Rock Bottom (Tristan & Danika #2)(58)

That had my eyebrows arching in a very curious question. I’d heard nothing about it.

“You’ve met my boyfriend? Tristan?”

She laughed nervously. “Yeah, Tristan. Unless you have more than one?”

I smiled and shook my head. “Not a chance. Just the one. How on earth did you meet him?”

“Your boss, Jerry. He invited me to come see the guys record their album a while ago, and I took him up on the offer. They’re amazing.”

I nodded enthusiastically. “Yes they are! Wow I’m jealous. I still haven’t had a chance to come hear them recording.”

She shot me a small, sheepish smile. “I actually went and saw them several times. I couldn’t seem to stay away.”

My mouth twisted wryly. I could see the appeal of five hot guys to a nineteen year old girl. Hell, I doubted any age woman would be immune to them.

“So…you and Tristan. Are you two actually serious?” There was something that I really didn’t like in her tone, as though she weren’t just idly curious.

“Yes,” I said simply. I didn’t feel the need to share any more. I was still feeling her out.

“He’s…a really great guy. I can see why you fell for him.”

“Thanks,” I said slowly, not liking the turn the conversation had taken. I tried to put my finger on it, but there were no definitive red flags. She was hard for me to read, which was sad, because we were sisters, and we’d been inseparable as children.

“So what made you decide to pursue acting?” I asked her, changing the subject, though I was curious. It would have been the last choice I’d have guessed for her. She’d always been such an introvert.

She shrugged, fidgeting in her chair. The question made her uncomfortable, it was clear. “A combination of things. I did one small role, and realized I liked it. Also…it runs in the family.”

I had to think that one over for a while before I gave up. I had no idea what she was talking about. There was just us and our mother, no other family, and none of us were actresses. “What do you mean?”

She cleared her throat, then looked down at her hands. When she spoke, her voice was barely loud enough for me to catch. “Our father is an actor.”

The silence wasn’t awkward this time, but it was long. I sat there, stunned, and tried to understand what she’d just said.

“You know our father?” I finally asked her. It was a mystery that had disturbed me for most of my life. Only in the last few years had I finally made peace with the idea that I would never know who he was. My mother had been stubbornly close-mouthed on the subject.

She ducked her head, flushing. “I do, yes.”

I swallowed. I didn’t know what I was feeling, couldn’t put my finger on it, but it was manifesting itself as a knot in my throat, and a burning in my chest. Why on earth would anything to do with this man, this person who had never been in our lives, had literally abandoned us from the start, bring up some strange emotion inside of me? Emotion that made the smallest news, the tiniest inkling that I might have some answers about him knock the breath out of me. I was angry with myself for feeling wounded that my sister somehow knew him, and I did not, but there it was.

Finally, “How do you know him? When did this start?”

She never looked up. “When I left that trailer with that sick old man, I found Mom. She was in bad shape, as she usually is, but I asked her if I could move back in with her. I didn’t know where else to go. She said no, but she finally told me who our father was, and she gave me his number. So I went to L.A., and met him.”

Her lip curled into an expression of distaste, but her eyes stayed down. “He was nothing like I’d hoped for. He’s known about us the whole time. He was giving Mom money, but he wanted nothing to do with us. He met with me, and gave me some money, enough to live on for years, but he made it clear he didn’t want to see me again.”

I was overwhelmed.

I just stared at her, trying to figure out where I should start with the questions.

She began to speak again, “He has a family, has four legitimate kids. The oldest is four years older than you, and the youngest is three years younger than me. He’s been a busy guy, but he’s still married. God only knows how many other children he has hidden away. I don’t imagine we’re his only dirty little secret.”

“He’s very famous, and he’s loaded, like mega-loaded.” She looked up, saw my expression, and continued, “He paid my way for a while, when I was underage and had no resources. I guess I’m thankful, in a way, but it does little to soften my resentment. I stopped taking his money as soon as I was able to get on my feet. He won’t even have a phone conversation with me. He has his assistant talk to me. There are no real ties there, and so it didn’t feel right to keep taking his money. Now all I want is to become more famous than him, more famous than his family, so I can show him what he threw away.” Her voice was passionate by the end, and I felt for her.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, to be grossly neglected by one parent, and completely rejected by the other.

It took me a while, but I finally asked the question that I had to ask. “Who is he?”

“Bronson Giles.”

I’d heard of him. He was a dramatic actor, and critically acclaimed. He was large-boned and handsome, with blond hair and striking pale gray eyes. I recalled that he’d won an Oscar a few years back, and that I’d seen him in several movies, and thought he was good.