Hollywood Dirt Read online

  The start of my dislike began with his request to come inside. It was rude of him, the action a personal dig at my faux pas of not inviting them inside. One rude action pointing out another rude action did not cancel each other out; it just bought you an extra ticket to the Dickhead Show.

  I should have invited them in; I know that. It was hot as blazes outside, the sun just low enough in the sky for the mosquitoes to journey out, the scent of fresh humans luring them closer. But the house was a mess, and Ben had promised me they wouldn’t come in. It was the only thing that had allowed me to open my front door with any composure. Because sure, I was in my bathing suit and some cut off shorts, but at least they wouldn’t know that my house was messy. That my bathroom trash had not been emptied. That the Honey O’s box from that morning was still sitting opened on my kitchen counter. All was salvageable until the pretty boy had to go and gripe about wanting to come in. So rude.

  Cole Masten’s second strike came three minutes later, the men awkwardly standing in my living room while I flew around like a crazy woman attempting to get drinks.

  I watched Cole from the corner of my eye, in deep discussion with his attorney, and noted the delicate white skin—skin that would bake in our sun. Each summer we literally fried an egg on the pavement. Just one egg, a local one from a local chicken, the egg carried and presented with great ceremony by our mayor. The frying was done on the previous summer’s hottest day of the year, and it was always an event, time taken out of everyone’s non-busy schedule to bring potluck items and huddle around the Smith Bank & Trust parking lot to stare at one of Mama Gentry’s sad little eggs. Sometimes they fried quickly; other times it was unseasonably reasonable and only a few bubbles of excitement were produced. So yeah, eggs fried in our sun. His California pale skin would crinkle up like crispy bacon. I contemplated, while opening cabinets and searching for glasses, my damp suit getting itchy, offering him sunscreen, a friendly Welcome to Quincy gift. I hadn’t. Instead, yanking open the dishwasher, I made a side bet with myself that the next time I saw him, he’d look like a lobster.

  “I need to run,” the first man said regretfully, tilting his head toward the door. “Got a truck to return and a plane to catch. My wife will have my head if I don’t make it home in time for dinner.”

  He left the group and walked toward me, my hands stalling in their reach into the dishwasher. I set down the glass in my hand and shook the hand he offered. “Thank you so much for your hospitality. I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Summer,” I managed. “Summer Jenkins. Can I fix you a tea for the road?”

  He chuckled. “No, but thank you. I appreciate the offer.”

  Wife. That was what he’d said. His wife would be upset if he didn’t make it home. Not much of a surprise, all the good ones were taken. And he’d had manners too. I left the kitchen and opened the front door for him, waving goodbye, my smile dropping when I shut the door behind him and noticed the dust on the door’s window. Great. Disasters at every turn. I suddenly thought of Mama, and I glanced at the oven clock. Four PM. Still an hour and a half until she got home from work. Plenty of time to get Cole and Ben out of here and clean up, get a casserole in the oven. Maybe one of those Stouffer ones. Carla at the IGA promised me they tasted homemade, but we’d be able to tell. You couldn’t fake authenticity, not in these parts.

  I returned to the kitchen, Ben’s phone to his ear, Cole Masten looking dubiously at my couch like he wasn’t sure it was fit to sit on. I cracked the ice in its tray and plucked out a few cubes, dropping them in his glass. Ben could fend for himself, his Tervis still sitting half-full somewhere in this wreck of a house. “Tea?” I called out.

  The man turned away from my couch and eyed me. “Sparkling water, please.”

  That right there was the second strike. I smiled, the expression born more of spite than of sweet. But in the South, our smiles are our weapons and only a native knows a snarl from sincerity. “I’m afraid I don’t have sparkling water.” You are not a man, I thought. A man doesn’t drink sparkling water; he chugs tap water from a hose after changing his oil.

  “Still is fine.” He turned away from me and took a careful seat on the couch. I turned back to the sink, my eye roll hidden. Still is fine. Oh, it’d be still. Still in my tap, the same place it was this morning. I twisted the faucet’s knob and filled the glass. Turned it off and carried the glass over, moving a coaster and setting it down. I raised my eyebrows at Ben who was still on the phone, his hand making some sort of justaminute motion so I sat down on the recliner. Glancing over, I saw Cole Masten study the glass before taking a sip.

