Hollywood Dirt Page 14

  “Want it?”

  I swallowed my pride and took the gift, looking at the bottle before twisting off the cap. Voss. Never heard of it. I tilted the bottle back and greedily chugged half of it before stopping, wiping off my mouth with the back of my hand and putting the cap back on. “Thanks.” I nodded to the bottle. “Where’d you get this?”

  “That grocery store on…” He waved in the general direction of the town. “In town.”

  “You went to Publix?” I raised my eyebrows, surprised.

  “No. I paid Ben to get me a list of stuff.” He eyed the half-full water bottle that I offered back. “You don’t have any water?” He didn’t reach for it, and I unscrewed the top again. No point in it going to waste now.

  I shrugged. “And ruin your opportunity to help a damsel in distress?” I tilted back the bottle and finished it. “It’s a fairy tale concept. You should be familiar with it.”

  “You’re hardly in distress.” He pointed to the Holdens’ house. “How far’s that? A hundred yards?”

  I stared at his well-kept brows and wondered if he plucked them. “Did you have a reason to come here?”

  “You’re not answering your cell. I’ve been trying to call for three hours.”

  I tossed the bottle on the ground, next to a discarded tool belt. “I don’t have a cell. That’s the house phone number. And I’ve been out here.”

  “You don’t have a cell phone.” He said the words slowly, as if they might make more sense that way.

  “Nope.” I didn’t feel the need to explain that I had no reason to be available or contacted twenty-four hours a day. Plus, I spent eighty percent of my time at home. Who would I chatter to while in line at the deli? Who would I need to call on my way home? It had also been the teensy matter of cost. I made five hundred bucks a month. A cell phone could have easily eaten up twenty percent of that. The home phone at our house was free, along with the internet, cable, and utilities, courtesy of the Holdens. No brainer.

  “You need a cell phone. At least for the next four months. If you want to go back to your life of reclusion after that, be my guest.”

  “Fine. When I get my check, I’ll get a cell phone.”

  He eyed my clothes, then nodded to his passenger seat. “Hop in. We can go get one right now. I’ll pay for it.”

  I shook my head. “I’ve got one more post to put in. I can’t leave this fence half fixed. The horses’ll get out.”

  For the first time, he seemed to notice my surroundings, the hole digger leaning against the fence rail, the two-by-fours one rail down, the nail gun on the grass. “You’re putting in this fence? Isn’t there someone…?”

  If he said more qualified, I swore to myself that I would use that nail gun on his beautiful arm.

  “… else who can do that?” He looked around, like there was a team of handymen hanging out behind us.

  “The guys are off today,” I said tartly. “Why don’t you run along to the Gap and let me work?”

  He stared at me for a beat, then burst out laughing. I stepped closer and glared, and let’s all pretend, for a moment, that my change in proximity had nothing to do with an increase of air conditioning access. “The Gap?” His laugh died down to a chuckle. “Summer, I stopped shopping at the Gap when I hit puberty.”

  “Well, wherever you idiots shop.” I waved a hand in frustration and turned back to the broken fence. Last night we’d had a bad storm. It had washed out the ditch along this patch of fence line, and I’d woken to find the fence on its side. Thank God Hank had brought the horses in for the storm. Spots would have jumped the downed fence and teased half the horses in Thomas County before noon. I’d spent a day chasing her down with Hank before. It was a pain in the ass—excuse my language.

  Cole surprised me by opening his door and stepping out, one tennis shoe hitting the dirt, then a second. He wore jeans that, I swear, if I squinted hard enough, had iron lines on them. “I’ll help,” he offered.

  “Help me finish the fence?” Now I laughed. “Please, pretty boy. Get back in the truck before you get dirty.”

