Hollywood Dirt (Hollywood Dirt, #1)(49)

“Because I’m terrible.” She said the insult almost cheerfully.

“Without sugar coating, yes. You’re too rough right now.”

She nodded, stepping back from him, and he almost followed her. “So… I can go. No more media training?”

“For now. Have you met with your acting coach?”

“He comes in next week. I thought it was this week, but—”

Cole waved off the explanation. “That’s fine. Don’t worry about the acting. It won’t be like the media bits. Those are live, so you only get one shot. The acting we can do over a hundred times. And the lines, your role… you just have to be yourself.”

“But that’s all media training is. Being myself.” There was a thread of panic in her voice and he looked back over his shoulder, his escape interrupted, this last sentence too valuable to ignore.

“No Country. In Hollywood, off camera, you can’t be yourself. You can’t be weak, you can’t be honest, and you can’t be genuine. Not if you want to survive.”

“So what does that make you?”

Her eyes were on him when she asked the question, her tone quiet, unaccusing, the words hanging in the space between them. Then he turned, stepping into the hall and pulling the door firmly shut behind him.

He had a million answers to that question, yet even he couldn’t sort the bullshit from the truth.





CHAPTER 54


ONE WEEK LATER

That day, on that driveway, he should’ve gotten Summer the cell phone. Thrown her over his shoulder and then into the passenger seat of his truck. Buckled her in and driven into town. He shouldn’t have let her get him worked up and mad; he shouldn’t have let that moment of possible productivity pass. Now, that error was raising its head, her line ringing busy. Cole stood at his kitchen counter, the cordless phone in hand, and tried the line again.

And again.

And again.

“Did you get her?” Don walked into the kitchen, a pen stuck behind his ear, a stack of pages in hand.

Cole turned, suddenly reminded of the real reason for his call to her. To get her over there. They needed to go over these script changes, to get her on the same page so that she would be ready to film. “No,” he muttered. “Her line isn’t working.” He hung the phone on its cradle. “I’ll just run over there and grab her.”

Don glanced at his watch. “Fine. But I’m about to hop on a call with Eileen to go over the latest budget. You want to wait, join us on that call, and then head over there?”

“No.” Cole bent down and held out a cracker, trying to get Cocky to grab it. “You take the call, I’ll go get her.”

Cocky ignored him, strutting toward the living room, half the skin on his back exposed, pink showing between the white feathers. Cole had been panicked at first, heading to the local vet before he pulled over and consulted google. Turns out it is normal, the loss of chick fuzz while the real feathers came in. But even half-bald and gangly, he was a beautiful bird, and would be even more so once his plumage came in. According to Google, that would start to happen in the next few weeks.

He looked to Don, but the man was back at the dining room table, his cell against his ear. Cole grabbed his tennis shoes and worked the first one on. No point in taking the truck, not when they were so close. He yanked off his shirt. He’d run over there and knock on the door. Give her some grief about her phone, then bring her over to meet with Don. Assuming she didn’t have an afghan to crochet or a well to dig, what else could she have to do at nine-thirty in the morning?





Sleep. That was apparently what Summer Jenkins had to do at nine-thirty on Wednesday mornings. Cole stood, his hands on his hips, and stared down at her. Correction: Sleep hard.

He’d been almost panicked when he’d come in. Her truck was in the drive, unlocked, the keys in the ignition. He’d glanced at it, then climbed the front steps, knocked on the door and waited, leaning on one hand against the wall. There had been no answer, no doorbell to press, the curtains on the front closed tight. He’d knocked again, harder. Walked around the house and then returned to the front. After the third round of knocking, he’d tried the door. Unlocked. Like the truck. This was a town of people waiting to be killed.

He had cracked the door, calling out her name, the quiet house open before him, lights off, no response made. Then, with mounting unease, he stepped in. The first door he’d opened had been to her room. And there, stretched out on the bed, had been her.

Red underwear. Between that and her dress, she was on her way to ruining the color for him. She lay on her stomach, arms up by her head, one knee higher than the other, her beautiful ass on full, uninterrupted display before him. He could stare without being caught; his eyes could travel over the lines of her body without a glare; he could have one, continuous moment of Summer worship. And he did, right there in her bedroom, noticing everything he could and cementing it into his mind. The freckle on the back of her right arm. The tan on her legs that faded to white the higher it went on the back of her thighs. The dimples on her back, barely seen—a thin white tank top almost covering them up.

He wanted to wake her up.

He wanted to stand there and stare at her forever.

He wanted to turn around and leave because she was obviously safe and this was behavior that would put him in jail.