Hollywood Dirt (Hollywood Dirt, #1)(30)
“I was going to put that Stouffer’s lasagna in. Give it a try. Carla says it tastes homemade.”
Mama sighed. “We already out of that cabbage and sausage?”
“Yeah. Ben and I ate that for lunch.”
She didn’t say anything else for a while. I guess the idea of pre-created and frozen lasagna appealed to Mama about as much as it appealed to me.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.
“No. Not yet.”
“He’s very handsome.” The repetition didn’t make the observation any less obvious.
“I know, Mama.”
We didn’t say anything else, and I drifted off to sleep there on the couch, waking once when she covered me with a blanket and a second time when the kitchen timer went off, the room smelling of cheese and meat sauce.
The lasagna ended up not being half bad. After eating, we stuck our dishes in the sink and moved out to the porch, a pint of strawberry ice cream passed between us, the porch light off to deter mosquitoes, the summer heat leaving us alone for a brief moment.
Mama went in first, kissing me on the cheek and patting my shoulder. I stayed out, my feet gently pushing against the porch, rocking the chair. It was a gamble, turning down the role that Cole Masten had offered. A hundred thousand dollars was more than I would ever have the opportunity to earn. But it wasn’t the money that had been the issue. It had been the respect. Cole Masten had no respect for me, for this town, for our way of life. I could smell it on his skin, read it on his handsome face, in the tone of his voice.
When I stood up, the ice cream pint empty in hand, I stretched, my back popping, my eyes to the north, to the Kirklands’ big, two-story home with one light on upstairs. Soon, Cole Masten would be there. Ben had gotten him a room at the Raine House for four or five nights, until the Kirklands were able to get out and let Cole in. It’d be odd to have him just a quarter-mile away. To see him come and go. For him to see my comings and goings. Not that he’d be watching.
I turned to the door and decided not to second-guess my decision any more. It was done. As we said in these parts, that egg had been laid. It couldn’t be put back in the chicken now.
CHAPTER 34
“She’s an idiot.” Cole hit the steering with his hand, then reached for the shift knob, correcting himself when he realized he wasn’t in his car. Instead, he gunned the gas, the Taurus barely changing speed.
“Careful,” Ben cautioned. “Cops are everywhere in town.”
Cole ignored him, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. “An idiot,” he repeated. This was a disaster. He wondered how far out Don’s flight was. Wished for Justin for the tenth time. Justin would have had a backup plan, Don’s flight itinerary, a dinner reservation set, the wait staff already prepped for Cole’s arrival. As if on cue, his stomach growled.
“You eaten?” Ben asked.
“No.” He should have eaten on the flight. Scarfed down one of the three options that the leggy blonde waitress had proposed. She’d wanted him. All but f*cked him with her eyes. But he’d felt DeLuca’s eyes on him, definitely heard the warning that the man had voiced as soon as the blonde had waltzed into the back, her hand trailing across his shoulder. “Don’t even think about,” DeLuca had barked. “Three months,” he’d said. “Give me three months, then you can screw porn stars into oblivion.”
Three months. Crazy to think that this might all be over by then. A lifetime together so easily torn apart and broken down into line items and billable hours. He had nodded at DeLuca like it was nothing.
“There’s a restaurant right next door to the bed and breakfast. We can grab something to eat there.”
“A bed and breakfast? That’s where I’m staying?” He glanced over at Ben.
“Just temporarily,” Ben hurried. “It’s the nicest place in town. The Kirk—the home we have reserved for you will be available at the end of the week. We just weren’t expecting you this early.”
“Yeah,” Cole said shortly. “Me either.” He slowed, turning down the street Ben pointed out. Before them, Quincy stretched out, in all her beauty, the lights of Main Street twinkling at them through the dusk.
A thousand miles west and three thousand miles above Oklahoma, Don Waschoniz sipped a Crown and Coke and shifted in his seat, his overactive bladder making its presence known. He reclined his seat a little and closed his eyes, determined to get a little sleep before landing.
CHAPTER 35
A quarter past eleven o’clock that night, my phone rang. I muted the television, and picked up my cell. “It’s late,” I whispered at Ben.
“I know, but I know how anal you are about calling before I come.”
“Before you—” I yanked back the covers. “When? Why? I swear to—” I stopped talking, catching a glimpse of myself in the dresser mirror. My face was pink, my eyes alive, body tense with anticipation. I stopped my death threat. “Talk,” I finally spit out, and my voice sounded the way it should: irritated and in control.
The background of the call changed, and there was suddenly static and road noise. “Summer,” Cole Masten’s voice spoke, arrogance and order in every syllable. “I’m picking up Don Waschoniz, The Fortune Bottle’s director, in twenty minutes from this pisshole you call an airport. Then we’re headed to you. Meet us outside in thirty. If you can sell him on your sweet demeanor, then you can have the role and name your damn price. If not, then tell me now, and we’ll set up auditions on every corner of Quincy, and you can watch the excitement from your front porch. It’s up to you, babe.”