Starlight Nights

  “No,” he says. “You’re perfect for Evie, and you know it. Plus…” He glances back at the desk where Beth is pretending not to watch us.

  Then it makes sense. “Plus, you’re going to capitalize on an existing fan base,” I say faintly. Of course. Especially if he’s playing the role of Cory, the love interest/villain. The Skyron legion will turn out in droves for that.

  So it has way less to do with me being perfect for the role and more to do with funneling Skyron fans to the new series.

  Hurt throbs in my chest for exactly three seconds before I shut it down. This is exactly why I left acting and want to stay gone. Too many people presenting false faces to the world.

  “Go home, Eric. Leave me alone. This is my life now.” I push past him, leaving the lounge.

  “Not according to your mother,” he calls after me.

  I laugh and keep walking. “Like you agree with anything my mother says.” Half the time—or more—I’m not sure I do either. My mom dreamed of becoming a movie star—not an actress, a star. And when I was born, that became her dream for me. Whether or not that was a realistic goal.

  After everything that happened—the show being canceled, the accident, my drug arrest—she enacted her version of the “Natalie Portman/Emma Watson plan.” (Never mind the fact that they’re both A-List movie stars who didn’t need an image revamp, just some distance from their most famous roles.)

  According to Lori, I wasn’t getting jobs because I was overexposed (thanks to all my legal trouble) and pigeonholed as “Skye.” Going to college would show my newfound maturity and stability. And going to college somewhere absolutely no one gave a crap about, a place no paps would follow, would ensure that I would have a chance to make a “grand reentrance.” So tiny little Blake college, in my mother’s home state of Indiana, would become both my hideout and the stage for my eventual reemergence from the ashes.

  Officially, I’m taking a hiatus from my acting career to focus on my education. In reality, my mom’s hoping the time and distance will help people see me differently, as someone other than Starlight Skye or the troubled actress ordered back into her parent’s custody. And then the good parts will start rolling in again.

  “Lori is going to need money,” Eric says. “And soon. It’s been, what, almost four years since you last pulled a salary?”

  I freeze.

  “You’ve got residuals, but she’s got a husband and three other kids to support. And you’re her meal ticket. You know it, and I know it.”

  Eric hasn’t forgotten our late-night conversations either. I spin around to face him. “So what?”

  But he seems undisturbed. “So, the next thing you know, she’ll be signing you up to audition for a local car dealership commercial or one of those TV movies where you get eaten by an ant-octopus-shark creature in the second act. All for her percentage.”

  He’s right, as much as I’d like to pretend otherwise. But I’ve been hoping that I can hold her off long enough to graduate from Blake and that, by then, I’ll have found another career that I love, and she’ll be forced to recognize that Hollywood is not the—

  A sickening realization dawns. “Wait, you talked to my mother?” I ask, barely able to force the words out.

  For the first time, Eric looks ashamed, his gaze bouncing away from mine, patches of color appearing on his cheeks.

  But then he lifts his head and gives me the cocky smile that used to make my heart beat just a little faster. Only this time it’s tinged with sadness. “Money talks, and your mom is fluent, kid.”

  On cue, the phone in my pocket begins to buzz in the rhythm I have set for my mom. Three short, three long, three short. Like SOS. Only I’m not sure who the cry for help is really for.

  Tears burn my eyes. “I hate you,” I say to Eric, my voice shaking, as I pull the phone out of my pocket.

  He takes a deep breath and nods. “I know.”

  2

  ERIC STONE

  With a deliberateness so sharp that it cuts, Callie turns her back on me and moves to the far corner of the room, speaking quietly to her mother.

  I should have expected it. And I did, sort of.

  The pain, though … that catches me by surprise. I thought we were past that, the way we used to hurt each other, all of our sharp edges and weak spots revealed.

  She’s never looked at me like that, though. Not even that night.

  Callie’s face, pale in the sliver of light from the doorway, her hand flying up to cover her mouth in surprise. Her eyes instantly bright with tears.

  Fuck.