  He didn’t like that. I could see it in the set of his face, the way his eyes changed. He turned away from me, walked to the back of the truck, and put down the tailgate. When he returned, his hands gripping either side of my hips, I jerked back. I pushed against his chest, preparing for another unwanted kiss, and squealed in surprise when instead he lifted me up, my hands suddenly holding on instead of pushing away, my struggle ending when he set me gently on the open tailgate. He leaned in, his hands moving from my waist to the truck, corralling me in, his mouth close to mine. “Stay,” he whispered, and there was a moment of eye contact before he pushed off, brushing off his hand on the back pockets of his jeans as he walked to the truck and turned it off. I heard the back door open and got my second surprise when he returned with the baby chick in his arms. “Hold him for me,” he said gruffly.

  I took the chicken, which was really no longer a chick. It had grown in the last two weeks; it had long legs, big knees, and a comb that had become red and soft. The rooster peered up at me, then back at Cole, and shook out its feathers.

  “Just set him on the tailgate and let him move around,” Cole instructed, turning back and examining my handiwork on the new sections.

  I found my words and used them. “You brought the chicken? With you?”

  “I thought you might want to see him,” he called out, pushing on the top of a new section, as if to test its strength.

  “It’s a split-rail fence,” I called out. “You have the line posts and then—”

  “I know how to build a fence,” he interrupted, turning to me.

  “Really? What fence have you ever built?” I challenged.

  “Ever seen Legends of Montana?” he asked. “I spent six months on the ranch there. Bought the damn thing when I was done with it. I can build a fence, Summer.” He stared me down, and I shrugged. It was a good answer.

  “Then build the fence.” I gently set the rooster next to me and tucked my hands underneath my thighs, swinging my feet out a little to get some space. The bird promptly put one gentle foot on my bare thigh and hopped up. Cole smiled at the bird, glared at me, and reached down, grabbing the pole diggers and walking to the last crooked pole. He tossed down the diggers and grabbed the pole, working it back and forth a little in the dirt before pulling up on it.

  “You should take off your shirt,” I called out. “It’s gonna get dirty.” He looked over his shoulder at me, his hands still on the post. I don’t know why I said that, don’t know where the flirtatious tone had come from, and why it had chosen then, right then, to come to life.

  “You should take your shirt off,” he called back. “I’m not going to be the object of your ogling.”

  I laughed. “Puh-lease. We’ve all seen what you’ve got.” And we had. He went full frontal in The Evidence Locker. America swooned, and my vibrator got a fresh round of batteries. He turned back to his work, and I settled in. It was nice eye candy, even with his shirt on. And, after a few minutes of watching him, I relaxed. He did know what he was doing. Probably more than me. He was certainly quicker than me. His shirt was just beginning to stick to his back when he finished the job, grabbing the leftover wood and tossing it into the bed beside me, the chicken hopping to the end of my knee and looking up at him.

  “Hey buddy,” he said, scooping him up and setting him down on the ground.

  “I can’t believe you brought him with you.”

  He shrugged. “What else is he going to do? Sit at home and stare at nothing?” He sat next to me and the truck sagged a little under the additional weight. “You really don’t have a cell phone?” he asked, turning to me.

  “Nope.” I watched the chicken run, quick and fast away from the truck. “Why were you trying to call?”

  “Don wants to have a meeting. He’s coming in tomorrow, wants us to run through some lines together. Why haven’t you signed the talent agreement?”

  “My
lawyer has it. I’ll call his office, find out where he’s at on it.” Scott had called twice, the first time leaving a message, the second time having the poor luck of getting Mama. It wasn’t a pleasant experience for him. I had giggled into my bowl of cereal and mentally urged her on. I guess, seeing my job wasn’t secured yet, I should probably call him back.

  “You have an attorney?” He looked so surprised that I was almost offended.

  “Yes, we country folk hire legal help just like you do.”

  “I didn’t mean…” He looked down. “We need it signed. If there’s any issues, we need to know that as soon as possible.”

  “Okay. I’ll call him tonight.”

  “Wow.” He looked over at me, and his arm brushed against mine. “Evening service? I need your attorney.”

  I laughed, thinking of his attorney. “I’d rather have yours.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” His voice darkened. “I forgot the fawning session on your front porch.”

