Hollywood Dirt Read online

  Three hours later I took a break, standing up and stretching. I stood at the sink and filled up a glass, looking out the window, across the field, at the Kirklands’. I’d been doing that lately. Staring at the house. I had known before Brandi Cone had called, her voice all high-pitched and excited, that Cole had a new truck. I had watched it being delivered, had seen a barely-visible Cole jogging down the side steps and over to the trailer. I wouldn’t have guessed him to be a truck guy. He seemed more the flashy convertible type.

  Then I went back to the script. Read every line slowly, sometimes aloud. The role was manageable. Ida was an independent thinker, a secretary with a nest egg to invest. She often stood up to Cole’s character, keeping him on his toes, and they had a respect/hate relationship that morphed into friendship by the end of the movie. The fights—and the script was full of them—would be easy. The respect, the eventual friendship… that would be more difficult. But not impossible. No, for a half a million dollars, I’d charm the spots off a frog.

  Filming started in just two weeks. Before, I’d have been busy helping Ben get any final details in place. Now, as an actress, I had a different set of things to handle. Just one teensy problem: I didn’t know what they were.

  “I feel like I should be doing something,” I spoke into the phone, the long cord twisted into a knot of epic proportions, my fingers busy in its coils, trying to make sense of it.

  “The other actors are meeting with voice coaches, working on their dialect. You don’t have to do any of that,” Ben said, his voice scratchy, the sound of drilling loud and annoying in the background. He was at the Pit. Cole wanted it finished yesterday, and the crew was still working out some electrical kinks. Next Monday, starting early, our construction workers would move out, the crew would move in, and our sleepy little town would be taken over by Californians. I was terrified and excited, all in the same breath. Each day felt a hundred hours long and still passed too quickly.

  “So what should I be doing?”

  “Waiting. Next week you’ll get an acting coach and have some media training. Have you signed the contract yet?”

  I glanced over at the dining table, where the FedEx envelope lay, the hefty contract inside. “No.”

  “Why?” he challenged.

  “It’s eighty-two pages long. There can’t be anything good to say in that many pages.” I gave up on the knot and stretched the mess outta the exposed line, reaching over and snagging the envelope from the table. I studied the outside package, ENVISION STUDIOS printed in block on the return address form.

  “Then get an agent like a good little actress and have them look it over.”

  “For fifteen percent?” I laughed. “No thank you.”

  “Then get a manager. That’s what everyone in LA who can’t get an agent does. Managers only take ten percent.”

  “Still too much.” I pulled out the first of three contracts and skimmed over the initial paragraph, which was filled with enough thereafters and heretos to make my head hurt.

  “Summer. Either quit bitching and sign the contract or pay someone to review it. Hell, pay a lawyer an hourly fee to review it. But do something. You’re running out of time here.”

  I couldn’t just sign it. Not without knowing what it said. Not without knowing what I was giving up or agreeing to. “I’ll call my lawyer,” I finally said, dropping the contract back into the pack.

  “And then you’ll sign it?”

  “Depending on what he says, yes.” I tossed the contracts back on the table and tried to smile at Ben’s celebration on the other end of the phone.

  “Okay, go. Call him right now.” If I could see him, I’d bet a hundred dollars he was doing a little shooing motion in the midst of the construction area.

  “I will,” I promised, and hung up the phone, eyeing the mess of phone line. My next purchase: a new cord. Or better yet, a cordless phone. Really fancy stuff.

  I needed to handle the contract; I knew that. I needed to have a professional review it; I knew that. It was worth paying an attorney; it was smart to pay an attorney. And I had one, one who had known me my entire life, one who would watch out for my best interests and do it for free.

  I picked the phone back up off the base, took a deep breath, and called Scott Thompson. My attorney. My ex.