  “How was your flight in?” I asked.

  The man looked at me when I asked the question, his eyes traveling over my legs as he swallowed the first sip of water, then took a larger one. It was a shame, really, to have that much beauty. God could have divided up his thick eyelashes, strong features, hazel eyes, and delicious mouth among three men, therefore giving more women a chance at happiness. Instead, Cole Masten hit the jackpot. A jackpot that was tipping back his glass, taking his time with his answer, his delicious neck exposed, his mouth cupping the glass, a hint of his tongue…

  God. I shifted in my seat and pulled at the neck of my shirt, looking away. Suddenly wished, more than anything, he and Ben would hurry up and leave. Let me have my house back, let me have a half hour or two of peace and quiet before my mother arrived home. It was a desire that made absolutely no sense. Every red-blooded American woman would claw my eyes out to be that close to HIM. Maybe it was the small town country in me—the same stupidity that had me saying ‘no thanks’ to college applications and to finding a ‘real job.’ Maybe it was the fact that I was raised to believe that ‘real men’ had manners, and weren’t picky, and didn’t wear aftershave that attracted mosquitoes.

  Ben hung up the phone and, in the next minute, Cole Masten got his third strike.

  CHAPTER 28

  This might just be the worst two weeks of Cole Masten’s life.

  Losing Nadia. The Fortune Bottle at risk. Justin’s accident. Going with Brad DeLuca to Quincy. A horrible decision. What was he thinking? It would have been okay if Justin had been here, getting him settled, arranging his schedule, keeping Cole the right balance of busy and relaxed. Justin would have been dealing with this scout, keeping Cole’s hands clean, keeping him from sitting on some stranger’s couch and sipping her water. What had she asked? Oh, right. About his flight.

  He took a sip of water to avoid answering the question. Such an innocent question, pointless small talk. God, when had he last made small talk? Or polite chit-chat? Or anything that didn’t involve “Yes, Mr. Masten” or “Of course, Mr. Masten” or “Absolutely, whatever you want, Mr. Masten.” Small talk was for a different breed of people—people with time to burn and relationships to build. He hadn’t needed to build relationships, not for a very long time. He’d had Nadia and Justin. He’d had an agent, manager, and publicist. All requirements covered, nothing further needed.

  He swallowed the water and wondered how many of those relationships, given recent events, were in jeopardy. Nadia had been the queen of small talk, of relationship building. She’d been the one who sent liquor on birthdays or steaks on anniversaries. She’d been the one to write thank yous after dinner parties, who remembered things like kids’ names and health issues. Maybe if he hadn’t had Nadia, he’d have made more of an effort. But he hadn’t needed to; she was that arm of the unit that was them, she was…

  Jesus. He stood quickly, setting his glass down on the table, and moved to the window, the location scout saying something. He didn’t listen; he rubbed at his face. He had to get his shit together. He had to stop thinking of everything wrong in his life. Maybe he needed a life coach. He dropped his hands and turned to the man, who had started speaking. “Start over,” he interrupted. “I wasn’t listening.”

  The man—Wennifer? What the fuck was his name?—stopped talking, then started again, his eyes darting to
the girl as he spoke. “Wait.” Cole held up his hand and turned to the girl, whose hands were reaching out, moving his glass onto a coaster. “Who are you? I mean, no offense, but why are you involved in this?”

  Her eyes flashed and he, despite himself, liked it. Liked the fire in her spirit. Wished that Nadia had had more of that. Nadia’s fire was reserved for maids who didn’t show up on time, for contracts that didn’t give her points, for YSL when her dress for the Oscars didn’t fit properly in the chest. She’d rarely shared that fire with him. He’d always overlooked that, or seen it as a benefit. Now it just seemed like another red flag he’d missed.

  “She’s been helping me.” The blonde’s mouth shut when the talent scout spoke, her glare shooting to him as she untangled her long legs and stood up, her face level with his chin, tilted up so that he could see full force the impact of her stare.

