Bombshell (Hollywood A-List #1)(81)

She stepped over to me, slipping on the papers, righting herself, and looking at what I pointed at.

“You’re prettier in real life,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“I guess he dropped Paula Blount.” She shrugged. “Maybe she’ll stop harping on it now.”

“I think she dumped him.”

Sherri let out a pfft as if I was talking crazy, then handed me a paper. “Go ahead. Take it.”

I reached into my purse to pay for it, but she waved away the idea.

“Just take it for helping me clean up.”

I thanked her again and tucked the paper under my arm, then I picked up the lumber flyer.

The parking lot was dark and empty. There wasn’t a soul around, but I felt eyes on me. People were going to see me. They’d know where I was and when. I’d never felt so exposed. Not since I was caught in the backseat of a car with a boy from school and everyone knew. Not since the thoughts of my classmates were written all over their faces.

I was angry at Brad, but not really. I was angry at the world. I was angry at myself for dancing on the edges of celebrity. What else did I expect?

I hurried into the car, slammed the door, and locked it quickly.

Nothing could protect me, and it was my own fault.

This is just a feeling. You’re safe. No one is here.

Would I ever believe this again?

I was of two minds. I wanted Brad. I’d feel safe with him, yet he was the cause of my feelings of vulnerability.

My mouth had gone dry and my breath had gotten hard and shallow. I breathed in through my nose and out my mouth five times. It didn’t help. I put the light on so I could find the bottle of water in my purse and saw my reflection in the glass.

Blakely talked about changing her face. Would I have to?

I took a deep breath and looked at the paper in the car’s dome light.

There I was, far from home, staring at my worst nightmare. They didn’t know what was between me and Brad. They didn’t know about the late nights talking with Nicole between us, or how we shared love for one little girl.

They didn’t know I loved him. Not the shell of a man they’d photographed, but the real man. Where was he in the picture? Nowhere. He wasn’t on the page at all. Neither was I.

My armor was all the things the camera couldn’t see.





CHAPTER 64


CARA


Redfield Lumber squatted on the main road behind a huge parking lot. Beige with green doors and letters, daylight-bright under floods. And closed. Dark inside, without a sign of life.

But he was here. I knew it. This building was the storage space for his greatest fears.

The traffic light flicked to green, as if anyone wanted to leave the lot at that hour. I got back in the car and went down the side road. I turned left onto a narrow road I could barely see in the dark. The car bumped on the scrappy asphalt. Trees and bushes encroached on each side.

The road opened into a small, well-lit lot behind the lumberyard. Brad was stretched across the concrete floor in front of the loading dock’s roll-up door. The Harley was parked by the dumpster and when he turned his head to see who was coming, he was still the most beautiful man in a ten-galaxy radius.

I grabbed the tabloid off the dash and got out.

“I see that thing in your hand,” he said, looking back up at the roof of the dock. His fingers dangled a bottle of iced tea off the side of the loading dock. “You were already mad before you found it.”

“I wasn’t mad.”

“Yes, you were.”

I hoisted myself onto the dock, sitting by his head.

“Bullshit,” I said. “You saw Paula’s box and flipped out. You didn’t give me a chance to say or feel anything.”

I put my face directly over his. Was he drunk? His eyes were clear. He wasn’t slurring or spitting. Maybe the iced tea bottle just had iced tea in it.

I put the tabloid on his chest.

“I cannot believe how fast they got this to press,” he said, looking at it quickly before sitting up to open it. “It’s going to take me fifteen minutes to read it. Give me the log line.”

“You’re f*cking me because you’re confused. I’m a whore. Nicole is rotten and spoiled already.”

He didn’t react right away. Just let the floodlight wash the color out of his eyes. Like a shot, he straightened himself and let the velocity push him to the ground. He spread the paper over the hood of his dad’s car. The pictures were crystal clear in the floodlight. I hopped onto the ground with him.

He pointed to my photo so hard the hood under the picture made a hollow sound.

“You look beautiful in this one.”

“Brad.” I crossed my arms. I hated seeing myself in print. Hated him looking at this flattened version of me. I felt out of control.

“And this one too? A little blurry, but—”

I snapped the papers aside. I couldn’t bear it.

“Stop.”

“I can’t read what they’re saying about you!” he shouted. “I don’t know what they said about my daughter. I want to choke someone, and I have to calm down to read this f*cking shit. And now you know I’m stunted. Developmentally delayed. Re-f*cking-tarded. Yes. I was called retarded. Now you know. And it f*cking kills me that on this day, when this happens,” he indicated the paper, “this is the day you find out Paula’s been reading to me like a kindergarten teacher my whole career. I can’t even be mad about what they said because I’m too upset to read it.”