Hollywood Dirt (Hollywood Dirt, #1)(29)

“I’m asking you for your honest opinion about what a major role in a movie of this size, for someone with my experience, is worth.” She raised her chin.

He took the * route. Losing Minka was manna to The Fortune Bottle’s budget, and this slice of Southern Belle was the gift that just kept giving. “A hundred thousand. Your name has negative box office weight; we’ll have to spend a fortune just to get you camera ready, and the filming will take three, four months of your life. That’s being a bit generous, but hey,” he flashed the smile that fixed everything, “I like you, Summer. I think you’d be a good fit.”

She didn’t move, didn’t blink, just stared at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. She had freckles, a light smattering of them across her nose and cheeks. He hadn’t seen freckles in years. Freckles were avoided by sunscreen, concealed by makeup, or lasered off by a plastic surgeon, the records of which would be eventually leaked to the press and made out into something more.

He shifted and she still stared. Maybe he could give her one-fifty. Hell, he could give her five hundred thousand. That was what she was really worth; that was really the minimum for a film this size, with their budget. But if they could get her cheap, then he could pad the film budget, have an allowance for the overages that always came. This was strange, her saying nothing. Maybe it was a Southern thing. California girls wouldn’t shut up—their mouths moved like a biting teeth toy wound all the way up.

“Don’t do that.”

“What?” He straightened off the porch railing.

“That smile thing. It’s creepy.”

He stopped smiling. “Ten million Americans would disagree with you.”

“Then ten million Americans are idiots.”

He said nothing, but decided, right then, that he didn’t much care for this girl. As Ida, her attitude would be perfect—the secretary known for standing up to Coca-Cola executives. But personally, he had enough shit to deal with. A diva as a costar wasn’t something he needed. “Are you interested or not?”

“I’m not.”

His foot stopped halfway back in its step off the top step. “You’re not,” he repeated.

“It’s not enough money. I’m worth more.”

“The toe of your shoe is held together with duct tape,” he pointed out, and she smiled. Smiled. A sweet, sunny smile that was betrayed completely by her eyes, golden knives which could cut through a weaker man’s gut and drag his entrails out for the buzzards.

“How much money I have is not indicative of my worth. If it was, then I would be the lesser individual on this porch.”

“You’re saying you’re not the lesser individual.” That I am. Of all the insults hurled at him, his worth had never been insulted. Then again, in Hollywood, worth was dollars and cents and power. Here, in this conversation, on this porch, they seemed to be talking about something else.

“Out of the two of us, only one of us is being an ass right now.”

“So you don’t want the role.”

“Not for that amount.”

He stepped back, turning away from her and taking the steps off the porch.

“Goodbye, Mr. Masten,” she called from the porch, and he turned his head to watch her, her shoulder leaning against one of the porch posts, her arms still crossed over her chest. “That’s what we say, in the South, when one person leaves. It’s called a valediction.”

“What is it called when one person makes a huge mistake?” he called out, opening the driver’s door to the Taurus.

“Easy,” she said, pushing off the post and stepping to the front door. “That’s called life.”





CHAPTER 33


I walked into a heated discussion, Mama and Ben facing off across the dining table, the topic of conversation—apparently—gay marriage. Ben was of the opinion, obviously, that it was A-Okay, and Mama… well… Mama’s from the South. If a marriage doesn’t have a penis, virginal vagina, and a preacher, it doesn’t count. I, myself, am of the opinion that two people should be able to do what they want, assuming that action doesn’t hurt anyone else. I walked to the couch and decided not to voice my opinion, should the wrath of anyone turn to me.

“Ben.” He ignored me, talking fast, his fingers counting off a list of inalienable rights.

“Ben!” This time, his head popped toward me. “That * is waiting for you outside.”

“Summer!” Mama chided.

“Now?” Ben asked, moving to the door. “Did you—”

“No,” I interrupted.

“Did she what?” Mama asked.

I groaned, Ben gasped at my idiocy, and from outside there was the long blare of a horn. Ben waved a goodbye and scampered for the door. I closed my eyes and felt the couch sink next to me. Opening one eye, I saw my mother, her head settling back on the couch pillow, mimicking my pose.

“Bad day?” she asked quietly after a long moment of rest.

I could only nod.

“He’s very handsome.”

“Yeah.”

There was a long stretch of silence, and I pulled at my sweaty T-shirt. It had been too hot on that porch, with both the bathing suit and shirt on.

“What do you want for dinner?”