housewarming present?” He gestured to the baby chick, and I had the ridiculous urge to cover up its tiny ears to protect it against the swearing. I should have. Just to see the look on Cole’s face.

  “I am not insane,” I responded. “And it’s not a baby bird. It’s a baby rooster.” I nodded in the general direction of Cyndi Kirkland’s decoration insanity. “I thought it’d be funny.”

  “Oh, it’s hilarious.” He raised his hands to his head and turned away. “This whole thing is fucking hilarious. I’m gonna have a nervous breakdown over how fucking hilarious this is. What am I supposed to do with that? Eat him?”

  I started back, bringing the tiny body to my chest. “No! He’s a pet!”

  “I—” He pointed to me, then to the baby chick. “I can’t have a pet. I don’t have anywhere to keep a fucking rooster, Summer.”

  “Would you please stop cussing? It’s so… unnecessary.”

  The man’s eyes widened before rolling upward, and I turned away before I set down my heartfelt gift and meat-cleavered this man to pieces. I carefully cradled the chick against my chest, his little beak pecking at my shirt, and opened the pantry, then the kitchen cabinets, looking for different items, Cole’s footsteps loud as he walked behind me and stopped.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer him. I found a large plastic bin in the back of the pantry, holding bags of dog kibble. I unloaded the bags and gently put the chick in it. Then I left it there, on the floor in the pantry, moving to the back door and opening it.

  “Don’t leave that thing here!” Cole shouted after me, panic edging the sides of his words.

  “Chill,” I grumbled, moving to the edge of the lawn and yanking at some taller pieces of grass, gathering several handfuls before I trotted back inside, dropping the grass in with the chick.

  “I mean it,” Cole rambled, following me as I opened cabinets, finding a small bowl, then a lamp from the living room. “I can’t hav
e a pet. I’m too busy. And I don’t know a damn thing about chickens.”

  “It’s a rooster,” I repeated. “Or, well, he will be when he grows up. Fred sexed him for me. That’s why he has those little spikes on the top of his head.” I used the sink, filling the bowl half full of water and setting it in the corner of the plastic bin. Plugging in the lamp, I put it on the floor, next to opposite end. “You’ll need newspaper to line the bottom. The lamp is for heat. Baby chickens need a lot of warmth. Keep it on, even at night.”

  “Summer!” His hands closed around my shoulders, and he turned me around, looking down at me, his face dark, our bodies close in the small space. “You are taking that thing with you.”

  “No,” I said firmly, reaching down and pulling off his hand. “I’m not. It’s a gift, and you don’t refuse gifts. It’s rude.”

  I moved around him, snagging my towel from the floor, and walked to the door, glancing back as I opened it to find Cole, his hands on the edge of the plastic container, looking helplessly from me to it, the pose distractingly sexual given his lack of shirt.

  “Newspaper. Find some and line the bottom. Oh, and Cole?” I smiled sweetly, and he looked at me. “You’re welcome. And welcome to Quincy.”

  I shut the door and skipped down the back steps, moving through the yard and out the gate before he had a chance to respond.

  Okay, maybe mending fences had been my goal. Or maybe, I just wanted to give the man a jab back. Kissing might not be my forte, but sparring… I could do that just fine.

  CHAPTER 43

  As God as his witness, if Cole knew a place in this small town to hide a body, Summer Jenkins would be dead.

  He stood in his new kitchen and stared down at a tiny bird that stared right back up at him. And then scratched at the edge of the plastic. And then stared at him some more.

  He left it, him, whatever, there and jogged up the stairs. Grabbed his cell off the bed and, damn the time change, called California.

  The hospital was not very accommodating, the nurse hesitant to put the call through, her tone flipping when he said the two magic words that made all doors open: Cole Masten.

  The phone rang six times, Cole pulling on his shirt, before Justin answered.

  “Cole.”

  “Justin. How are you?”

  “I’ll live. Sorry I can’t be kicking ass and taking names for you down there.” His voice was weaker than normal, his words slower than standard, and Cole felt a moment of guilt for his early call.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I’ll let you get back to bed.”

  “Shut up, man. I’m surprised you’ve survived without me this long. What’s it been, three days?”

  Cole laughed. “Yeah. It’s been hell. Literally. Satan would be comfortable in this heat. How long before you’re back in my corner?”

  “Doctors say four weeks. I’ll be out of here in about a week, but I won’t be able to travel until around the time filming starts.”

  Cole stood at the top of the stairs and looked down, swallowing his list of requests. “Get better. I need you back.”

  “You know it. And call me if I can do anything from here.”

  Cole only nodded, his feet trotting down the stairs and back to the kitchen. Back to the bird. He hung up the cell, eyed a thin telephone book that sat underneath a cordless phone, and headed toward it.

  “Coach Ford and Buick, this is Bubba.”

  Cole glanced down at the ad and reaffirmed the number. “Yes, do you service the Quincy area?”

  “Sure we do. Quincy, Tallahassee, Valdosta, Dothan. We’ll service anybody that brings us business.” The man’s tone was hearty, a bellowing voice that probably couldn’t whisper if it tried.

  “I’d like to purchase a truck.”

  “Wonderful! We’re open ’til seven. Do you need directions?”

  “No. I’d like to buy one over the phone and have you deliver it.”