  I shake the mental image away. None of that matters anymore, anyway. We were just stupid kids then. This is business.

  Even from ten feet away, I can hear the sharp tones of Lori Beckett coming through the phone, in direct contrast to the soothing—placating—voice of her oldest daughter.

  I grimace. Lori Beckett deserves to be dropped on the nearest freighter heading out to sea, preferably one with a hole in the hull. But she is, unfortunately, the key to what I need, the key to Calista.

  Always be ready to do whatever it takes. One of the first lessons Rawley imparted when he was in a rare “dad” mode. Or at least, one of the first that stuck.

  Even if it means taking a plane and then a rented limo to the middle of fucking nowhere. Blake, Indiana is like the set of another shitty remake of Children of the Corn. The sheer number of cornfields I had to pass by to get here was enough to give me visions of bloodied scythes, too much flannel and pale children in those broad-brimmed hats.

  Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I take another look around, absorbing the small and worn lobby of the building Calista calls home. It’s old and dim thanks to the lack of direct sunlight. Even the furniture looks tired and beat up, like it’s inches from giving up. The curtains are sagging off their rods, and the television is an old plasma one with huge gaps of blackened pixels.

  Fucking depressing.

  Calista doesn’t belong here. College is one thing—not my thing, though I could see it being Callie’s—but this place? No. There are better schools in better locations. Locations that get more than six minutes of sunshine per day.

  Isolating herself here makes no sense. Everyone makes mistakes, especially in Hollywood. And Calista’s mistakes weren’t entirely hers anyway; they were mine. I messed up—multiple times in one evening—and the fallout from that is what cost her.

  Callie’s voice rises. “Isn’t that my decision?” she demands, and I look over at her.

  In spite of her words, her shoulders are slumped. She looks so pale and small and defeated. Side effects of dealing with Lori.

  It’s hard not to cross the room, yank the phone from Callie’s hand, and end the call for her, as I would have years ago, without even thinking twice. Now, though, I know she won’t let me, even if she is miserable.

  I saw her earlier, trudging with her head down, before she saw me. I don’t know what those girls said to her to make her look that way, but it was enough to make me want to go over and drag them back to apologize. Calista is too nice to call them on it, but I’m not.

  “Hey.”

  I turn to see the girl at the desk—Beth, that’s her name—leaning forward, fidgeting with the pen on a chain. Then she waves me over, a quick furtive gesture.

  Oh, why not. I can use all the allies I can get.

  “Hey, Beth,” I say, making my way to her desk.

  “Hey, hi,” she says with a nervous laugh, blushing. “You remembered my name.”

  “Of course.” I smile at her. It’s one of the easiest things to do, just to use people’s names. Gives them a personal moment and earns you more dedication than the simple gesture deserves, honestly. But people are inherently narcissists, right? Who doesn’t love hearing their name, let alone on the lips of someone they admire or find attractive?

  Katie hates it when I say stuff like that, says it’s manipulative and wrong. I say it’s just basic psychology. Also, let’s face it, not exactly B
oy Scout material over here.

  “So … I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.” Beth’s cheeks color further, giving away her lie. “But are you and Calista really starting a new show?”

  “Yeah,” I say, with the by-now-familiar quiver of restrained panic every time I respond with a definitive answer instead of a casual shrug or a mysterious smile. Who knew that actually committing to something you love was so fucking terrifying?

  “Oh,” Beth says.

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “No, no,” she says hastily. “I mean, I’m excited, Skyron on our screens again. That would be amazing.” Her face beams pleasure at the idea. But it falters after a second. “It’s just that, you know, I’ve gotten a chance to know Sk—Calista here, and I don’t know if, well, will she be coming back here? After, I mean?”

  “She will be free to do that if she wants to,” I say evenly. Not that she’ll want to. This show is going to be a success—it has to be—and then she’ll have her comeback that she should never have needed in the first place. She’ll be praised for her bravery in going indie and web instead of groveling in the dirt for another shitty TV role, and then she’ll have the opportunities she wants without her mother breathing down her neck. All those people talking about the Starlight Curse—idiots, mostly gossip bloggers, who claim to see a pattern in the troubles our admittedly strife-ridden cast has dealt with in the years since the show ended—will have to shut up. And everyone who has doubted me or whispered about me being useless—or shouted about it, in the case of my father—can go fuck themselves.

