Steam (Homecoming Hearts #4)(7)

“That guy was a lecherous prick,” Trent interrupted.

Barry continued as if Trent hadn’t spoken, “-and before you broke the heart of every girl you came into contact with. Actresses, runners, makeup artists. For fuck’s sake, TJ. No one is stopping you from having sex. But, come on. Are all these girls so terrible you can’t stand to look at them again the morning after?”

That was harsh, but Trent couldn’t bring himself to argue. He’d tried to make it work with dozens of women over the past couple of years. But every time he’d talked himself out of it, sabotaging a good thing before anything could get too serious. He knew he was doing it. He just couldn’t seem to stop.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked Barry, probably with a bit more growl than was necessary.

Barry wasn’t where he was in this industry by being Mr. Nice Guy, though.

He leaned forward on his elbows, cigar still expertly balanced between two fingers even as he clasped his hands together. “I want you to admit that you’ve never gotten over your mom’s death. And rather than deal with the shit with your dad, your toxic fury has seeped out into every other aspect of your life until you’re in danger of destroying the lot.” He took a long, slow drag on the cigar. “Am I close?”

“Fuck you,” Trent mumbled, looking down into his lap. There wasn’t any real venom to his words, however, and he knew Barry wouldn’t take it that way.

Barry waited to speak until Trent pushed his hair back and glanced up at his manager again. “Kid,” he rasped, his gravelly voice even heavier than usual. “You know there ain’t a fire I can’t turn into a bake sale. But I’m tired of this fucking shit. You’re going to implode, and the sorry truth is I kinda like you. I’d rather not wake up one morning and read that you’ve OD’d or are serving life for killing some asshole in a bar fight.”

Try as he might, Trent couldn’t help but be touched by Barry’s concern. He managed to twitch the corner of his mouth into a smile that he hoped conveyed his appreciation.

“So?” he prompted.

“So,” Barry said, resting his cigar on the tray. He laced his stubby fingers together and rested them on his rotund belly. “I’m giving you a break. Three months. You don’t have anything major planned until then, and you need to go get your head screwed on straight.”

Trent frowned at him and pulled at a loose thread from one of the rips in his jeans. “What am I supposed to do until then?”

Barry raised a salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “Go home,” he said, like it was obvious. “Go back to Wyoming and talk to your dad. Scream, hug, I don’t give a shit. Get some fresh air and give your liver a damn break. Stop for a fucking minute.”

That sounded horrendous. Trent narrowed his eyes at Barry and wondered if there was any way he was going to be able to wriggle out of this.

“You’re not wriggling out of this,” Barry drawled, deadpan.

Trent huffed and flopped back in his chair. “I haven’t got anything to say to my dad,” he said, pulling at the thread on his jeans again. “He’s the one who wants to hide up in the mountains in that god-awful hotel.”

“You make it sound like The Shining,” Barry said. Trent raised a signature eyebrow at him and glowered. Barry held up his hands. “Hey, what do I know? It’s not my fault your old man lives in the last place god ever created. If he lived in the Hamptons, would you have gone and hashed this out with him already?” Trent shrugged. “That’s what I thought.”

“So, I’m supposed to spend three months at a ski resort?” Trent grunted.

Barry shook his head, rolling his cigar around in the tray. It had gone out. “If it takes that long. If you’re singing kumbaya and making father-son fishing trip plans after a month, I’d say you could come home. But I don’t think that’s likely, do you?”

Trent rubbed the stubble on his chin. Three months was a quarter of the year. He’d only just made a big name for himself. Fixer 2 wasn’t a done deal. “You want me to sit on my ass and let the contracts go by?”

Barry chuckled. “Kid,” he admonished. “Like I’d let you go cold. You can still do interviews over the phone and audition by tape if something juicy comes up. But you’ve got that goofball football-player-turned-spy film shooting in the summer, and Fixer 2’s in the bag.”

“Yeah?” Trent said, his hope rising.

Barry picked up his dead cigar and box of matches. “Yes. But only if we can reform your image. No more asshole TJ Charles. Lovable scamp, yes, great. Dickhead who doesn’t care who he hurts around him is a much harder sell.”

Trent chewed his lip. Forget his public image. He didn’t want to become that person for real. He was tired of letting people down and breaking hearts. “Okay,” he said.

Barry smiled as he relit the cigar then puffed out a couple of clouds of smoke. “Good boy,” he said. “And who knows? Maybe you’ll meet a nice local girl to calm you down. A bit of stability would do you the world of good.”

Trent hated to admit it, but his heart ached at the thought. It wasn’t that he hadn’t liked most of the girls he’d hooked up with. Hell, he even thought he might have loved a few of them. But he was no good being in a couple. He always felt stifled after a while, scared that if he committed he’d just end up disappointing them.