  CHAPTER 46

  Cocky seemed lonely. Cole sat next to the bathtub, in workout shorts and tennis shoes, and watched him. The baby rooster scratched at the Quincy newspaper and looked up at Cole. Tilted his head and opened his beak. Chirped out a tiny sound. Cole had turned the bathtub into his new home, the lamp plugged in and sitting at the left end, three layers of newspaper lining the bottom, the tub four times the size of Summer’s pathetic creation. He was bigger this week, his legs long with giant knobby knees halfway up. Early that morning, he had puffed his chest, white down fluffing out and strutted. Cole had laughed, his toothbrush in his mouth, mid-brush, and pulled out his phone. Tried to catch video of the action but failed.

  Now, he pushed off the floor and bent over the tub. Scooped up the bird and held him to his chest, the bird’s feet kicking against his chest. Walking out the bathroom and thru the backdoor he set him carefully on the back porch. Stepping down the back steps, he looked back and saw the bird carefully follow ’til he got to the edge of the first step and stop, wobbling, his head tilting down at the fall, then back up at Cole.

  “You can do it.” Cole patted his leg for encouragement, then felt stupid. He crouched down and clucked. The chick squatted, then hopped.

  It turned out Cocky couldn’t do it. When he landed, his baby feet stumbled against the step, his head tipping down, hitting the step before he sat back, shaking himself out, his feathers poofing. Cole hurried to his side, lifting him up and whispering apologies, moving him safely down to the bottom, where the chicken ran into the grass.

  100 pushups. His palms flat on the ground, the grass tickled his nose with every down pause. Everything was in place, everything on time, ready for next week. This moment of cohesion would be ruined the moment the crew and cast set foot in town. From that moment on, it would be pure, expensive chaos. That was the nature of the beast. A beast he loved, a beast that fed him. This would be the first time it would be a beast he paid, and not the other way around. But that was a temporary situation. Because once it hit screens, then his financial future would be set. The stakes were always high, but this was truly the movie that would define him. Success or failure. Billionaire or just another LA rich guy.

  He finished the set and took a deep breath, resting on one palm, then the other. He switched his weight to his fist, then started a second set. It felt so odd, being alone. Here in Quincy was one thing; it was a hundred transitions in itself. Back home would be different. Back home—he paused on his seventieth rep. He didn’t even have a home anymore; Nadia had moved out of the hotel and was back, in their bed, no doubt with that prick beside her, on his sheets, in his shower, in her fucking arms. He finished the hundredth rep with a groan and rolled over, the grass warm and soft underneath his back.

  He had to stop thinking. What was funny was that the one thing he wasn’t really thinking about was Nadia. And when he was thinking of Nadia, it was only to distract himself from thinking about the blonde and her stupid chicken. He felt an unsteady weight against his shin and looked down to see Cocky, wobbling in his steps, walking along his shin. He laughed and dropped his head back against the grass.

  He didn’t have time for this. He should be on sit-ups now, then burpees, then a long run, preferably up and down some hills. He sat up, his hands quick to catch the bird’s fall, and set him carefully to the side, taking a moment to scratch a spot just alongside his neck. He had read online that they liked that. Had felt a little proud when he’d found the fact himself. He’d gotten too dependent on others, on Justin.

  Watching Cocky, the bird pecking at the ground in response, he started the first of two hundred sit-ups.

  CHAPTER 47

  I knew, m
y fingernails tapping against the side of the phone, that I was making a mistake. Dialing Scott was opening a door that I had taken great pains to superglue shut. But I did trust him. Even if I hated him.

  “Summer.” His voice was surprised, and that made me happy. At least I’d never been that desperate ex, the one who gets drunk and calls in the middle of the night, the one who leaves long and sad voicemails that only further cement the relationship’s death. No, I hadn’t been that ex; he’d been. I’d been the one to listen to his voicemails, tears streaming down my cheeks, his name a long and vile curse from my lips as I stabbed the button to delete his bullshit.

  “Hey Scott.” I played with the edge of the FedEx envelope. I didn’t want to go see him. In the last three years, the only times that I felt regret over not marrying him was when I saw him. I’d spent countless hours since then carefully arranging my life to avoid as many Scott sightings as possible. And now, here I was. Chasing down the man to save a few dollars on legal fees.