  There was a long silence. “We don’t really do that. There’s financing paperwork, an inspection check, the test drive…”

  Cole let out a long, irritated sigh. Maybe he should have called American Express. Let them handle this shit. “I’m paying cash. I’ll give you a credit card number and someone from your dealership can bring the paperwork with the truck. Okay?”

  Another long pause. “I think I better let you talk to Mr. Coach.” There was a muffled shout and the huff of breath, as the man seemed to, from all sound indicators, run. Cole stared at the chicken and wondered if he should name it. It was kind of, despite any level of common sense, exciting. He’d never had a pet before. His father had always said no, and Nadia was against anything that might, at any point in time, smell, make noise, or cause inconvenience.

  Cole wandered over to the fridge and opened it up. Stared at empty shelves and wondered what to feed it. He needed a vehicle; that was the first step. Then he and the bird would get whatever they needed to survive.

  Bubba came back on the line, this time with the dealership’s owner. Cole introduced himself and, ten minutes later, had verbally chosen one of the six trucks they had on the lot. They promised delivery within the hour, and he hung up the phone with a newfound sense of accomplishment. Maybe a few weeks without Justin would be a good thing.

  “Well,” he said to the bird, “I guess it’s just me and you.”

  Damn Summer. Damn her to hell.

  CHAPTER 44

  It took twenty minutes in his new truck—a red F250 Super Duty—to find Quincy’s version of a pet store, a long white building with the words FEED AND TACKLE in big, red letters along its side. When Cole stepped in, Summer’s tub under his arm, the store’s lone inhabitant looked up from his counter at the back of the store and grunted a hello. Cole stepped gingerly forward, his new boots squeaking as he walked past horse collars, mud boots, bags of horse feed, and an enthusiastic display of rat traps. He got to the counter and set Cocky’s tub on the worn wooden surface. The chick’s name had come to him while driving, a humorous play on words but also wholly unoriginal. No biggie. There was only one Cole Masten; if he had a less than uniquely named rooster, so be it. He waited for a moment for the recognition, the traditional ‘Hey, aren’t you...’ but the man just glanced at the tub, then at Cole, his mouth opened enough to roll his toothpick to the other side and then it closed.

  “I just got a baby rooster,” Cole started.

  “I can see that,” the man drawled. He leaned forward, his chair creaking, and peered through the thick plastic. “Why’d you bring it with you?”

  “I don’t know. I thought it might need to be checked out, or you might have questions, or it might not be able to be left alone…” Cole’s voice trailed off, and he realized exactly how stupid he sounded.

  “It’s. A. Chicken.” The toothpick in the man’s mouth fell out as he spat out the words. “It’s not a pet. You don’t name the thing and give it a bedazzled collar.”

  “What does it eat?” Cole snarled, taking Cocky’s tub down off the counter and setting it on the floor, his boot pushing it to a safer location, a little to the side.

  “Corn.”

  Cole waited for more. And waited.

  “Just corn? Nothing else?”

  The man raised his eyebrows. “Its. A. Chicken. There ain’t no Chef Boyardee prepackaged meals in nine different flavors. You want to get fancy, buy the FRM brand. It’s twice as much and doesn’t make squat shit bit of difference.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Two rows left, at the end. It comes in fifty-pound bags. Think you can lift that?” Cole swallowed, his eyes on the man’s, and wondered what his publicist’s reaction would be if he cold-cocked this hick.

  “I can lift it,” he said evenly. “Anything else I’d need for it? Medicine or vitamins or shots?”

  “It’s. A.—”

  “Chicken,” Cole finished. “Got it. How much for the bag of feed?”

  “Eighteen bucks.”

  He pulled out his wallet and tugged out
a twenty. “Here. Keep the change.”

  He slapped down the bill and crouched, lifting Cocky’s tub carefully and taking it out to the truck. He set it down on the passenger seat, buckling it in, then returned to the store, throwing the feed bag over his shoulder with ease while the man behind the counter looked away and spit into a red Solo cup.

  CHAPTER 45

  BATTLE LINES ARE DRAWN:

  CODIA IS OFFICIALLY DEAD

  The divorce between Cole Masten and Nadia Smith has moved into high gear, with each side lawyering up and court documents flying furiously back and forth between the pair. Nadia, who recently won her first Academy Award for Heartbroken, is allegedly going after an equity stake in The Fortune Bottle, Cole Masten’s latest film, which begins filming in just two weeks.

  I was engaged once. Three years ago. I thought I was in love. But love shouldn’t hurt, shouldn’t dig through your chest, carve out your heart, and serve it like a meal. Or maybe it only hurts when it’s real. Maybe when breakups didn’t hurt—that was when you knew the love was false.

  I wondered if Cole and Nadia’s love was real. I wondered how much he was hurting. I wondered how much of his asshole behavior was pain, and how much was just him.

  I hadn’t spoken to him since I dropped off the baby chick. Word around town was that he had a new truck and bought a mess of chicken feed. So I guessed he kept the chick; I guessed he was settling in. Ben met with him twice about locations, and brought me over a script. I shrugged when he delivered it, tossing it onto the table, and scurried about finishing the batch of chicken salad I was working on. But as soon as he left, I devoured it. Settled into the recliner and ran my fingers reverently over the top page. It wasn’t bound, it wasn’t protected, it was just a fat stack of pages, held together with one giant clip. I flipped over the top page and started reading.