The attorney didn’t sit; he stayed in place, his eyebrows raised, and waited.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” He risked a glance at his watch. Twenty-two minutes. This dick was giving him hell for twenty-two measly minutes.
It took DeLuca a quarter hour to get over Cole’s tardiness, but finally the attorney was re-seated, had downed an omelet, and the conversation had moved on to the matter at hand.
“You’ve lived your life as a celebrity for a long time, but in the courtroom, against your wife?” DeLuca tapped the table. “You’re equals to each other. You’re nothing to the judge. You’re normal.” He leaned back, and Cole looked away. Normal. The word was painful as it crawled in his ears.
“If I’m going to represent you, you have to know that life as you know it is over. You are not a bachelor yet, not until this divorce is final. You are my bitch, and I will say if and who you fuck, what you say to whom, and when and how you work. If you want to keep this movie as yours, you will leave this shithole of a city and go to Georgia. You will keep your dick clean and pretty-boy head down and do your job… nothing else. I’ve buried five of your fucks since Sunday, and my team doesn’t have time for the popularity contest your dick has entered. Before you break a paparazzi’s neck or barge into the hospital and finish that director off, let me do my job. We are going to return you to being Hollywood’s Golden Boy and remind everyone of who the slut in this relationship was. You listen to me, and I promise you that I will keep The Fortune Bottle yours—along with any other shared asset you want.”
“Just the movie,” Cole said quietly, his eyes on the table. “She can keep the rest.”
“I need you to commit to my terms.”
Cole shrugged. “Yeah. Whatever.”
“No drugs.”
“I don’t do drugs.” He winced at an early memory of Nadia, a line of coke down her back, his nose dipping to hit between each thrust into her. A stupid combination, sex and coke. Neither of them able to feel much, their highs better than anything going on between their bodies. In the early days of their relationship, the drugs had been something that bonded them. But they’d both grown up. Gotten smarter. Stopped doing a lot of things, come to think of it, together.
“Well don’t start. And no drinking. A beer or two is fine, but I can’t have you drunk.”
“That’s fine.” He rubbed his neck. “Anything else?”
“No sex. No relationships. No women. No men.” The man didn’t smile; he just leaned forward and stared at Cole.
No sex. That was probably for the best, his stream of fucking doing absolutely nothing to help his psyche. No relationships. Even less of a problem. After Nadia, he couldn’t imagine ever walking down that path again. No men. The easiest rule of them all. He looked up and met the man’s stare. “Agreed.”
Deluca held the eye contact long enough to be satisfied, then nodded and glanced at his watch, his wedding ring glinting out against tan skin and strong hands. “Then let’s go.”
“Go?” He looked up at the man, who was now standing, peeling a couple of bills off and dropping them on the white tablecloth. “Where?” He had a massage scheduled—had planned for Brenda the Masseuse to work off the hours of sex with her hands before he took her from behind, bent over the massage table. It’d be another fuck, another attempt to replace a hundred memories of Nadia. Eventually, those memories would be buried. Eventually, he’d be able to push inside a woman and not hear Nadia’s moan in his mind. Maybe he’d have to cancel the massage, but he wasn’t going anywhere with this man. He had zero interest in going to another meeting, another lecture surely planned, this one with publicists and more suits in attendance. He stayed in place in his seat. “Where?” he repeated stubbornly.
“Quincy.” The attorney smiled, and Cole felt off-balance by the change, the man’s answer taking a second longer to compute. Quincy?
“Right now?” He stayed in his seat, thought of a hundred good reasons to stay in Los Angeles right now. But his question was ignored, the attorney striding through the crowded tables, his shoulders wide and strong in his custom suit. The man could be a damn bodyguard, with his build and intimidation.
Cole sighed and grabbed his cell phone, rising from the table with a sigh.
It looked like, for the immediate future, his new role was as Brad DeLuca’s bitch. A role he’d never played, a role he already hated.