  “She’s been trying really hard,” Beth says in a loud whisper with a cautious look toward Calista, pacing in the far corner. “And I think it’s finally getting better is all.”

  I frown at her. “I don’t understand.”

  “If she does another show and comes back here, I think it’ll start over again,” she says, biting her lip. Her Skyron-anticipating glow has vanished, and her forehead is creased with worry. Genuine worry.

  My gut clenches tight. “Beth. What will start over again?” I’m surprised to hear my father’s voice—terse, pissed—coming out of my mouth.

  She starts to speak, but her gaze darts past me and she clamps her lips shut.

  “You gave my mother money,” Calista says behind me, rage and weariness competing for dominance.

  I turn to face her. The bright spots of color in her cheeks are an ugly red in her unnaturally pale complexion. “Cal, I—”

  “I’m trying to get her to realize that my acting career is over, and you gave her money.” Rage is definitely winning out; her voice is trembling with it. Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides.

  I hold my palms up in surrender. “Just her percentage. And she’s not allowed on set unless you directly invite her.” Which is a better situation than she ever had on Starlight.

  “Fuck you, Eric,” she says through clenched teeth.

  Beth sucks in a breath.

  “Do you think that matters?” Callie demands. “Do you think any of that will stop her?”

  “Callie,” I say. “I’m trying to make up for my mistakes. To fix what I broke.”

  Her hand automatically flies to her arm, near her shoulder.

  I’m the one who flinches, though. “You shouldn’t be here,” I say in a softer voice. “It’s my fault.”

  “Being here is my choice. Mine, Eric. One of the few choices I’ve ever gotten to make.”

  “No,” I say, my temper finally flaring. “It was your mother’s, like always.” Lori might be her worst enemy, but Callie’s the one who lets her get away with it.

  Calista steps back as though I’ve lunged at her, her throat working hard like she’s trying not to cry. Or scream.

  “And you’re going along with it because … honestly, I don’t know why.” I rake my hands through my hair. “Because you think you did something wrong? Because you’re punishing yourself for some reason I don’t even understand? So many people have messed up way worse than—”

  “Not everything has to make sense to you,” she says in a cold voice. “You’re not my boss or my boyfriend. Or my friend.”

  Beth gives a slight squeak of distress.

  “I’m trying to help, Calista.” And I am. Does it not count if I’m helping both of us at the same time?

  She folds her arms across her chest, the nylon of her coat hissing with the motion. “So you’re doing me a favor. And it just happens to be at the same time you need something from me.”

  She was always—and still is—one step ahead of me.

  I make a frustrated noise, shaking my head. “Yeah, okay, fine, you got me. I need you.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to, and emotion flickers in her eyes.

  It sends a tiny spiral of panic through me; this conversation is getting way too heavy. I can’t … I’m not …

  “You know me. Never one to miss a good opportunity. I help you, you help me,” I say with a grin, trying to redirect and charm her into relenting. It used to work that way. “Hard to pass up a two-for-one deal.”

  As soon as the words leave my mouth, I wish I could yank them back.

  She sucks in a sharp breath, then her mouth flattens into a humorless smile. “Yeah, I’m familiar with your fondness for that principle.”

  Damnit, I knew she remembered that night.

  Shifting uncomfortably, I pat my pockets out of habit, feeling for my lighter and the pack of cigarettes I no longer carry. Shit.

  “Calista, I’ve said I’m sorry,” I begin.

  “No, actually, you haven’t. Not for that, not once.”

  Okay. I grit my teeth. “Callie, I’m sorry for how I handled that night. That was wrong, but it really was for the—”

  “If you’re really sorry, then call my mother and tell her you’ve changed your mind,” Calista says, tipping her chin up in defiance.