  He coughed into the phone, and I could picture him clear as day, pulling at the knot of his tie, his eyes dropping to the side as he tried to think of what to say. Maybe his eyes dropped to the framed picture on his desk of his new wife and their little baby. I’m not bitter. He was the hottest property in Quincy. I wasn’t surprised then, and I’m not now, that he was forgiven quickly and snatched up. They bought the Lonner place when the old man passed. They were also one of the few families in Quincy that Ben and I didn’t call. I just couldn’t.

  “I have a contract that I’d like you to review. It’s all Greek to me. I just want to understand what I am signing and have you point out anything that looks bad.”

  “Okay. I can do that.” He sounded eager, ready to please. Some things hadn’t changed. “Send it to Shelley, my assistant. She’ll make sure I get to it today.”

  “I know who Shelley is.” My blood heated below my skin. Shelley had been a bridesmaid, one of the fateful seven. She hadn’t ended up in the hospital that night. Lucky girl.

  “Of course you do. I just—it’s something I’m used to saying.”

  “Of course it is.” I didn’t want to mock him, but the words came out that way. Bitter. Sounding bitter hadn’t been part of the plan, and I bit my lip.

  He said nothing, and I said nothing. Next would come an excuse to get off the phone. He was never good in a fight. Preferred to sleep off the anger and pretend that everything was fine in the morning.

  I spoke before he had a chance. “It’s a talent contract. They want me to be in the new movie.” I hadn’t planned on telling him. I’d planned on the contract sideswiping him, his brow furrowing higher and higher as he sorted through the lines of the contract, his head snapping up at the figure—$500,000.00—and at the description: a leading role in The Fortune Bottle. His stomach would roll with a mixture of pride for me and regret at his loss.

  “Really?” It was a mild question, just enough interest in the word to validate a response from me.

  “Yes. Cole wants me for the lead.” It was a foolish, prideful thing to say—completely unnecessary for our business relationship, yet completely necessary for my ego. I wanted to prance my success before him with the exuberance of the Quincy High marching band.

  “Cole?” Scott didn’t like my casual familiarity with his name. Not a surprise.

  I mumbled out a sentence, covering the receiver with my hand, then moved it away and spoke into the receiver. “I’ve got to run Scott. I’ll send the contract to Shelley.” I hung up the receiver quickly, before I waited for a response, before my voice wavered, before I lost the ground I had just gained for the first time in a long time.

  I rested my head in my hands and replayed the conversation. I did okay. He behaved. That made it easier. Though, ever since he got married, he’d been the picture-perfect husband. That shouldn’t have made me mad; it should have made me happy.

  It didn’t.

  CHAPTER 48

  Cocky back in the tub, fresh corn sprinkled down. Cell phone on the counter, one Voss bottle drained and in the trash. Earbuds in, vintage Sublime playing, his feet rattled down the steps and hit the grass.

  Cole hadn’t run on solid footing in years. Not since Four Songs of India, when they’d been filming in the middle of nothing, in an area where, with sunglasses on, he was just another white face. And now, where he could run five miles and see only a handful of houses, it felt safe. If felt worth a try.

  He started slow, taking a left out of the Kirklands’ long drive and heading away from Summer, away from town. It was hot outside. Muggy hot. Different from California. But then again, everything was different from California. Dirt underfoot instead of pavers. Live oaks towering instead of palm trees. Summer instead of Nadia. He stopped, a puff of dust created, and put his hands on his knees, breathing hard. God, this girl was like a virus, attacking his weak immune system and making a home in his veins. He stood, his hands moving to his hips, and turned in one slow circle, noticing and appreciating everything that wasn’t Summer. The breeze that cut through the heat. The sway of white cotton, stretched out beside him in a perfect row. No paparazzi, no cameras. No one to see him, watch him, judge him. He could have a breakdown, right here on this road, and no one would be the wiser.

  He didn’t have a breakdown. Instead he began to run again.

  Harder.

  Faster.

  Farther away from her. Nadia, and that sick, deceitful world.

  Farther away from her. Summer, and that distracting, judging, innocence.

  Harder.

  Faster.