CHAPTER 19
I’d had a variety of jobs since my graduation from Quincy High. Fresh out, my new diploma stuffed in a drawer, it was Davis Video Rental. That was in the early Cole Masten days, when he was a twenty-five year old playing sexy high school quarterbacks who dated the nerdy girl and made her popular. I spent my days alphabetizing titles, catching sticky-fingered teens and watching movies on the twenty-seven inch mounted in the store’s upper corner. Each night, I’d bring home a couple of titles and watch more. By the time I’d worked through the entire Comedy and Drama section, Horror and Classic, I put in my notice. Life was too short for Sci-Fi or Western.
After Davis Rental, I drove down to Tallahassee. Applied at a handful of restaurants and bars, striking out until I found a Moe’s with a flirtatious manager who hired me on the spot. I struggled a little there. It wasn’t the restaurant or the stoners I worked with. It was the students, each ding of the door bringing in a fresh wave of individuals who were doing something, going somewhere. Each new face was a subtle point to the invisible sign on my chest that said UNDERACHIEVER in big bubbly letters. Prior to that job, my lack of continuing education, my lack of a life plan… it had never bothered me. I didn’t apply to colleges because I wasn’t really interested in them, didn’t have a childhood dream of leaving Quincy to become a marine biologist or whatever it was that high-schoolers were supposed to want. I liked to read and watch movies. I loved to cook and work in the garden. Before that job in Tallahassee, there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with those simple pleasures. But for some reason, with that job, those students… I felt like less of a person each day that I walked in those double doors. And then one day, sitting in the parking lot before my shift, I couldn’t do it anymore. I just started up my truck and drove back home.
After that, I stuck to the county limits. Got the Holden job and moved in, grew roots through my soles and into the plantation’s dirt. I blocked out the images of smiling student faces and focused on the simple things I loved. And slowly but surely, the happiness creeped back in. And around that time, Scott Thompson started coming by. Once he won my heart, there wasn’t much thought about plans or college or Life Outside of Quincy. Love did that to you. Sucked you in and blurred out everything else.
It was after Scott that I started thinking about leaving. It wasn’t so much that life in Quincy felt inadequate, and it wasn’t the shame that I’d felt at Moe’s. It was more that, after my experience with him, I wanted something different. I wanted to be someone different, someone without scorn, someone without a past.
Someone with a future.
CHAPTER 20
Justin Hitchins got the call when on Sunset Boulevard, leaving The Coffee Bean with a double espresso, one wheat bagel with light cream cheese, and a container of sliced strawberries. He stopped his step into the crowded street, moving back two paces, until he was safely out of harm’s way, in between two parallel-parked cars. He reached for his cell, almost dropped everything, then glanced around, carefully depositing the espresso on the hood of the black Mercedes to his right. Digging in his pocket, he answered the cell a moment before it went to voicemail.
“Morning.”
“This guy’s a fucking lunatic,” Cole Masten hissed, his voice at whisper level.
“He’s what you wanted. Did you see the dossier I emailed over with his list of cases? He’s never lost—”
“We are going to the airport right now, Justin.” There was a muffled bump across the line. “He wants me to go to Quincy now, to get out of LA. And call the production company—we’re keeping the original timeline, no delays
on filming.”
Not an entirely bad plan, seeing the path his employer’s life had taken recently, but Justin swallowed that opinion in light of more pressing issues. “You’re going to the airport right now?” He would need to call the scout, see if Cole’s house was ready for occupancy, see if their local restaurants had a list of approved meals, see if… his mind jumped hurdles, moved through crowds, and had a minor panic attack all in the three seconds it took Cole Masten to respond.
“Yes, right now. I told you… insane.”
“Why are you whispering?” The Cole he knew—had worked for over thirteen years—stood straight and ordered. He hadn’t ever heard a whisper out of the man unless it was printed in a script.
“You meet the guy and tell me you aren’t going to hide in a plane restroom and whisper when you complain about him.”
Justin smiled at the visual. “Okay, when are you landing?”
