Dating You / Hating You

  chapter twenty-four

  carter

  After leaving Brad’s office, Evie walked calmly back to her own, disappeared inside for a moment, and then slammed the door so hard the pictures in the hallway rattled against the walls.

  I knock on her door and peek in. Her head is down, but she looks up at my entrance, cheeks tear-streaked. “This is bullshit, Carter.”

  Stepping in, I close the door behind me. “Of course it is. It’s unconscionable.”

  She presses the heels of her hands to her eyes.

  “What can I do?” I ask.

  “You have your own mess to clean up,” she says, voice nasal from crying. “I just need to get my shit together so I can walk out of here and go home.”

  I always thought Evie and I were two complementary halves of a whole, different strengths, a perfect team. But now I realize that in most ways, we’re the same. Of course she doesn’t want to lick her wounds with witnesses around.

  “Call me later?” I say.

  She nods, wiping her face. “And tell me if you need me to do anything. I’ll get over this crying shit in a minute and be back in action.”

  I kiss her clammy cheek. “I know you will.”

  On my way home, I make some calls. Dan doesn’t answer his phone, Caleb either. I text Evie my address, then I pace, and pace, and pace until the doorman sends her up. Stepping out into the hall, I find her loaded up with bags of takeout.

  “I have no idea why I brought food,” she says, and hands me a bag of what smells like Indian. She inhales deeply. “That’s not true. I’m going to eat it all.”

  I set it on the table and pull her to me, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Feeling better?”

  She sinks into me, her cheek pressed to my chest and arms wrapped around my waist. “I feel gross. You?”

  “Waiting to hear back from Dan or Caleb.” I rest my chin on the top of her head. “Do you want to talk about what happened with Brad?” I ask. “Eat our feelings? Watch a movie? Fuck like teenagers who don’t have to worry about things like jobs or food or rent?”

  She looks up at me with a smile, the first one I’ve seen since the Variety article went live. “My default answer is always going to be food, but now that I’m having sex with someone besides myself, I might have to reorganize my priorities.”

  I take her hand and lead us both to the kitchen. “How about if we talk a little first, and then we can eat while we have sex?”

  “If we could have the TV on at the same time I might never leave this apartment.” She eyes me while I get down a couple of plates. “Are you sure you’re ready for that kind of hunkered-in-for-sex commitment?”

  Evie dishes up our food and I grab two beers from the fridge. I remember she doesn’t love beer, and grab her a glass for water instead.

  “I’ve never been to your place before.” She looks around. “It’s a lot cleaner than your office.”

  “I think outside of Michael Christopher and Steph, you might be the only person who’s been here.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Let’s just say that up until recently my social life was decidedly less active.”

  She takes a deep breath and smiles, like it was exactly what she needed to hear. “Well, I like it.”

  “I have my own parking spot. Oh, and granite countertops.” I rap my knuckle on the surface in front of me. “Stainless steel appliances, one bedroom, recently updated floors, and a six-setting showerhead in the modern-yet-sizable bathroom. I tell you all this not to brag, but as a warning that you may have to take over my lease if I lose my job.”

  Evie frowns, pushing her food around on her plate. “I don’t think you’re the one who needs to worry. Brad is having a hard time letting Field Day go.”

  “I gathered that,” I say simply. “It just seems so . . .”

  “Petty?” she finishes for me.

  “Yeah. I mean, it’s not like P&D lost money. Obviously we made our commission. So why is Brad so obsessed with it? That’s what I don’t get.”

  “I think it’s because he knew he had something to use against me. It tanked Mark Marsh’s career, so it’s like this little IOU Brad can pull out whenever he needs to feel superior.”

  “That’s a lame IOU,” I say. “That’s like giving someone a homemade book of Free Back Rub coupons.”

  She gives me an amused you’re crazy smile. “It’s not really anything like that.”

  “But everyone has flops. Between everyone on your list, how many movies do you think you’ve been involved in?”

