by P. Dangelico
A heavy sigh comes through the phone. “I’m being paged. We’ll talk about your brother later. Leave it alone, Reagan. And if she calls looking for a payout let me know immediately. I’ll have to get Henry involved.”
My family’s lawyer. Less than a moment later, the call drops.
I pull in the empty trash cans from the curb, make my way up the front steps.
Dallas’s parents bought him this monster of a house our freshman year. Our school doesn’t have dorm restrictions due to the lack of on-campus housing available. You would think he’d be stoked to live on a private beach next door to movie stars and pro athletes. I mean, who wouldn’t, right? Dallas, that’s who. He was always crashing on the couch in the apartment I shared with the Peterman twins.
It took us a while to get it out of him, but he eventually admitted that he hated living alone. Once he did, we all moved in with him. Seemed stupid to let the house go to waste.
The front door opens and a tall brunette I vaguely recognize from the girls’ volleyball team steps out.
“Hi, Reagan.”
“Hi,” I say to the tall chick whose name I can’t remember.
Avoiding eye contact, she ducks her head and walks past me when she sees me checking out the stains on her neck, arms, and clothes. This has Dallas written all over it.
To put it bluntly, Dallas Van Zant is the team’s resident fuckup. He also happens to be my best friend, has been since our freshman year when we beat USC by three goals scored by the two of us. From that day forth we were known as Thunder and Lightning, and like thunder and lightning we became inseparable.
Also like thunder and lightning, Dallas and I are profoundly different. I’m a straight-up team player, doing everything by the book, while D just likes to play. Being on this team is a means to an end for him. And that end is to accrue all the glory and the fun of being on a championship winning team without any of the responsibility. If he didn’t have such mad skills, Coach would’ve kicked him off years ago. Not that I blame him. Responsibility is for chumps like me.
I walk into the kitchen to find D naked, with his back to me. He’s focused on scrubbing the marble countertop. He’s also, I note, covered in the same shit-colored stains as the girl who left.
“Do I wanna know what happened here?” I ask, dropping my backpack at the threshold and tossing the keys on the counter.
“Karen and I made a Nutella sandwich,” he says, throwing a wad of dirty paper towels in the trash. He swipes a pair of basketball shorts off the kitchen floor and steps into them.
“You missed some on the refrigerator.”
“Where?” he says, glancing up to inspect the stainless steel behemoth. Four athletes live in this house and growing boys need to store a lot of food. I motion to the spots and he grabs a handful of clean paper towels and starts wiping.
I slip onto the counter stool, rake my hands through my hair, and press the heels into my eye sockets. The pressure’s been building since I dropped off Alice Bailey at her dorm. “Did you get any on the bread?”
“Yeah, no bread. We were the sandwich––” He glances up with a sly grin. “Very slimy, dude. No recommendo, amigo.”
The instant he catches sight of my expression he stops cleaning and gives me his full attention. “Who stepped on your nuts?”
I need sustenance for this conversation so I get up, grab two Coronas from the refrigerator, hand him one. He’ll tell me if I should be worried.
Despite the cavalier attitude, Dallas possesses an uncanny ability to read people. He’s strangely intuitive about their character and has never steered me wrong. It took me three years to see past Jordan’s bullshit. It took Dallas ten minutes of speaking to her. I don’t know if this talent is a consequence of what his parents put him through, and from what I’ve heard it was pretty bad, or it comes naturally. Regardless, he has it in spades.
I pop the top off my beer, lean back against the counter, and exhale tiredly. “I screwed up today.”
“Welcome to my life.”
“I was driving down Severson after practice and I glanced at my phone for a split second, thinking it was Brian calling––it wasn’t, by the way, it was Jordan. And I almost ran someone over.”
Looking unfazed, Dall takes a long pull of his beer. “Who?”
“New girl. Alice Bailey. A film major.” A smile tugs my lips away from the edge of the bottle at the memory of the glare she aimed at me when I asked to see her cameras.
“And?”
“I took her to see Fred. She twisted her ankle, looks pretty bad. She might’ve torn something.”
“Might have? Didn’t she go to the ER?”
“She refused. Said she couldn’t afford it.”
He nods. “And you’re worried she’ll sue.”
Leave it to Dallas to know where my head is, one of the reasons why we’re so good in the pool together. I tip my beer bottle in his direction. “You’re spooky. You know that, right?”
“Everybody has a gift,” he deadpans.
Having money has its perks. No doubt about it. But it also has some major drawbacks. The minute we were born, my brother and I were taught to safeguard our reputation, our family name, and our trust funds. It was imprinted in our minds with all the subtlety of a jackhammer. And we were reminded of it every time we made a new friend, dated someone outside our social circle, or stepped out the door.
I’m not saying everyone I come in contact with has bad intentions. That’s how my father thinks and I’ll never be that guy. However, the suspicion that I could become someone’s living blank check is never far from my mind. Especially after what happened to my brother.
“I don’t know…” My gut tells me Alice Bailey is not interested in money. “She didn’t ask for a police or campus security report. I can’t get a read on this girl. Except that she doesn’t like me very much.”
