Hollywood Dirt (Hollywood Dirt, #1)(13)

“A star trying to quit a movie this late in the game. We start filming in less than a month—doesn’t it seem like…” My sentence trailed off in the face of an overdramatic amount of shushing coming from Ben. He glanced around furtively as if the CIA was trying to listen in.

“Not here,” he hissed.

I took my own loud suck of straw, shaking the ice in the cup as I did so, frustrated. But Ben was right. Everyone in Quincy was straining their delicate ears to get every bit of information they could about the movie. You wouldn’t believe the stupid things I was overhearing:

“Did you know that Minka dyes her hair blonde? She’s a natural redhead… that’s what Emma Statton said, and she might be hired to do makeup.”

“I heard the movie’s big scene at the end involves an explosion, and the Miller plantation is going to be blown up. Trace Beenson ordered the dynamite yesterday for it. Four tons of TNT.”

“I just heard from my sister’s dentist that Cole Masten and his wife are swingers. The Kirklands’ place is gonna be like that Playboy Mansion up in California. Johnny said Mr. Masten’s requested to have a stripper pole installed.”

There was so much bullshit flying around that our flies were confused. Every once in a while, I’d hear something with a grain of truth in it, but it was rare. The Fortune Bottle was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to any of us. And I—I was seeing a little of my black curtain of disgrace lifted. Random girls had been calling up ‘just to chat’ and ‘God, we’ve missed you.’ Ghosts of my past wanting to reconnect, their hidden motivations clear. This town had grown up and forgotten me, my actions from three years ago putting me firmly in the We Don’t Know Her pile. Summer Jenkins, voted Most Friendly, class of 2005? That girl got buried after high school. When the ‘smart kids’ went off to college, when the farm boys moved into the family business, when the cheerleaders and Home Ec princesses got married and had babies, I floated, lost in the wind of this town. When I scored Scott Thompson, my stock had shot way up. When it fell, I landed in the town’s bad graces and stayed there, a small piece of Quincy that got looked over. Sure, everyone had always acted friendly, chatted with me in line at the IGA, asked about Mama, complimented my baked beans at Sunday church dinner, but any calls, any friendships, any social engagements had petered off years ago and stopped completely after the Disaster of 2012.

Until the movie.

I didn’t want friendships born out of curiosity and gossip hoarders. It was too late for Quincy and me to rekindle our flame.

I wanted out.





CHAPTER 16


“In Hollywood, an equitable divorce settlement means each party getting fifty percent of publicity.”

~ Lauren Bacall

Cole found Nadia at The Peninsula. Not a gigantic sleuthing job, as it was her hotel of choice. They had stayed there during the kitchen renovation, after late shoots, Emmy parties, and during moves. He could have found her four days ago, but he’d had wounds to lick and was afraid he couldn’t see her face without screaming into it. Now, there was no other choice. He wouldn’t talk through lawyers, not when their relationship was at stake.

Could he get over this? That was the question he had struggled with since Saturday night. There had been rumors since… well, there had always been rumors. But it was Hollywood. Hell, the tabloids had posted false stories of his ‘affairs’ for the last five years. So he’d ignored anything that had been said about Nadia. But now, with the proof of infidelity stuck in his mind, everything came to the surface. The AD in Madrid. That surfer on the Pitt movie. The bodyguard who quit last year. How many more had there been? And how many had been legitimate and not just gossip?

He jerked his car to a stop, nodding curtly to the valet, his feet not slowing, his mouth not smiling, everything focused on getting inside and to her room.

“Cole.” When she spoke, the world stopped. Just as it had six years ago, on the set of Ocean Bodies, when she’d been a nobody, and he’d been the world’s biggest somebody, yet still distracted by just her whisper of his name. Cole stopped short, turning to see her standing in the lobby, her hair in a ponytail, tight leggings on with tennis shoes, a fitted tank damp against her chest. Her fingers busy screwing on a bottled water’s cap. She’d been working out. The thought struck him as offensive. She should be curled into a ball of sorrow in a big fluffy bed, her knees tucked to her chest, face red, tissues piled up. The room next door should call to complain about the wailing, her assistant should be hovering nearby with alcohol and chocolates, none of which should be able to calm the hysteria. Her cheeks shouldn’t be glowing, her chest shouldn’t be damp, she shouldn’t be fine. He looked at her, she looked at him, and the lobby fell silent.

“I got the papers.” It was all he could think to say.

She swallowed, and the delicate lines of her throat grew tight. She’d had a neck procedure done two years ago, had the doctor pull the skin tighter. Depending on the position she slept in, he could sometimes see the scars. Minute scars, ones you wouldn’t even see if you didn’t know where to look. Her next husband wouldn’t know where to look. Wouldn’t know that she’d miscarried twice and was allergic to shellfish. Her new husband. Was he already thinking that way? Was this fight already lost? She straightened. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”