Hollywood Dirt Read online

  I get that living with Mama wasn’t exactly the sexiest concept around. I knew that some people found it odd. But we’d always gotten along, and given our limited incomes, we’d needed the financial assistance of each other.

  Mama had grown quiet since I’d gotten the job with Ben. I hadn’t told her about the money yet, but I could feel the wings of my freedom flexing, pushing on the bones of my shoulders.

  I needed to tell her about the money.

  I needed to tell her about my plan, not that one had been formulated yet.

  I needed to tell her that I was going to leave.

  She needed to know that, soon, she would be alone.

  I could hear her moving in her room, heard the scrape of a hanger on the rod, her floor creaking. It was a good time to tell her, as good a time as any. I folded down the corner of the page I was reading and closed the paperback, before setting it on the table.

  Her door was open, and I leaned against the doorframe and watched her, her hair damp and in rollers, her nightgown sticking to her legs, her feet pale, toes that no one but me ever saw painted dark red. She glanced at me when she turned to the bed, the laundry half-sorted, her hands digging through the pile and pulling out socks.

  “The movie,” I started. “You know… my job with Ben.”

  “Yes?” She paired two socks with quick efficiency and rolled them.

  “I’ll get a lot of money from it. Enough to—”

  “Leave town.” She set down the roll of socks and looked up at me.

  “Yes.” Leave her. That was really what the root of this problem was, and I tried to find the words to explain…

  “Don’t worry about me.” She stepped around the bed and toward me. “That’s what you’re doing right? Feeling guilty?”

  “You could come,” I offered. “There’s not anything here—”

  “Summer.” She stopped me, putting a firm hand on my arm. “Let’s go sit on the porch.”

  We turned off the front porch light in an attempt to ward off mosquitoes, the moon beaming at us across hundreds of neat cotton plants. I will miss our porch. I thought about that as I settled into one of its rockers, the tension leaving my shoulders in the first push of my foot on the railing. It was hot as Hades outside, the battle against mosquitoes a constant fight, but still. There was something about the absolute solitude that I loved. It grounded me, calmed any anxiety in my bones.

  “Quincy was a great place for you to grow up, Summer.” The words floated over from her rocker, the creak of her chair moving her shadow back and forth beside me. “The people here are good. I know sometimes, with the way you’ve been treated, that it’s hard to see that, but—”

  “I know.” I spoke quietly, and the words came out clogged. I cleared my throat and spoke louder. “They are.” I meant it. I’d never really know anywhere else, but I understood, deep in my bones, the beauty of the town, of the people who lived there. Even with the hatred toward me, the disdain I could feel in their looks, this town still loved me because I was one of its own. A bastard child, yes. A non-native, sure. But there wasn’t a person in our county who wouldn’t stop to help me if I broke down on the side of the road. Not a soul who wouldn’t pray for me in church if I fell sick. If Mama lost her job tomorrow, our fridge would be stocked with casseroles and our mailbox filled with donations. I didn’t think there were a lot of places in this country like that. I thought it took a town of a certain size, of a certain mindset, to be that way.

  “It was a great place to grow up,” she repeated. “But you are a woman now. And you need to find your own place. I know that. I wouldn’t be a good mother if I tried to hold you back. I’m just sorry that I couldn’t, financially, put you on this path sooner.”

  “I could have left before, Mama. Plenty of times.” And I could have. I could have gotten a job in Tallahassee. Or taken advantage of the Hope Scholarship and gone to Valdosta State or Georgia Southern. Gotten student loans and been on my merry way. I didn’t really know why I didn’t. It just never felt right. And my desire to leave Quincy wasn’t ever strong enough to prompt action. Then Scott and I started dating, and any thoughts of leaving were discarded. Funny how love could spin your life in an entirely new direction before you even realized what had happened. And when you did realize, you didn’t care because the love was bigger than you and your wants.

  Our love had been bigger than me. That’s what had made its crash so devastating.

  “Where will you go?” Mama’s voice was calm, as if I hadn’t just taken her world and broken it in two.