  That was another thing that people rarely did. Looked him square in the face. People glanced away, looked down, nodded a lot. Fans were the exception, their hands and eyes reaching out incessantly, eye contact the golden ticket they all coveted.

  This woman’s eyes did not covet his, they burned holes through his shell and found their way to his soul, pushing into every dark and insecure corner and finding them all disappointing. She stood toe-to-toe with him and growled out her retort. “You’re standing in my living room, sucking up my air conditioner, drinking my still water. That’s why I’m here, Mr. Masten. And I’m not involved in anything. Ben is my friend, he was here when your attorney called and bulldozed y’all’s way into our pool party.”

  She was authentic Quincy, and he had to appreciate that, wished—for a moment—that Don Waschoniz, The Fortune Bottle’s director, was there to capture this moment, this spirit. She said “y’all”, and it didn’t sound forced, didn’t sound cheesy or contrived. It sounded sweet and dignified, her fire almost cute in its venom. He was Cole Masten, for God’s sake! She should be yanking down her bathing suit and bending over, not putting her hands on her hips and standing up to him. She’d be a perfect Ida—the female lead—a Coca-Cola secretary who strikes it rich alongside the rest of the investors. There wouldn’t even be acting involved; she just had to roll through makeup, stand on her mark, and speak the lines. He grinned for the first time in days, and she took a step back, her eyes narrowing. Ooh… a mean look. That translated even better. All Southern fight and attitude. If she could recreate that scowl and use it on the recipe scene, it’d be a slam-dunk.

  “Get out.”

  He laughed at her faint accent—not like the one that their extras had attempted—God those had sucked. They hadn’t known it; they had passed through their Californian ears just fine, but now he knew.

  “I mean it.” She pointed to the door, her mouth set in a hard line. “Get out, or I swear to God I’ll shoot you.”

  The talent scout moved nervously between them, patting Cole’s shoulder frantically, like a pat would accomplish anything. “She means it,” he whispered loudly. “She has guns in her coat closet.”

  Cole took a step back, his eyes on her. “What was your name again?” he asked.

  She growled in response, and he laughed again, letting the tiny gay man push him out the open door and into the summer heat.

  Perfect. She’d be perfect.

  Now, he just had to call Envision. Give Price exactly what she’d been begging for—a release from the contract. One problem solved in his first fifteen minutes in this town. DeLuca had been right to bring him here. On the ground, here in Quincy, he could get done the things that needed to get done. He could dig his hands in and distract his mind from everything Nadia.

  The press wouldn’t love the loss—they would have to spin it the right way, to work with Minka on an exit strategy and PR campaign. And they might lose out on a few box office points, but his name alone would bring in the fans. And the blonde and her authenticity would be worth it. She was exactly what the movie needed.

  CHAPTER 29

  I realized the error of my ways as soon as the door slammed shut behind Cole Masten’s broad shoulders. I shouldn’t have lost my temper, should have behaved like a good little Southern girl and smiled politely. Cursed him to hell and beyond in my mind while showing every pearly white in my mouth. Showing emotion was something that should be done behind closed doors. Raw emotion was weakness, and I knew better than to show weakness, especially when dealing with a stranger.

  I don’t know what came over me. The man and money behind The Fortune Bottle, and I had kicked him out into the heat because I didn’t like him asking who I was. It had been a perfectly reasonable question, even if it had been worded and voiced inappropriately. He was a stranger, a Yankee. He couldn’t be expected to know all of the rules that govern our Southern Society. And let’s jump straight to the meat of it—Cole Masten could ask any question any way he wanted. The twenty thousand in my bank account was from his pocket; he was the conductor on the Get Out Of Quincy train. It didn’t matter if I didn’t like him. It didn’t matter if the Actual Real Life Cole Masten disappointed every fantasy I had stashed in my fantasy bank. He was an actor. It was his job to be different than he actually was.

