Hollywood Dirt (Hollywood Dirt, #1)(5)

Now, it’s a guessing game of who’s richer than whom. It doesn’t really matter. It’s all more than any one generation will ever be able to spend.

Six years ago I accepted care of the Holden estate in return for free board and five hundred bucks a month—a very fair trade for a job that takes around ten hours a week. Mother moved into the cottage’s second bedroom and covered the groceries and household items. Yes, I was a twenty-nine year old woman who lived with her mother. One who didn’t do drugs, party, or have sex. I read books, drank the occasional beer on a hot afternoon, and did the Times crossword puzzle on Sunday afternoons. I hadn’t attended college, I wasn’t particularly gorgeous, and I often forgot to shave my legs. On the upside, I could cook some mean dumplings and bring myself to orgasm within five minutes. Not at the same time, mind you. I wasn’t that talented.

And, right then, with whatever Bennington Payne had up his sleeve, I was his best bet. Even if I wasn’t one of the elite. Even if I was a Quincy outcast.





CHAPTER 6


I pulled a chicken from the fridge and placed it in the sink, running water over it to finish its thaw. Turning to Bennington, I caught his study of our home. “Like what you see?”

“It’s very homey,” he said brightly, taking a seat on one of the dining chairs.

I hid my smirk with a turn back to the sink. “Spill, Bennington. What do you need in Quincy?” I yanked open the freezer door, grabbing bags of vegetables.

There was a last moment of hesitation before he spoke, his words suddenly quick on their tumble out, the feminine lilt masked by a briskness that spoke of a big city. “I’m from Envision Entertainment. I’m a location scout. I need to procure spots for—”

“The movie,” I finished, setting aside the chicken and filling a large pot, proud of myself for having at least one piece of information.

“Yes.” He looked surprised. “How’d you—”

“We’ve all known since the day the mayor was called,” I said dryly. “You might as well have put up a billboard on 301.”

“So then there shouldn’t be a problem,” he said eagerly. “If everyone knows a movie’s coming, then I’ll just approach the plantations—”

I cut off his enthusiastic response with a quick shake of my head. “No one’s gonna let you film at their home.”

That stopped him, his face turning an interesting shade of gray that clashed with his blond highlights. “Why not?”

“Why would they?”

“Money? Fame? Bragging rights?”

I laughed. “First, no one in Quincy needs money—present company excluded, of course. And even if they did need money—which they don’t—they aren’t going to broadcast it by allowing your film crews to take over their plantation.” I ticked off the first point on my fingers.

“Second, this is the old South. Fame isn’t a good thing. Neither are bragging rights. The more you brag, the more flash you show—that’s a sign of weakness, of insecurity. You can tell the truly wealthy from their confidence, their grace. People here don’t show their wealth, they hide it. They covet it.”

The man stared at me as if I spoke Greek. “But all the mansions,” he sputtered. “The big gates, the diamonds…” His eyes darted around my humble abode as if my threadbare space would hold some proof as to his point.

“All old wealth,” I said, waving a hand dismissively. “Purchases made back when they were cotton farmers with new money. Back when Coke went big and the whole town celebrated their wealth together. That was almost a hundred years ago. Two generations back. Have you seen any new construction in town? Rolls Royces with air conditioning and satellite radio?” I waited, turning off the water and setting the pot on the stove.

“So what do I do? I need a mansion. Preferably two. Fifteen other locations to shoot at!” His voice squeaking, he dug a shaky hand in his pocket and pulled out a bottle of medication, his panic attack occurring without a single wrinkle in his forehead. I looked in fascination and fought the urge to poke it and see if it moved.

“It would seem…” I said slowly, snagging a glass and filling it with water, “that you need a local source. Someone who Quincy knows and trusts. Someone who can target the landholders who would be amendable. Someone to handle negotiations with the local vendors, hotels, and city officials.”

“But that’s my job,” he protested weakly, accepting the glass of water, his throat bulging as he gulped it down.

“And what are they paying you for that?” I leaned back and crossed my arms, staring down Ben in hopes he’d break. I hadn’t really expected him to break. I’d expected him to brush off his girly suit and ignore the question. But I was wrong and I fought to keep the surprise from my face when he answered.

“A hundred and twenty,” he said primly, crossing his legs and straightening the fabric of his pleats, as if he were regaining some semblance of composure by spilling his guts.

“Thousand?” I shouldn’t have even asked; it was a stupid question with an obvious answer. He wasn’t sitting at my scratched table for the price of a vacuum cleaner.

“Yes. But that’s for five months of my time. Negotiations, red tape management, the—”