  She blows out a breath, looking past me out the window. “Over a hundred, easily.”

  “Exactly. Statistics tell us that at least one of those is going to be a bomb.”

  “So?”

  “So,” I say, reaching across to finish her half-eaten samosa, “that’s why I think there’s something else going on with Brad and you. It doesn’t add up.”

  “I have no idea what else it could be,” she says, shrugging helplessly. “Field Day is what he always mentions.” She wipes her mouth with her napkin and pushes her plate away. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. All it will take is for Brad to hint that I had something to do with this Variety leak, and that’ll be it. Nobody will hire me.”

  “But you’re not even mentioned in the article,” I say.

  “It doesn’t matter. It might have been your name, but Dave came to me first, and I sent him on to you. Everyone knows Dave and I go way back. No matter what happens, I look like I had an ulterior motive.” She presses her hands to her eyes. “God, this sucks. And you come out looking like a snake. It’s unreal.”

  “I know,” I say, pulling her closer. “But what I still don’t understand is who could have given Variety the story to begin with. I only told Brad.”

  “Dan is surrounded by idiots,” she says. “His manager is a nice enough guy, but the rest of his little entourage are world-class mooches; I wouldn’t put it past any of them to mention it in passing to someone whose skirt they were trying to get into. Maybe they told the wrong person.”

  “So what now?” I ask. “I can’t get hold of Dan or Caleb. Dave is MIA, and we have to wait until tomorrow to rip Brad a new one.”

  Evie stands, carries our plates to the sink, and then takes my hand. “Let’s see. So far I’ve seen the kitchen, the granite countertops, the parking space, and the wood floors. Maybe you could show me that adjustable showerhead?”

  “I don’t have a TV in the shower, Evil. So if you’re looking to multitask in there I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  I can hear every footstep, every thump of my pulse in my ears as I lead Evie down the hall.

  I wasn’t expecting anyone, and only now does it register that I should do the mental girlfriend-in-the-house checklist. I exhale when we walk in and find everything in order: freshly washed comforter and sheets and a pile of pillows tossed haphazardly on top. My mind pushes forward and suddenly all I can see is Evie in that bed, sheets twisted around her or gone completely, her legs tangled with mine.

  We’re on the same page—Evie’s already pulled her sweater off and then tugs off the shirt underneath. We stand, grinning at each other across a few feet, painted in stripes of fluorescent streetlight as we peel off our clothes one piece at a time.

  “I feel like we should have music for this,” she says, grin widening.

  “I could beatbox?”

  “No.” She pushes me down and climbs over my lap, straddling my hips. Her kisses are soft and sucking, a sweep of tongue, the sharp bite of teeth. There are about two working cells in my brain right now and it takes both of them to move to the side of the bed and feel along the edge of my nightstand for a drawer.

  “Condom?” she says, and I pull away, dragging in a lungful of air while she trails kisses down my neck.

  “Looking.” I pull the drawer open, searching. My movements become more frantic and I nearly dump Evie onto the floor when I stretch as far as I can, finally wrapping a triumphant hand a
round the box.

  I pull the top half of her body back onto the mattress, climbing over her and laughing into her neck. “Sorry.”

  She’s cracking up under me, legs and arms wrapped all around my torso. When I pull back, even in the dark I can see the happiness written all over her face. We needed this chance to lose ourselves and check out for a little bit.

  I hand her the condom and she studies it very intently for a few shaking breaths before reaching between us.

  And then, in a breath, I’m there and she’s pulling my head back down to her neck. I can’t decide which part of her I want to touch first and so my greedy hands grip her ass, squeezing so I can fuck harder. I skim across her stomach, her hips, her nipples. She rolls and arches from underneath me, and moving with her pulls every other thought from my mind. My hands are in her hair, and my head is full of her sounds. I am mesmerized by the way my movements alter the rhythm of her breaths.

  We manage to pop the sheets off all four corners.