  I sank onto the couch and rested my head back. The damn thing now smelled of him, some exotic scent I would need to Febreze out. Well, there went my chance to get any type of job on the set. Not that Ben had had much luck with Eileen WhatsHerFace. I’d heard his half of the conversation with the AD. It hadn’t been great for my self-esteem. I really didn’t have a lot of brag-worthy talents. ‘Making delicious carrot cake’ and ‘a sparkling sense of humor’ didn’t really seem like Top 10 Qualities Desired on a Movie Set. Damn. I kicked out a foot and rested it on the coffee table. Looked at the ring of moisture caused by Cole’s glass and frowned. Leaned forward and wiped it away. He’d left his water. I could be a dear and bring it out to him. Apologize for my outburst and invite them back in.

  Nah. Ben had a car. They could get in it, crank the A/C, and head into town. Ben was probably on the phone with Mrs. Kirkland. Her house would be close to ready, their RV already delivered, big plans in place to road-trip around the country on Envision Entertainment’s dime. Cole Masten moving in a month early shouldn’t be much of an issue.

  I blew out a frustrated breath. What the hell would he do here for a month?

  CHAPTER 30

  “There’s only a month before we start filming. It’s impossible.” The clipped tones of the director came through a burst of static and Cole glanced at the cell, cursing at the low number of bars.

  “Nothing’s impossible. You know Minka is dying to get out of this movie. Let’s call her agent, make them think we are rolling over, and get something out of it. Maybe a cameo. Or cash. Or I don’t care. But this girl is perfect, I’m telling you. Right now, get your ass on a plane and over here.”

  “You’re an actor, Cole. You know everyone can’t do this. The last thing I want is to stick a wooden face on the screen.”

  His hand grappled for the seat’s controls, sliding the chair all the way back and attempting to stretch out his legs a little. “That’s the beauty of it, Don. She won’t have to act at all. She just has to be herself. Aniston has made a freakin’ career out of it; this girl just has to do it for one movie.”

  “No. I’m not doing it. I’m not throwing this entire movie in the can just because some wanna-be starlet sucked your dick in a corn field.”

  “Cotton field, Don.” Cole grinned. “Didn’t you read the book? I know I sent you the book.”

  “WHATEVER!” the man exploded. “I’m not doing it.”

  “I’m not in love; the girl blew me off. But she was Georgian as hell in doing it. Pure freakin’ Southern Charm. Be at the Santa Monica airport in an hour, I’ll have a jet waiting. Meet the girl, and you can tell me tomorrow to go to hell and fly back home. It’s twenty-four hours, Don. And you know this Price thing isn’t going away. She smells Oscar on that Clooney piece and is creaming for it.”

  There was
a long pause, and Cole watched as they slowed, a tractor ahead of them, a man perched atop two huge wheels.

  “I’m somewhere. Give me an hour and a half… and make it Van Nuys. I want to see this girl tonight, I don’t care how late it is when I arrive, and then I’m flying back. My kid has some awards ceremony thing in the morning.”

  Cole smiled. “It’s done. Call me when you land.”

  There was a grumble, and the call ended. Cole slammed a hand on the dash in celebration, the loud sound making the man beside him jump. “What was your name again?” Cole asked.

  “Bennington. Ben,” he amended.

  “Ben, pull the car over. I’m gonna drive.”

  Ben obeyed, the sedan bumping as it rolled over the tall grass. By the time he put the car into park and opened his door, Cole was there, larger than life, the afternoon sun haloing him as Ben looked up and stepped out.

  “Thanks,” Cole said, settling his long legs into the car, Ben jogging over to the passenger side, half afraid the man would pull off and leave him behind.

  When Cole hit the gas, the wheel yanked left, the car slid a little in its U-turn, and Ben gripped the handle.

  “Sir, the… uh. Town is back there.”

  “We’re going back to the girl. What’s her name?”

  “Summer. Is she… uh… is she the one you were just talking about on the phone?” There was a bit of shrillness in the man’s voice, a highness that didn’t really fit, and he glanced over, his hand tightening on the steering wheel as they took a curve fast. The car had some pickup. Surprising.

  “Yes. Something wrong?”

  “You’re wanting to cast her? As an actress?” The man’s face was almost white, and Cole glanced at his hand, holding the center console tight, his knuckles almost bleached from the grip. He couldn’t tell if the man was scared of his driving or the prospect of Summer as an—