He didn’t hear the response. It was drowned out by a loud horn, typical in Los Angeles, the accompanying screech of tires another norm. He turned his head, saw the Range Rover swerve, saw the blur of bright white and Xenon headlights slam into the back of the black Mercedes and realized, several moments too late, what was about to happen.
The Range Rover slammed the parked Mercedes forward, not far, but enough to collide with the minivan parked before it, Justin Hitchins a soft cushion in between the two vehicles.
The espresso sloshed up and out in the air, his cell flew from his hand, and Justin Hitchins’ world went black.
CHAPTER 21
The call went dead in Cole’s hand. He glanced down at the cell, the plane dipping, his hand bracing the wall for support, and cursed. Damn service. He pocketed the phone and opened the door, stepping out into the jet’s short hall, a bedroom to the left, seating to the right. In one of the chairs, Brad DeLuca spoke into a phone. Apparently his service worked just fine at forty thousand feet.
He stepped forward, settling into a chair across from the attorney. Justin would handle it, would have everything ready by the time they touched down. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. He was just thinking about coming down to Quincy and escaping the madness of Hollywood. Maybe he needed the kick in the ass to get him there. He felt better already, every minute putting more distance between him and Nadia. Felt better with this freak of nature next to him. The man was terrifying, but he was in his corner, fighting for him. He would rip out the throat of Nadia’s puny lawsuit and eat it for breakfast. Cole relaxed against the back of the seat.
“Have you called Quincy?” Brad DeLuca spoke from beside him, and Cole swiveled his seat to face the man.
“My assistant is handling it. They’ll be ready for us.”
“I’m not staying, just dropping you off. I’ve got to get back home.” The man glanced at his watch. “I’ll call you when I land tonight. Pick up the phone. We’ll game plan then, and I’ll have a response filed with Nadia’s team by the morning.”
“Okay.” He flipped his cell against his leg and looked at the man. “This all you do? Divorces?”
DeLuca nodded. “That’s it.”
“Dismal job. Ripping apart marriages.”
The man grinned. “That depends. For me, my divorce was the best thing that ever happened. I lost a mistake and ended up marrying my soulmate. You can waste your life away, tied to the wrong spouse. Divorce can right at least one of our wrongs.”
Cole laughed. “So you’re Replacement Cupid? Steering husbands away from one mistake and on to their next?”
The man smiled. “One day you’ll thank me.”
Cole looked away. “It’s Nadia Smith. Not many women can hold a candle to that.”
“Stop thinking of her as Nadia Smith. She’s not a shrine you pray to; she’s a woman. I love my wife more than life itself, but she has flaws. If Nadia and you were perfect together, she wouldn’t have fucked another guy and served you divorce papers. You will move on from this. You will be stronger after this.”
It sounded like a crock of shit. A brutal crock of shit. It’d been a long time since anyone, other than Justin or Nadia, spoke to him without carefully selected undertones. Cole shifted in his seat and wished they’d gone by his house first. He’d have liked to shower and change, grab some clothes. No matter. First thing, upon landing, he’d find something else to wear, just to tide him over until Justin arrived. His assistant knew what to do, would catch a flight in with a month’s worth of outfits. He pulled at the collar of his shirt and rolled his neck. Maybe he’d have Justin get him a massage in Quincy. Better yet, book a full day tomorrow at a spa.
DeLuca got on the phone, and Cole reclined back in his seat, closing his eyes and trying to push the thought of Nadia from his mind. She’d looked beautiful, standing in the hotel. Beautiful and unaffected. He hadn’t expected that. It hurt, even more than the papers, even more than what he’d seen in their bathroom. It made it all worse than just an affair or a fight or cheating. It meant that Nadia could walk away from their years together without hesitation. He’d looked through the divorce paperwork. It was too detailed, too tight, to be thrown together in the last week. She had been planning this. That was what made his chest tight. And what made his head hurt was how oblivious he’d been to the entire thing. How disconnected had they been that he hadn’t seen any signs? That he’d thought they were great when they’d been on the brink of disaster?