  “What?” I pushed off the tailgate and faced him. It felt better, having some space between us. I could actually breathe.

  “You were drooling over him. You have Cole Fucking Masten on your front porch, and you were staring at him like your damn panties were about to combust.”

  I tilted my head at him. “Oh. My. God. You’re jealous.” He was. I could see it in the pinch of his forehead. Jealousy I recognized, even if I hadn’t seen it for a long time. Scott had had jealousy down to a science. “And who refers to himself with the F word as a middle name?”

  “The F word?” he questioned. “Your country-girl mouth doesn’t get dirty?”

  With his words, the feel of the conversation changed, putting us in territory I felt uncomfortable with. Yes, my country girl mouth could get dirty.

  Jackass.

  Asshole.

  Prick.

  I had a whole list of words I could have screamed at him. Instead, I turned away and busied myself, chasing down his chicken, who ran from me and over to him. Cole carefully moved off the tailgate and picked the rooster up.

  “When can you meet about the script?” The question came quick and businesslike from his mouth.

  I shrugged and tried not to stare at the way his T-shirt sleeves had ridden up his arms, revealing more of his bicep. “Tomorrow? I’m open whenever.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow morning and set a time. We’ll do it at my place. Don’s shacked up at that tiny motel.” He’s lucky Ethel Raine wasn’t in earshot. She wouldn’t hesitate to cut off his balls and serve them for breakfast with grits and biscuits.

  “Fine.” I put my hands in my back pockets and watched him open up the truck’s back door and carefully put the bird inside. Then, without a word of parting, he got in the front seat, slammed the door behind him, and pulled off, the recent rain softening the dirt, a wet sound of suction left behind as he floored it. I stepped to the side and watched him hit the end of the driveway, the red truck turning around in the yard and barreling back in my direction. I leaned against the new fence, arms resting on the rail, and watched him fly past, a quick glimpse of the chicken’s head poking up along the bottom of the back seat window. I guess he had changed his mind about getting me a cell phone. I was glad. The last thing I wanted was to go anywhere with that man. It had been one thing to dislike him upon our first meeting. But now, as time passed and pieces of him came to light, I felt more and more off-balance around him. There were times when he seemed almost likeable, other times anything but. Right then, sitting next to me, the occasional brush of his arm or leg… it had been too much. Too much man, too close. Too much magnetism when he smiled, too tempting when he flirted, too big of a hole dug by him being nice. I couldn’t let his charm, his temptation, drag me into that hole and push me down. For him, flirtation was nothing, a country girl finding him attractive normal. For me? Falling for the unattainable Cole Masten might just break all of my bones upon impact.

  I couldn’t break. Not for a man who didn’t deserve it, not for a man who would split town even faster than me. We were both, when filming wrapped, getting out of here. There was no point in seeking out good in a man like that.

  I watched his truck turn at the end of the drive and accelerate off, toward the Kirklands’.

  CHAPTER 51

  He was stupid. He should have never gone there. He should have sent Ben or Don or some other lackey. He certainly shouldn’t have showered and shaved and put on fuckin’ cologne, like he was a teenager heading on a first date.

  He hadn’t expected her to be outside, and certainly hadn’t expected her to be working. Really working, her shirt sticking to her, chest heaving, arms dirty and strong and beautiful. And she had been beautiful, her hair wild, barely contained in a ponytail—her shorts showing off the full length of those legs. It was all he could do, when picking her up and putting her on that tailgate, not to crush his lips to hers, to pull off her shorts and wrap her legs around his waist.

  And that was the problem. He wanted her. In some primal way that didn’t make sense. He’d never been tempted—not in the years with Nadia—to look at another woman. Had spent the two weeks before Quincy sampling every type of woman out there. None had reduced the sting of Nadia’s actions. Now he’d spent a handful of moments with Summer, in the one situation where he shouldn’t touch anyone, should be behaving and celibate and focused on work, and he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Figured it would happen with a woman who didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in him. Worse, who seemed to dislike him.