Most girls jump at the chance to stroke my ego. This one couldn’t wait to insult me. And something tells me she was holding back a lot more. Recalling the mix of interest and repulsion on her face teases another reluctant smile out of me.
“She wouldn’t even take my number, acted like I was a walking open sore to be avoided at all cost.” A less confident man would’ve sustained a serious ego blow. Good thing I’m not that guy.
“Maybe she’s not into dudes.”
Pausing, I considered it. Then I recall her staring at my junk in the hallway. “I don’t think so. She might hate me, but I definitely caught her checking out my package.”
D nods thoughtfully. “Don’t worry about it till it’s time to worry about it.”
He’s right. I’m always looking to jump in and get my hands dirty. Maybe it’s time I learn to keep my hands in my pockets. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.” I rub the back of my stiff neck.
“What are you gonna do?”
I think of what my father said. He’s always there, hanging over me like a black fucking cloud. I have to pick my battles with him or lose the war.
“Nothing…for now.”
The front door opens and Brock wanders in. He halts at the threshold of the open kitchen and takes in the scene.
“Nutella sandwich?”
A confused frown pulls at my face. How is it I’m the only one not in the know here?
Dallas smiles and Brock adds, “Karen and Jill?”
“Just Karen. Jill had soccer practice.”
Brock chuckles.
Two minutes later, Cole walks in and scans the walls and the refrigerator. Then he pins the three of us with a deadly glare. “Which one of you motherfuckers broke into my Nutella stash?”
Chapter 4
Reagan
A nagging sense of guilt wakes me abruptly at 2 a.m. It’s the third night in a row this has happened so there’s no guessing why. Whatever that gene is that allows you to give a shit about other people––the gene my father lacks––I seem to have inherited double the Reynolds family’s share. And presently, it’s screaming in my ear with a megap
hone that I’m the reason for this girl’s problems and therefore somehow need to fix this mess if I ever want to sleep again.
I grab my phone, log on to Sharknet, the school’s social networking site, and begin searching for any sign of Alice Bailey…and come up empty. Wtf.
Facebook? Her profile is on private. Snapchat? Yeah, she’s not on Snapchat. Insta? Random artsy pictures. Not a single one of her. This might not even be her. There are like…a million Alice Baileys. Devastating because I am fairly certain I won’t get a minute’s peace until I sort this out.
I jump out of bed and march down to Dall’s room, pound on his door. “Phone tree!” I move on to Brock’s, then Cole’s. “Wake up. Phone tree!”
They shuffle out of their bedrooms, rubbing the sleep from their eyes.
“What the fuck, dude? I have a history exam tomorrow morning,” Cole gripes. “Today actually.”
They make their way to the living room and crash onto the oversized couches.
“This better be good,” Brock grunts.
“I need to track down Alice Bailey––”
“Isn’t it a little late to be thinking with your dick?” Cole grunts.
“Not a hookup, asshole,” I fire back. “This is important.”
“Our boy, here––” Dallas takes it upon himself to explain. “Almost ran her over and can’t stand to see this travesty of justice go unvindicated.”
“That’s not a word, bro,” Cole mumbles, eyes closing fast.
“Which one?”
“Unvindicated.”
“It should be.” Dallas looks confused. “What then?”
“Unavenged,” Brock offers. “You could use unavenged.”
“That’s not a word, either,” claims Cole.
“Yes, it is, Merriam–Webster,” Brock insists.
“Bullshit––” Dallas argues. “I got fifty bucks that says it is a word. Somebody check a dictionary app. Rea, you want in on this action?”
“Are you jerkoffs done?” I cut in, my patience wearing out with the lack of sleep.
“It doesn’t sound like a real word,” one of them mutters.
“Read it and weep, ladies!” Dallas holds up his phone as proof. “It is a word.”
“Is this chick hot?”
“Search Sharknet,” Brock says, speaking over Cole. At least, I think that’s what he said. I can’t make it out with his face smashed into the couch pillow.
“Checked all social media already,” I tell him, bypassing Cole’s question altogether. “I’m starting to wonder if she’s in witness protection.”
Is Bailey hot? Big dark eyes, full lips. Yeah, she’s hot. Not my type but hot in her own way.
And these animals will never know.
That would complicate my life more than it already is and it’s so complicated already you need a playbook to follow along. “I need you guys to call every girl on your phone tree and get me her digits.”
“Seriously, what’s the deal with this girl?” Brock’s frustrated. I get it. I also know I’ve been there for each and every one of them when they’ve needed it.
“I’m responsible…this girl’s in trouble because of me.”
Sitting up, Brock nods, scrapes his hair back, and rubs his face awake. “Okay.”
The three of them complain but get busy. Nobody messes with phone tree.
Alice
I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t in love with movies. It started as a way to escape a quiet, lonely home. My father took my mother’s death very hard. I don’t remember much other than him retreating into himself. Hardly ever speaking. We could go days with only a few words exchanged. So I lost myself in old DVDs of Lassie, Spy Kids, Coraline, and more that my mother had purchased at garage sales around the neighborhood.