  “I don’t know.” It was the truth. I had no idea where I’d go. “Do you want to come?”

  I felt her hand find mine, her grip strong and loving. “No sweetie. But you will always have a home here, and with me. Let that give you the confidence to take risks.”

  It was a sweet sentiment. I continued to hold her hand, our rockers moving in sync and tried to figure out how much, out of the twenty thousand, I could spare and how long that small amount would last her.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Assuming a role is like putting on another life and trying it on for size. You spend four months in that life and sometimes pieces of it stick.”

  ~ Nadia Smith

  Cole Masten settled into the seat of his Bentley and picked up his cell. Dialed his wife’s number and pressed a button, sending the call through the bluetooth. He listened to the phone ring through the speakers and pulled out of Santa Monica Airport, heading north on Centinela Avenue toward home. The time spent in New York had been hell. Half promotional, half productive—at least he’d made some headway on The Fortune Bottle. For the first time since he’d started in this business, he felt excited by something. Maybe it was the risk of his money in the pot. Maybe it was the thought of total control—of the cast, the direction, the marketing. Total control was a rarity in Hollywood, a rarity that had cost him financially. But it would all pay off, with interest, when it hit the box office. This movie would be huge, he knew it, had felt it ever since he’d first heard of the sleepy town full of millionaires.

  Nadia’s voicemail came on, and he ended the call, weaving in between slower cars as he drew closer to home. If she weren’t home, she would be soon. He’d managed to finish a day early, to give them at least one extra day together before he left for Georgia. Only six weeks until filming started. He turned up the radio, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel as he downshifted and passed a semi. He’d send the staff away as soon as he got there to give them some privacy.

  The sky was dark by the time he wound up their tight, curving street and pressed the button, opening the gate. He saw her Ferrari parked in the garage and smiled. Jerked his car into park and hopped out, his fingers itching to touch her skin, inhale her scent, push her down on the bed. He walked up the side path, the stone uneven beneath his shoes, the landscape lighting illuminating the tall palms in dramatic fashion as he moved to the back door.

  When he walked in the house, it was quiet and dark. He stopped in the kitchen, emptying his pockets onto the counter and pulling off his jacket. There was a note to Nadia on the large marble island, one from Betty, the house manager. He glanced at it, then lifted his head, the sound of the shower starting above him.

  Skipping the elevator, he jogged up the stairs, a smile on his face when he reached the second floor. It was the strange voice that stopped his smile, the laugh that was distinctly masculine, and he opened the door slowly, the light from the hall spilling into the dim bedroom, the lit bathroom illuminating in clear fashion the end of his marriage.

  Nadia’s hands were on the counter. He had always loved her hands. Delicate fingers, she had played piano as a child. They were very dexterous. That night, her polish was a deep brown. The nails had coordinated with the tan granite that they dug into.

  Nadia’s head was tilted down, her mouth open in an O of pleasure, the man’s head at her neck, saying something against her hair. Her feet were bare and spread, pushed up on her toes, a
position that pushed out her beautiful ass. The man’s hands gripped that ass.

  “I love your ass,” Cole whispered, his mouth nipping at the skin.

  “Of course you do,” she giggled, rolling onto her back, destroying his view.

  “I hereby claim it as mine.”

  She propped up on her elbows. “Uh uh uh. That ass belongs to my future husband.”

  “Then let me own it.”

  She tilted her head at him, a question in her smile.

  “Be my wife, Nadia. Let me worship at the shrine of you until I die.”

  “Now, Mr. Masten, how can I possibly say no to that?”

  The man pushed his hips forward, and he heard her gasp. Saw the flex of her arms as she pushed back against him.

  Cole stepped into the bedroom, his head pounding, his chest tight. The sounds of his feet on the carpet were thunderous, yet the couple didn’t turn, his wife didn’t hear, didn’t notice. Maybe because she was too busy moaning, her head lifting and falling back against his shoulder, one of her beautiful hands leaving the counter and reaching out to the mirror, bracing against it.

  “Tell me you’ll never leave me,” Cole whispered the words against her neck as he kissed the skin there.