  “How’s the tour of the apartment?” I ask her at one point, my hand behind her knee, her luminous brown eyes focused on my face above her.

  I feel the way she laughs, her body gripping me, and I smile into the dark. This is absolutely the most fun I’ve ever had . . . well, ever. She pulls me down, drawing her legs up to my chest and our hips flush together, and I come out of nowhere, too lost in her to even be embarrassed.

  Pulling out, I move down between her legs, and with her hands in my hair and my name ringing around the room, all is forgiven.

  • • •

  Evie has an early appointment to talk to Trent about the Bay script, so she doesn’t spend the night. Just after midnight, I pull away from her and dress. I walk her down to where she’s parked, take her face in my hands, and kiss her until I’m begging her to come back up to my apartment.

  “Just another hour,” I say against her mouth. “Thirty minutes. Ten. I think we both know I’m good for at least that. How about from behind, just inside the door.”

  She sucks in a breath, and with her palms on my chest, she pushes and puts the tiniest bit of space between us. “You’re dangerous. I have to go.”

  I spend most of the next three hours awake and staring at the ceiling, head spinning with everything that’s happened today.

  My thoughts bounce around, and I’m not even sure what to focus on: that Evie and I are happening, that it’s so fucking good, that Brad has apparently lost his mind, that I’m Dan Printz’s agent, the possibility that I’ve damaged any future relationship with Dave and the Hollywood Vine, or that someone—still unknown—leaked the damn story to Variety in the first place.

  Jesus, take the wheel.

  Exhausted but too keyed up to sleep, I start scrolling through the various apps on my phone.

  Michael Christopher might pride himself on being twenty-seven going on nineteen, but virtually every photo he posts, anywhere, is of Morgan. Morgan at the park, Morgan in the bathtub, Morgan playing dress-up with Daddy. I save the one of him wearing a tiara because that is going on his birthday card.

  There’s a post from Becca with her thumb pointed down in front of a treadmill, followed by one of a doughnut and a thumb pointed directly up. I laugh into the darkness.

  The time stamp on the post is less than fifteen minutes old—still pretty early—so I decide to try my luck and send her a text.

  You up?

  This is Carter, btw.

  Is my eyeroll font coming through?

  I know it’s you.

  You have a new job, you didn’t die and take your contact info with you.

  I smile at my screen. God, I’ve missed her.

  Can you talk?

  My phone rings almost immediately.

  “Hey, everything okay?” she says before I’ve even had a chance to say hello. “It’s, like, three in the morning. I know why I’m up, but why are you?”

  “Was I a terrible boss?”

  There’s a pause and the unmistakable sound of her scoffing. “Are you drunk?”

  I groan. “I wish.”

  “Okay, tell me what’s happening.”

  “Just . . . a lot of stuff in my head, I think.”

  “I hate those nights where your brain suddenly fires and decides to question every decision you’ve made your entire life.”

  “That’s pretty much it. How’s the new job?”

  “You know, same shit, different day. My new boss is an idiot. But then again so was my old boss, so points for consistency.”

  “Very funny,” I say.

  “So what’s got your brain up, work stuff or life stuff?”

  “A lot of both. I met someone.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Yeah. She’s . . . she’s really great. You’d like her. Maybe we can set something up and all have dinner.”

  “Wow, Carter. Introducing your new flame to your old assistant. That is serious.”

  I chuckle and say, “I don’t think I realized exactly how serious until right now . . .”

  “So did I just help you come to some sort of realization? Because my birthday is next month, and you still know my favorite shoe store.”

  I laugh. “I think you did.”

  “Okay, go to sleep or you’ll be a monster tomorrow, and I’m not there to bring you coffee. Keep me posted, okay?”

  “Yeah, thanks, Becca. I miss you, by the way.”

  “Miss you, too.”

  I end the call and fall asleep between one blink and the next.

  • • •

  I’m exhausted when my alarm goes off, but I get up and force myself to go for a run anyway.