  Farther.

  The dirt flew out from underneath as he ran.

  Well… let’s see. I think I first heard about Summer being in that movie from Jenny, she works at the post office. I don’t know who Jenny heard it from, but I didn’t believe it. I mean Summer? Our Summer? She’s pretty, but she’s no Minka Price. And she’s not even from Quincy.

  We have in our notes that she moved here when she was five.

  Exactly. You can’t play someone from Quincy unless you are actually from Quincy. Otherwise you just don’t know the dynamics of the town.

  Unless you’re Minka Price.

  Well, yes. Now my daughter, she would have been perfect for that role. Much better than Summer. Her name’s Heather. You should write that down. Heather Robbins. She works at the local flower shop, but she could get time off if Summer doesn’t work out.

  CHAPTER 49

  I wasn’t exactly sure how Quincy found out about my role, but I could bet the leak came from Scott. Or, more specifically, from Shelley. I knew the minute I forwarded the email with my contract, her email address carefully typed in the upper field, that I was signing a death sentence to my life of anonymity in Quincy.

  I’d watched movies; I knew how other places worked. How celebrities were fawned over and stampeded in public. That would never happen in Quincy. We liked to gush from the privacy of our homes, stalk through word of mouth and gossip. The more we pretended not to care, the more important something was.

  I could feel the buzz roll through the town. I got the extra-long looks, the side glances from people whose children I grew up with, heard the whispers stop as I walked by the Benners’ coffee shop. I knew Cole would find it strange. I didn’t expect for me to also fall victim.

  “Not one call!” I threw the ball of dough down on the wax paper and pushed my fists into it, being rougher than necessary with my kneading.

  “Are you surprised? You know how people are in these parts.” Mama looked up from the Sunday paper, scissors in hand, a coupon half cut.

  “I know.” I rolled the dough over and pressed my palm into it. “I just thought… somebody would call.”

  “You got a heap of calls a few weeks ago. That damn phone wouldn’t stop ringing.”

  “About the movie. About Cole.” I sprinkled a fresh bit of flour down.

  “Ahh… you want them to call about you. To congratulate you.” I heard the scissors when she put them
down on the table, and I stared forward at the rose wallpaper. I couldn’t see her face right then, the sympathy in it. “It’s okay, Summer. To want some attention.”

  I pulled my hands from the dough and looked down, yanking a dishtowel from the ring and wiping off my hands. “It feels stupid. Weak.”

  “You’ve been alone in this town for a long time. Punished for something not your fault,” she said quietly. “Everyone’s licking their wounds right now. They don’t want to be seen as a fair-weather friend—showing up just because you’ve had some excitement.”

  I’d take a fair-weather friend. In high school, I’d had plenty of friends, our social standings ignored in a united stand against growing up and taking on life. And as Scott’s girlfriend, then fiancé, I’d had his friends. It’s been a long, cold three years with only my mother to lean on. And right now, with Ben’s imminent departure, I’d take anyone. Even if their friendship was opportunistic and fake.

  Scratch that. Maybe it was for the best that my phone hadn’t rang.

  CHAPTER 50

  Cole Masten came to call in the summer heat on a Tuesday afternoon. I was on my knees, halfway down the Holdens’ drive, when his ridiculous truck pulled in.

  I heard the engine and looked up, instantly recognizing the vehicle, and eased to my feet, wiping a hand across my forehead. I was covered in sweat; it had dampened my tank top, a drop of it running down the middle of my back as I stepped out of the drive and nodded an out-of-breath hello. His window rolled down, a whiff of cold air floating over, and I fought the urge to crawl face-first through the opening. Too bad that’d put me in his lap. A perfectly clean lap, from all appearances. His sparkly white V-neck shone from the inside of the cab, the neck leading to his gorgeous face, covered in a layer of unshaved stubble, past a scowl on those lips and up to the glare of his green eyes. I spied a water bottle in a center console’s cup holder, and eyed it. Ice Cold. Frost on the outside of the glass. Cole’s hand covered the label and he picked up the bottle, holding it out.