And then for Nadia to bring up The Fortune Bottle. In the moment when they should have been discussing their love, their relationship, their lives—his movie was what she brought up, what she cared about, fought for. He suddenly remembered scattered comments from Nadia about the movie, her request to be an executive producer, her transfer of funds last month “just moving stuff around.” He groaned and leaned forward, holding his head in his hands.
“Hey.” DeLuca looked up from his phone. “Stop stressing.”
“I’m thinking back on the last few months… I think she’s been setting me up for this.”
“It’s my job to worry now. It’s your job to stay in Quincy, follow my rules, and make a movie that kicks ass.”
“Okay.” Cole leaned back and huffed out a breath.
He could do that. Sitting back and letting others take care of things, have them worry about things, those were things he was used to. He could lick his wounds in Quincy, avoid temptation, and make a movie.
Easy.
CHAPTER 22
The moment that all hell broke loose, I was in my bathing suit, my butt resting in four inches of cold water, my feet propped up on the edge of the bright blue kiddie pool.
“You’re going to burn.” Ben made the comment from underneath three layers of sunblock, one cowboy hat, and linen pants.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” he said with the grave sincerity of a eulogy. “I watched you. You didn’t put on any sunscreen.”
“I never wear sunscreen.” I scooped up some water and drizzled it over my thighs.
“You do realize that the sun is literally aging you right before my eyes.”
“You do realize that this is Georgia and not the Wild West and that you look absolutely ridiculous in a cowboy hat, right?” I flicked my hand at him and water sprayed, his pale body squirming away, his metal folding chair tipping sideways on the grass. I laughed, dipping both hands in the water and taking advantage of his struggle to stand, getting him as wet as possible from my position in the pool.
“Stop!” he shrieked, his bare feet finally gripping onto the grass and standing.
I laughed. “Fine, pretty boy. No more splashing.” I held up my hands in peace and smirked as he picked up the overturned chair and moved it to a safer place.
We were in the front yard of my house, in the shade of the big live oak; yet, even submerged in water, it was still hot. The Holdens had a pool, a big giant thing behind their house. With them in Tennessee, we could have swum there, but that just didn’t feel right. I had done it once or twice in the last six years but had lo
oked over my shoulder the entire time, worried that the Holdens would magically transport two thousand miles and catch me. The kiddie pool worked just fine for me, and it didn’t come with a side of trepidation.
From the back porch, we heard Ben’s phone ring, loud and shrill in the quiet afternoon. He craned his neck back at it and sighed heavily.
“Just let it go,” I urged. “It’s Saturday. No emergencies to deal with.”
Like I knew he would, he hefted out of the chair and ran toward it.
Thank God he had.
CHAPTER 23
The first oddity, when the jet touched down on the dusty runway, was that there was no one there. Well, there was someone there. One lone airport employee who stood on the tarmac and gawked, his hands tucked in his front pocket, his mouth doing everything but offering to help with their bags. Granted, they didn’t have any bags. But this man didn’t know that. DeLuca stepped off the plane, shook the man’s hand, and introduced himself. Cole followed suit, the man’s eyes widening underneath a decade of dirt and sun. “You’re that movie star,” he said in surprise.
Cole nodded and flashed a smile. He couldn’t help it; it had become, since entering this business, so ingrained, so automatic, that it was as if he had no control of it. But there were no cameras here, no screaming crowds of fans, no need to display a megawatt smile to this country bumpkin. DeLuca looked at him strangely.
“So… ah… what are you guys doing in Quincy? Got engine trouble?” The man glanced at the gleaming aircraft, one that had barely had the runway clearance to land on their strip.
“No. Has my assistant not called?” Cole dug in his pocket for his phone. No texts from Justin. Strange. Normally, after this link of time, he’d have an itinerary, hotel confirmations, the name of his driver. He held up the phone. Two bars of service. Pressed the power button and hit restart. Damn Verizon.