Hollywood Dirt (Hollywood Dirt, #1)(83)

When the front door swung open, it was lost, no one looking up, our mid-shooting break taking center stage. But when the door shut, the wind caused a suction, its slam a little too strong, and the sound caught my ears. I turned my head and there, in the doorway, stood a tall woman with white hair, blood-red lipstick, a pencil skirt, and sky-high heels. She was looking right at me, a cell phone to her ear, briefcase in hand, and my stomach twisted. Brecken’s boss. I knew who she was, had seen the senior publicist meet with Cole countless times, the clip of her heels always causing a scowl to come over his face. But this time, her steps effortless despite the heels, her face hard and stressed, I knew she wasn’t coming for Cole. I knew, this time, this was about me.

Don intercepted her, his hand held up, his headphones pulled off. “Casey, we’re filming. Not now.”

Cole waved his hand, frustrated, a growl in his throat. “Make it quick, Casey.”

“We’re rolling in two,” Don said, squaring off with Cole. “Whether you’re done or not.”

“I’m not here about Cole.” I think I was the only one who heard her perfectly modulated tones.

“Don, run through Summer’s marks with her; that’ll eat up another ten minutes, easy.” Cole’s jab was tossed out with a glance in my direction, to make sure I was listening. I wasn’t. I was pushing to my feet, off the folding chair, the makeup applicator chasing me down with a big fluffy brush. I knew I couldn’t run from this, a part of me, in the gut, had known since the day Ben mentioned this job, that this was a side effect.

The Rehearsal Dinner wouldn’t go quietly into the night. Not now that I was a celebrity or was going to be a celebrity. Casey skirted by Don, and I stepped forward, and we met like enemies on the Persian rug in the middle of the Frank parlor.

“Summer.”

“Yes?”

“We have something we need to talk about.”





CHAPTER 92


It had been a simple enough prank. And that was really all it was meant to be: a prank. Something to smack my wedding party on the back of the head and punish them for their betrayal.

Because they’d all known. I’d left Scott’s house that day and had driven to Corrine’s house. Walked into a houseful of my bridesmaids, their hands busy with net, lace, and rice, their bubbly chatter stopping when I’d walked in. Stacey, Scott’s secretary, had been the first to speak. “Hey,” she’d said, and my sensitive ears heard the red flag in her cautious tone. “I thought you were in Tallahassee today.”

“That was this morning.” I’d breezed through the girls and into the kitchen, ripping a paper towel from the roll and dabbing at my eyes, grabbing the wine bottle, freshly opened on the counter, and taking a generous swig. I’d pasted a smile on my face and stepped back into the doorway. “Where’s Bobbie Jo?”

Four girls didn’t lie well as a group. There was an uncomfortable stammer, someone saying ‘Working’ at the same time as Bridget said, “She isn’t feeling well.” With another swig of wine, I’d turned back to the kitchen.

“I’m gonna head home,” I’d called over my shoulder. “I don’t feel well.”

The girls had chimed in a chorus of regrets, their vocal cords suddenly working just fine. I’d stuck their extra, unopened bottle into my purse and pasted a smile on my face. Wiggled my fingers at them and heaped out my thanks for their tireless bridesmaid efforts as I walked back through and out the door.

It was what I had deserved, befriending the cool crowd of women in Quincy. They hadn’t really ever been my friends. They’d ignored me in high school and only buddied up when I’d started dating Scott. Scott’s friends had been their boyfriends, husbands, and brothers, our three-year relationship the only grounds that our friendship had been built on.

I had driven home to Momma, tears dripping down the stupid purple mascara that Avril Lavigne looked good in, and Bridget had raised her eyebrows at. And that night, one pruned toe playing with our bathtub drain, I had devised My Plan.

My Plan had been simple. My Plan had been foolproof. My Plan had been, according to Variety Magazine in that fateful issue that changed my life, diabolical.

I thought diabolical had been a strong adjective, used by a magazine editor who had clearly never read stories of Herodias or Jezebel. I mean, let’s face it. Nobody died.





CHAPTER 93


“How did I not know this?” Cole exploded, throwing a Coke can against the wall, the contents splattering on some poor PA. “How did we not know this?” He held up a magazine and waved it wildly, the flap of its pages loud in the quiet room. I couldn’t see the cover from my seat, his motions too fast, but I had seen him reading it, had seen everyone reading it, copies passed out like candy. I hadn’t taken one. I had simply taken my seat at the end of the table and waited for punishment.

“We didn’t think we needed to do a full work up on her.” Some man I’d never seen spoke up, his hands nervously adjusting the bridge of his glasses. “I mean, look at her.” He gestured in my direction, and I looked down at the table, the chastised child. “We ran criminal, background, and porn searches—did the blood work. Everything came back clean.”

Porn searches? They talked about me like I was a prop in the scene, one without feelings or emotions or explanations. Though, as far as explanations went, I had none. What I had done was terrible. And whatever was printed in that magazine… it probably painted it exactly in that light.