  “Never?” Her eyes opened wide in mock indecision. “Never is a very long time, Mr. Masten.”

  “Tell me you’ll always be honest with me. Tell me you won’t ever leave without letting me fix whatever issue first.” He lifted off her neck and hovered over her face.

  She pushed against him with a laugh. “Silly man, we won’t ever have issues. I am an issue-less woman.”

  “Every couple has issues, Nadia.”

  “Not us,” she whispered, her legs parting beneath him, her smooth legs wrapping around his waist and pulling him tighter.

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  He didn’t know how the elephant got in his hand, its ceramic body heavy as it looked up at him with a peaceful expression. It was a Buddhist piece, something Nadia brought back from India, their decorator finding ‘the perfect display post’ for it, one that sat to the right of the bathroom entrance. But he recognized, when he closed his hands around it, the fury that pushed hard through his veins. Fury he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since he was a teenager with out-of-control hormones. Now, as a grown man, Cole stepped from the dim room into the lit bathroom with the elephant in hand, both hands, because for a peaceful animal the thing was heavy. Not too heavy to distract him from the words of the man, a disgusting proclamation of emotion. Not too heavy to drown out the response of his wife, saying the three words that were to be sacred only to them, forever and ever. He felt the thin string of control break as he swung the elephant hard, from left to right, hitting the shoulder…

  “Tell me you won’t ever leave.”

  and then colliding with the head…

  “Never.”

  of the stranger fucking his wife.

  The man crumpled to Cole’s marble floor, and Nadia’s scream was so loud it hurt.

  CHAPTER 11

  I was in church when the news hit. My toes were pushing against the tight fit of my heels, my eyes on the back of Mrs. Coulston’s head. She had a mole on the back of her neck. A light brown mole. It was horrifically ugly, yet I couldn’t take my eyes away. Couldn’t concentrate on the sermon, which was probably for the best since this was the time of year that it was all about tithing and financial duties to the church. This time of year always made my skin crawl, my opinion of Pastor Dinkon drop, my goodwill to the church faltering in one half-guilty, half-irritated step. I understood that money was needed, to pay the utility bill, to resurface our church’s parking lot. But my money wasn’t needed. Not when Bill Francis had donated five million to this little church just three years ago. Not when we were constantly having bake sales and pancake breakfasts and a hundred other things. Fifty dollars out of my monthly five hundred was a drop in the ocean of the church’s coffers.

  Beside me, in my new Nine West purse—a Fortune Bottle splurge—my hand groped, moving past tissues and pens before I finally found my goal: a peppermint. My fingers closed on the plastic-wrapped mint. I had to unzip it further to slide my hand out and Mama stiffened, turning and shooting me a look of disapproval. I withdrew the mint from the red leather and carefully pulled on its plastic twisted end. The process sounded loud, and I held my breath as I eased the candy out, Pastor Dinkon’s guiltfest sermon continuing, uninterrupted. We were about twenty minutes in, which was about halfway, and I popped it in my mouth, returning my eyes to the mole. She really shouldn’t wear an updo. Then again, I tried to remember the last time I saw Mrs. Coulston with her hair down and came up blank. I guess, at her age, women didn’t really wear their hair down, some unspoken rule—the same rule that made most women her age go short. I was glad she hadn’t hacked it all off and gone the updo route instead; her hair really did look beautiful—dark black and silver strands twisting perfectly up and pinned. The mole was really the only problem. Surely she could get it removed. Frozen off or something. The thought suddenly struck me that she might not even know it was there. It was on the back of her neck. I had the sudden, horrible desire to touch her shoulder. Gently, just a nudge. Nudge at her and point. Bring her Sunday morning attention to it.

  A horrible idea. I sat on my hands just to make sure it didn’t happen.

  There was a commotion three rows up. A shifting, leaning, shuffling. Mayor Frazier was trying to get out of his row. In the middle of the sermon. I watched with fascination as he dipped and weaved, his mouth making regretful motions, his face tight. I elbowed Mama, but she was already watching. Everyone was, a general shift of disapproval at the distraction. Typical Quincy. I knew I wasn’t the only one bored; I knew the disapproving hums were actually happy for some action, something to poke their minds before they headed in the direction of a nap.

