Black Tangled Heart

by Samantha Young

  Her shocked gasp sent blood pumping to my dick, and I resented her for that too. Those plump lips parted, eyes filled with pain. Or was that guilt?

  “I hate you,” I told her. I was cold as ice. “You disgust me.”

  You abandoned me and then took up with Asher Steadman. What the hell else did you expect?

  The boy who used to love her wanted to believe there was a reason she’d hooked her star to Asher Steadman. Because the Jane I knew would never have done that.

  In saying that, the Jane I knew would never have abandoned me either.

  “When I get out, I’m heading back to Massachusetts,” I said. “I expect I’ll never have to look at your fucking face ever again.” It was a warning.

  Slamming the phone on the hook, I pushed back my chair and walked away from her.

  She needed to stay out of my life. I had plans to put in motion, and I didn’t need her screwing them up.

  Not until I was ready.

  Then I’d be back for her.

  And Jane Doe would wish she’d never laid eyes on me.

  Part II

  The Present

  16

  JANE

  It was the last place I wanted to be.

  I was surrounded by famous and not-so-famous faces, features blurring as guests moved around me, some nodding hello, others stopping to chat. I smiled, asked questions I couldn’t remember the answers to seconds later, and willed the minute hand on the giant, frameless clock above Patel’s fireplace to move faster.

  Patel Smith was the Academy Award-winning producer on the movie I was working on. It was the second time I’d worked for Patel. The first time was five years ago, and I was a mere art department assistant at the time. Now I was his art director.

  Despite the uber-contemporary (and expensive) home in Laurel Canyon—a house he bought two years ago after a landslide scared off its previous owner—Patel insisted he wasn’t “Hollywood.” It was obvious by his home and car that he liked the money, the sun, and the lifestyle, but according to him, he was still the working-class guy who grew up in Liverpool, England.

  While his wife, Shireen, lived a designer life, Patel didn’t seem interested in conversation unless it was about books, film, music, or Liverpool Football Club. Since I had no interest in soccer, I fell upon books and music as my go-to topics for conversation with Patel. But mostly we talked about set design.

  Patel’s house had a panoramic view of Los Angeles and an infinity pool that merged with the sky reflected in it. As Shireen told everyone who entered the house, they were lucky not to have lost everything in the cyclonic fires that had ripped through the Hollywood Hills a year ago.

  I personally thought the house was a risk.

  Beautiful, but unreliable.

  Who wanted to invest themselves emotionally in something that might get wiped out by a landslide or climate change?

  The party was a crush. Patel wasn’t a guy who just invited actors and “important” crew members to his parties. Everyone working for him got an invitation. It was a large cast and crew on this movie, and I didn’t know everyone by name.

  The cast and crew appeared and disappeared through the rotation of guests while I longed for Asher’s steadying presence.

  Strike that. If I was wishing for stuff, I wished to replace the spritzed partygoers with the bitter scent of linseed oil, pungent turpentine, and the piney aroma of a new canvas frame. Instead of the mansion, I wanted to be in my bedroom/art studio in my apartment in Silver Lake.

  I’d spent seven years building a career I never meant to pursue. Not that I was unhappy, but working in Hollywood was far more frenetic than the future I had envisioned.

  I chose this life. And for what? I was no closer to my goal, even with Asher’s help.

  These parties reminded me of all the things I could gladly do without. I was an introvert by nature and being forced to schmooze was akin to someone scoring their nails down a chalkboard.

  Still, I might never have wanted this life—to be dealing with people day in and out, collaborating with production designers, delegating, keeping to deadline, working crazy hours—but I didn’t mind it. The movie Patel was directing and producing was a musical, which meant elaborate, expensive sets and a huge amount of work I could disappear into.

  Filming would start on Monday, so Patel’s party was kind of a kickoff event that I’d felt obligated to attend. For now, I estimated I had to put in another hour at this party before I could leave without being rude. While the cast might not have to work tomorrow, I’d be up at the crack of dawn and on the lot to make sure the set Patel wanted to work with first was ready.

  I squeezed through the crowds gathered in the open-plan sitting room and strode into the kitchen. The music playing throughout the house, mixed with the cacophony of voices, meant I couldn’t even hear my booted heels click against the ceramic-tile floor. Like the living room, the kitchen also had a bank of bifold glass doors along one wall that looked out onto the infinity pool and the city beyond. The doors were pushed all the way open as guests wandered in and out of the house.

  Seeing a waiter pick up a tray of hors d’oeuvres, I moved toward him and took a few. As I reached for another, the waiter eyeballed me. It was clear he was trying to place me. I scrambled to grab several of the little pastries before he had his “ah-ha” moment, but I was too late.

  “You’re Margot Higgins, right?”

  I nodded. My name used to be Jane Doe. For reasons, I had it legally changed while I was still in college.

  “You’re Asher Steadman’s girlfriend.” He grinned, apparently pleased with himself.