  “You don’t belong here,” I argue.

  “That’s not up to you,” she says. “Call my mom. I’ll find a way to pay you back.” I can see the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. She has no idea how much I’ve paid and if or when she’ll be able to pay it back.

  But it doesn’t matter.

  “I can’t. I’ve sunk everything I have into this.” I hesitate and step closer. “My name is all over it.” If anything in our history has counted as friendship, she should understand why that’s a big fucking deal—and a big problem—for me. Eric Stone, Rawley’s spoiled, waste-of-space kid. Privileged, irresponsible, product of nepotism, good for nothing unless you need a good drug hook up. I’ve heard it all. I’ve been it all, at one point or another. But not anymore.

  I can’t let this go. I’m out on a ledge with nothing but concrete and a lethal landing beneath me. I can’t fail at this.

  She shakes her head. “Why didn’t you just ask me?” She sounds tired, and it kills me.

  “Because…” I look away from her, staring at the water stain in the ceiling. The truth is ugly, but she deserves it. “I couldn’t risk you saying no.” Another lesson from super producer/Dad: When you want something, remove all the other options.

  She stiffens. She might once have said yes to help me voluntarily, but not anymore.

  “Your father must be so proud,” she manages. “Finally.”

  The words slice at me in places deeper than should be possible. But I deserve this for what I’ve done, now and before. And it may hurt, but it’s not going to stop me doing what needs to be done.

  She must read that in my expression because after a long moment of silence, she just nods. And that one motion speaks volumes. No more pleading, no more questioning, no more anger. It’s just a cold, curt movement, an axe falling on our mutual history.

  “What time does the plane leave?” she asks flatly.

  “Tomorrow morning, but I thought we could drive to Chicago tonight.” I offer my best attempt at a roguish smile, unable to stop myself. I want what I want, but I also want her to still like me. I’m not sure that’s possible, th
ough. “They have a Geoffrey’s. And I checked. It has that hot chocolate cake that you like. Remember when we were at that dinner for—”

  But she’s already turning away, heading toward the elevator I glimpsed earlier. “See, that’s the problem, Eric, when you blackmail without calling ahead,” she says over her shoulder. “I have plans tonight.”

  “Plans,” I repeat.

  She spins around to face me, her expression bland. “Yes, plans. I have a life here. I’m going to a party. You’ll have to send a car for me in the morning. I’m not leaving tonight.”

  “Blackout?” Beth asks incredulously. “You’re going to Blackout?”

  I almost forgot she was here, but the alarm in Beth’s voice snaps my attention back around to her. “What’s Blackout?”

  “It’s a party,” Beth says hesitantly, but that worried furrow in her forehead is back. “At the Phi Beta Theta house. They put on a black light and everyone writes on your shirt with highlighters.”

  “A fraternity party?” I snort. “Piss-warm beer and shitty music? Really?”

  Calista raises her eyebrows at me. “It’s not snorting coke off a stripper’s chest, but it passes the time.”

  I wince. “She wasn’t a stripper, not professionally,” I protest. But that’s weak. Calista has me dead on hypocrisy and she knows it.

  Beth gapes at both of us.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” I ask Callie with a frown. Even if it is only a fraternity party. “You’ve only been out of rehab for—”

  She gives a harsh laugh. “Are you serious right now? Not my boyfriend, not my friend,” she repeats, jabbing a finger at me. “Not anymore,” she adds as she rounds the corner, out of sight.

  “It’s not a good idea,” Beth whispers to me once Calista’s gone. “I mean, my brother says it gets pretty out of control sometimes. And Calista … is different.” She bites her lip.

  Calista doesn’t fit in here, if the scene I witnessed outside is any indication, and people might enjoy taking the opportunity to prove that to her.

  But Calista’s right: I’m not her boyfriend, and I guess I’m not her friend anymore. And I don’t need her any more pissed at me than she already is. Money can make her show up (thanks to her mother), but it can’t make her give a good performance. And depending on how angry she is and how desperate she is to make a point …