By the time I turned eleven the obsession had transformed from simply watching them, to wanting to create them. School notebooks were covered in dialogue. Dream boards, dedicated to the stories I had written, decorated my bedroom walls. There was a magic to it I couldn’t explain, and a rush I couldn’t get anywhere else.
Then my father bought me a Sony video camera for my twelfth birthday and the addiction went turbo.
I recruited kids that lived on my block to act in my amateur movies. I watched every online video there was on filmmaking, hit the library for books on the subject. Stole books on the subject. Yeah, let’s skip right over that.
By the time I hit my teens I could tell you where you could film without a permit, how to get people to sign waivers, which high schools had strong drama clubs from which you could recruit actors willing to work for free.
So it’s no surprise that every time I step inside the hallowed halls of the film and television building goose bumps ripple over my skin.
This is my church. The only church I worship in. The other one failed me when I was old enough to know I could ask for things. Not this one, though. The goose bumps, the shiver up my back––that’s the universe telling me I’m right where I’m supposed to be.
“The deadline to submit a short for the James Cameron internship is the end of the semester. That’s plenty of time to produce something if you don’t already have something ready to go,” Professor Marshall announces.
She walks back and forth, scanning all the ultra alert faces drinking in every syllable that falls from her knowledgeable lips. Marshall’s is a master class in film and video production. People come from all over the world to take it and the crowded-to-capacity lecture hall serves as proof.
It also happens to be my favorite this semester and not only because it’s the gateway to the prized summer internship with James Cameron’s production company; Cameron not only known for being an Oscar-winning director but also a top cinematographer. I’m also hopelessly in love with this class because we get to actually film and edit, putting into practice everything we learn.
“Interviews start in November, people. Sign up for a time slot if you haven’t done so already.”
And I plan to nail it. This bitch is mine.
“Have you figured out what you’re submitting?” Simon whispers, leaning over Morgan who’s seated between us. Creature of habit like me, he chose his seat the first day of class and never moved. Looking uncomfortable, Morgan shrinks back.
A mop of dark wavy hair falls into his almond-shaped, chocolaty eyes and he flips it aside.
“I think so,” I answer.
It’s a lie. I’m a dirty, filthy liar. I really haven’t. No clue whatsoever what I’m going to submit and it’s kind of freaking me out. This is major-league important and I’m being indecisive and I am never indecisive. “Have you?”
“Still debating between a short film I submitted to Sundance last year and something I worked on over the summer, an indie film that a friend of mine directed and I worked on as DP.”
He’s cute and accomplished and he knows it. I should probably stay as far away from him as possible. “Wow. Trying to psych me out already? Let the Hunger Games begin.” He chuckles and twin dimples pop up on his cheeks. I should stay away––buuut maybe I won’t. I mean, a girl can’t survive on passion for her craft alone.
I’ve always gone for the creative type. My high school boyfriend could be related to this guy there are so many similarities. Where Jack was moody and unpredictable, however, and as high-maintenance emotionally as you can get, Simon strikes me as much more easygoing. And easygoing is good.
He plays with the leather bracelets wrapped around his left wrist. “I was about to say if you need any help putting something together, all you have to do is ask. I have access to an Avid machine.”
A professional editing machine? I suck in a breath. Sexiest words in the English language. “Now you’re talking dirty.”
He flashes me an Instagram smile and Morgan rolls her eyes. She’s been low-key real-life trolling him since the beginning of the semester and I’m surprised he hasn’t picked up on it yet. “I didn’t see you in study group for Film Theory.”
R
ight. The study group that I desperately need to attend, that I can’t attend because it’s on Thursday nights on the other side of campus and I don’t have a car. That study group.
“My car died on me. And well, my ankle.” I lift it for his viewing pleasure.
His face twists into an adorably troubled frown. “What happened?”
The question induces an image of a dolphin tattoo to pop up. My ankle is still sore and the lack of sleep is making me moody as hell.
Flipper happened. Instead I say, “Long story.”
Reagan
“What’s up, Jersey,” I say, pulling the Jeep up in front of the film and television building. Alice Bailey, a.k.a. the hardest woman on the planet to track down, is presently speaking to a guy dressed in skinny jeans. I immediately don’t like the look of this dude.
Phone tree turned out to be an epic waste of time. No one I know knows this girl. Which is almost an impossible feat since I know everyone there is to know on this campus. No matter. Failure isn’t in my vocabulary and so here I am.
Pausing their conversation, they both glance at me and frown. I stand through the open top of the Jeep. Smile and wave. There’s no change in their expressions. It’d be funny if this dude hadn’t already crawled under my skin and made himself unfuckingwelcome.
She says something else to him and he stares down at her with a wolfish smile. Very shady. I don’t like it. Shady guy walks away and Bailey finally grants me her attention, a pointed look that lasts all of a second before she starts moving up the steep incline which leads to the Communications building. Naturally, I give chase, coasting the Jeep along the sidewalk.
“Did you fall down a rabbit hole?”
Her dark eyes flash. Yeah, she’s not amused.
“Okay…okay, that was the wrong thing to say. I can see that now. Seriously, though, I’ve been looking for you everywhere and I mean everywhere. Are you in the mob? Because you’re harder to track down than Whitey Bulger.”