  It’s cool enough for a jacket; the haze of the marine layer is still thick in the air and the sun isn’t high enough to burn it all off yet. I take a different route today, where a long stretch of road hugs the base of the hill and the streets are lined with older apartment buildings and lots of trees. The traffic is heavy in this area, but it’s still early enough that it’s manageable.

  I’m back at the apartment in record time, able to shower and change and still grab breakfast before heading out.

  There are a few texts waiting, one from Michael and Stephanie about a long-awaited couples dinner this weekend and one from Evie, stressed out about taking her meeting instead of heading straight for the office where Brad could apologize and kiss her ass in front of everyone.

  I’m a little worried that’s not actually what’s going to happen, but I do my best to distract her, suggesting she send me pictures of her ass and I’ll describe how I plan on kissing it later, but she doesn’t bite. I can almost feel her anxiety through the phone; I hate that she has to deal with all this. If my head is a mess over what’s happening, I can’t imagine how she must feel.

  I’ve had three cups of coffee and am on a tear by the time I make it into work, having concocted an entire monologue to unleash in Brad’s office. I march straight down the hallway, my carefully prepared words shifting carefully into place in my head, and stop short at Kylie’s desk. The windows behind her are dark.

  “Hey, Kylie. Is Brad in?” I ask, ignoring the sour bend to my stomach.

  She shakes her head and offers me a small, practiced smile. This woman deals with Brad Kingman on a daily basis; something tells me she’s mastered the art of apologizing for her boss. “He won’t be in until later.”

  Fuck.

  “Do you know when?” I ask, already anticipating the massacre that will take place if Evie catches him before I do.

  Kylie taps out a few keystrokes and then looks back up at me. “About an hour or so. He has a meeting at eleven so he’ll be here for that.”

  “Can you schedule me in?”

  She winces and then frowns. “Nothing today. I can tell him you stopped by?”

  “You know, I’ll just keep an eye out,” I tell her, and smile before heading back down the hall.

  The tension is thick in the office. By now everyone has heard about the Variety article—and the fallout—and nob
ody really knows whether to offer congratulations or wince over how bad this could be for everyone involved. I don’t even know myself.

  Justin is at his desk when I get there. He hands me a stack of messages, but I wave off any discussion of what else we have going on today; I’m going to need him to get me on the phone with one person after another until I can get this straightened out.

  Justin tries to connect me to Dave. Not surprisingly, it goes straight to his voicemail. Because I’m obviously not stressed enough, I log into my computer and check Google, and sure enough the story has been picked up everywhere.

  “Hey, Justin?” I call out, and he pokes his head inside. “Can you let me know if you see Brad or Evie come in? Subtly though, okay?”

  He nods. “Want me to close this for you?” he asks, standing in the doorway. I shake my head and he steps out, leaving me to my buzzy, anxious solitude.

  The thing about having an office with sixteen assistants all corralled into one area is that it gets loud. It feels like the phones never stop ringing—and has everyone always stomped around here like a herd of horses? Add in the sound of typing, the occasional text alerts, a whole lot of water cooler conversation, and my total lack of focus, and I don’t get anything done. Thank God that after only about an hour of this, there’s a knock on my door.

  It’s Justin, peeking in and then glancing back over his shoulder, looking entirely too much like he’s up to something.

  “Mr. Kingman just got here. Want me to do anything?”

  “No, I’ve got it. Thanks, though.” I save my document and, hands sweating, step out.

  Kylie sees me again and offers a sympathetic smile, one I can only assume means that Brad is in some kind of a mood.

  “He’s in there?” I say quietly, and she nods.

  He looks up when I clear my throat, and pins me with a look that is only marginally more pleasant than the one he’d give Evie.

  “What can I do for you, Aaron? I’m sure I don’t have to explain how busy I am cleaning up all of this.”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about,” I say, moving deeper into his office.

  Brad takes his glasses off and sets them on the desk and then sits back, waiting for me to talk.