  It was ridiculous. The whole situation, from start to finish. He took the curve out of her driveway too hard and the truck bounced, Cocky squawking from the back, Cole’s head hitting the window with a smack. He glanced back at Cocky and slowed down, pushing thoughts of her away as he reached for his phone and for a distraction.

  “Don,” he spoke into the phone. “Where are you at?”

  CHAPTER 52

  If Media Training was my first hint at what being an actress was all about, I was toast. Toast charred past the point of edibility, brittle and crumbly on a plate destined for the trash.

  Brecken Nichols came down from Atlanta, her blue suit strolling through the humidity like she had all the time in the world though, by my watch, she was already fifteen minutes late. I waited, impatiently, next to Ben, watching her approach and summing up everything I needed to know about the woman.

  She had one of those monogrammed bags slung over one arm – the big floppy kind, packed with enough items to keep me alive in the desert for weeks. Bright red lipstick, the kind Ben would have shot me dead over, her dark hair up in one of those poufed ponytails that Heidi Klum pulled off but I looked ridiculous wearing. Brecken didn’t look ridiculous. She looked pulled together. Perfect. Her brows, one which raised critically as she approached, were thick, her eyes sharp and well framed in makeup that must have taken her all morning to apply. This was not a woman who hit the snooze button and picked up after her pets. This was a woman who lunched in fancy restaurants, filtered suitors based on their bank balances, and who looked at women like me as snacks. I slid one hand in the back pocket of my new jeans, and felt, before she even opened her mouth, the scorn.

  “God please tell me Wardrobe didn’t dress you in that.” The words huffed out of her as she stopped before me, her head slowly tilting down as her eyes trailed from my head to my shoes, a long moment passing as she scrutinized my sneakers. They were Nikes. Brand new. She didn’t seem impressed.

  “I dressed myself.” I offered the obvious fact in a friendly tone, while my inner thoughts imagined an additional dozen cruder responses. “I’m Summer Jenkins.” I stuck out my hand, and she stared at it.

  “Never introduce yourself,” she finally snapped, moving past my hand and tugging open one of the wide double doors. “They should know who you are, they will know who you are. Understand?” She didn’t wait around for a response, her heels clipping down the hall before us, and I grabbed Ben’s arm, squeezing it so tightly that he
yelped.

  “Be nice,” he whispered. “And come find me when it’s over.” He darted away, my grip on him lost in some twist of his arm, his skinny legs skittering across the parking lot without a backward glance.

  I turned just in time to see Brenda dip into a room on the right. Letting out a breath, I stepped into the building and trudged after her. Never introduce yourself. Of all of the pompous, ridiculous behavior… I stepped into the room and watched Brecken flip on a row of switches, lights illuminating in quick succession, all shining down at one empty chair. Mine.

  “Sit,” she said brightly and wheeled out a camera, lining it up into place, her hands quick and efficient. “Let’s begin.”

  Media training was a fairly simple, if not painful, process. I sat on a chair, then a stool, then a couch, and answered questions that Brecken threw at me. Sometimes she sat across from me and had me face her. Other times she was behind the camera and had me look into it. She said ridiculous things and then scolded me when I giggled. She asked off the wall questions and then picked at my stumbles. She knocked over a lamp and then lectured me over flinching. And after every take, she’d pull me around and we’d watch the video and she’d pick out my mistakes.

  From Brecken’s expressions and my own ears… I was bad. Really bad. And I didn’t even have a speech impediment to blame.

  “Relaxxxx,” Brecken intoned. “You look like you, literally, have a stick up your ass.”

  I rolled my shoulders, let out a deep breath.

  “Nope,” she called out. “No change.”

  “How can I relax when you pick apart every single thing I do?” I glared into the camera.

  “I wouldn’t pick apart everything you do, dahling… if you actually did something right.” She drawled out the words in a ridiculous manner, clearly imitating me, my accent something she’d criticized for the last three hours.