  When Mayor Frazier’s shoes finally hit the middle aisle’s floor, their black shiny selves moved. Quick, important steps, his hand wrapped tight around his cell phone, and I suddenly realized that this was about more than just an urgent need to urinate. This was something else, something that made his eyes light up, his cell phone at the ready, his feet all but jogging to the exit. When he passed our row, his eyes darted to me, and there was a moment of connection, a moment where I realized that this was about The Movie.

  Something had happened. And suddenly, my interest in Mrs. Coulston’s mole and notifying her of its existence was gone. In that moment, with twenty minutes left in the sermon and a sea of bodies on either side of me, I wanted only one thing: to hop over the aisle and follow him.

  I didn’t, of course. For one, Mama’s hand settled on my arm and squeezed. A warning squeeze, one that said I know what you’re thinking and Don’t you dare, all at one time. For two, I wasn’t a barbarian. I did have some form of self-control, some respect for our God Almighty and for Pastor Dinkon, even if that day’s sermon was a load of fundraising crap.

  I sat there, my nails biting into my panty-hosed knee, my toes pushing against the front of my shoes, and waited. All through the sermon. The offering. All through three songs of worship. Through the closing, and then, with the crowd rising as one polite mass, I grabbed my purse and bolted out, my eyes frantic for the mayor.

  “That Bobbi Jo girl never did anything to nobody. And now she’s in an insane asylum after what Summer Jenkins did.”

  “An asylum? I thought Bobbi Jo was up in Athens. Dating a doctor up there.”

  “Nope. She’s in an asylum. Doped up on drugs all the time. That’s why no one’s heard from her. Her mama made up that Athens story to save face. But Summer’s the one who should be locked up. That’s my opinion.”

  CHAPTER 12

  IS CODIA FINISHED?

  Associated Press. Los Angeles, California.

  Police and emergency personnel were called to the Hollywood Hills West home of Cole Masten and Nadia Smith Saturday night at approximately 7 PM. Shortly after their arrival
, an ambulance departed, heading to Hollywood Presbyterian Medical Center where Jordan Frett was admitted into ICU, his head wrapped in blood-soaked cloths. There were no arrests made as of press time, but police stayed at the Masten residence until almost midnight, photographers clogging the narrow street leading to their home. “Paparazzi were so thick we couldn’t get through,” Hollywood Hills resident Dana Meterrezi said. “It was a crowd of cameras and people, all converged on the Mastens’ gate, some trying to crawl up the fence. I saw the police arresting three of them, just in the ten minutes it took me to get through.” A total of eleven paparazzi were arrested and charged with trespassing and unlawful entry.

  Rumors have ripped through Hollywood, both parties’ representation declining to comment. The only quote we could get was from Jordan Frett himself, who said from his hospital bed, “Nadia Smith is an incredible woman.” Frett is the director of Smith’s current project, a romantic comedy set in South Africa. Why Frett was at the Mastens’ home is unknown.

  The Mastens have been married for five years.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Is this bad?” I leaned against the countertop and looked at Ben, whose expression was pale and tight, his fingers a blur over his laptop, my puny internet service already cursed into oblivion an hour earlier. “I mean, I know this is bad, but how bad is this?”

  “Gargantuanly bad.”

  I broke open a boiled peanut and popped the nut in my mouth. Thank God my check had already cleared. I mean, not all of it. The studio still owed Ben a quarter of his paycheck, so Ben still owed me five grand, but I was sitting on a fatter bank account than I’d ever seen so if The Fortune Bottle went up in flames, it didn’t make too much difference to me. I tossed the shell into a Solo cup and watched Ben, a man who seemed awfully stressed considering he had also received the bulk of his monies. “Why do you care if The Fortune Bottle crashes?”

  He looked up. “The Fortune Bottle isn’t crashing. Movies don’t fall apart over this.” He waved his hands to encompass whatever this was.