  Only someone who wanted to be in the business would pay close enough attention to know that. Yes, I’d been photographed with Asher a few times, but it wasn’t like paparazzi hounded us. We weren’t actors or singers or models … so we weren’t all that exciting. The only reason the public cared even a little was because Asher was Hollywood royalty.

  I gave the waiter a tight smile and popped a pastry in my mouth. Unlike many of the actors around me, I didn’t have a love-hate relationship with carbs. There was only love between us. I loved them. They loved my ass.

  The waiter dragged his gaze down my body and back up again. “You are way hotter in real life.”

  I swiped a couple more puff pastries and whirled away from him with a two-fingered salute. It was that or throw food at him, and that was just a waste of good catering.

  After art college, I’d done something I thought I’d never do and asked my ex-foster dad, Nick, to help me get a job in a studio. He found me a position working as an art department runner. After a year of keeping everyone on set caffeinated, I got promoted to an assistant, which meant I got to use my art skills. Making my voice heard in the sea of chatter that was film wasn’t easy for me, but I was determined to be noticed. I had to be noticed so I could find the “in” I needed in Hollywood.

  I’d worked on a few big movies, including one of Patel’s previous films, but lowly assistants weren’t on people’s radars. However, art director Marsha Kowalski was my boss on an Indiana Jones-style flick, and she noticed me. I worked my ass off. I offered my talents as a scenic artist, I painted, I constructed, I kept people more organized on that movie than Marsha herself. Marsha hired me on her next movie as her assistant, which was several steps up the ladder in one promotion.

  That movie was a Foster Steadman film.

  My “in.”

  From there I met Asher and my career moved at warp speed.

  Now I was an art director. At only twenty-six years old. When Patel asked for me specifically for this musical, I couldn’t believe it. He asked for me. People were asking for me now.

  Which brought me to the party at Patel’s swanky house in the hills.

  Remembering Patel’s mention of a home library, I moved away from the crowd, avoiding eye contact so I didn’t get drawn into conversation. Instead, I skirted the edges of the sitting room and disappeared into the hallway. I found th
e room in question toward the back of the first floor.

  The door was open, but there was no one else inside. It was much darker than the other rooms in the home because there was only one window and a blind had been drawn over it. A comfy sectional, a few armchairs, side tables, and a coffee table were situated stylishly throughout the large room. White-painted bookcases wrapped around every inch of wall space. I envied Patel this room.

  I felt relieved to be alone, surrounded by books, the music a dull thud in the background. My lungs opened and I breathed freely as I stepped into the room. It smelled like furniture polish, which was a welcome change to the colognes and perfumes out at the party fighting for supremacy over one another.

  I relaxed as I stopped at the first row and began to catalogue Patel’s collection in my head.

  After a while of perusing the shelves, my attention snagged on a copy of Brent 29.

  I pulled out the worn paperback and flicked through the pages. Patel had underlined sentences in ink. The horror! I shook my head at the defacement but smirked. He’d underlined all the lines I’d highlighted in my e-reader edition.

  The book was a runaway bestseller last year by a mysterious author called Griffin Stone. He didn’t share his photo, no one really knew who he was, but it didn’t seem to matter because the guy had sold over two million copies of his book. It was about a man, Charlie Brent, who was wrongfully imprisoned for the death of his son. His young wife, Una, worked relentlessly to have him exonerated and succeeded, but it took her and the lawyer almost seven years. By then, Charlie had been badly affected by everything that happened to him and others while he was in prison, and he convinced Una to go on a devastating journey to find the man who’d killed their son. Through everything that happened to them, the couple’s bond and faith in each other was unshakeable.

  The book didn’t have a happy ending.

  I cried when I finished it. Not just because Charlie sacrificed himself for justice (or was it vengeance? It was up to the reader to decide) and left Una on her own, but because the story was chillingly relatable. Moreover, the writing style reminded me of Jamie McKenna’s.

  The boy I’d loved.

  My phone buzzed in the ass pocket of my jeans, making me jolt, my heart racing a little. Pulling it out, shaking off my memories, I opened a text from Asher.

  Hang in there. I’m on my way.

  He knew me so well.

  I’m hiding in the library, I texted back.

  My phone buzzed again.

  You’re adorable.

  Chuckling, I shook my head and put my phone back in my pocket. Asher didn’t mind the parties and the glamor. He grew up in the Hollywood environment and was far better suited to faking his way through it.

  Putting Brent 29 back on the shelf, I ran my fingers along the walnut cases as I studied Patel’s collection. He’d shelved the books by genre, then alphabetically. When I found a bookcase of mixed genres and authors, I frowned. Why was this case unorganized? Reaching up for a book by Stephen King, I flipped it open and grew still at the sight of the scrawl across the title page.

  It was signed.

  My attention caught on a pristine hardback copy of Brent 29, just a few books along from where the Stephen King book sat.

  Putting the Stephen King title back, I reached for Griffin Stone’s instead. Sure enough, the pristine copy was signed. I traced my finger over the autograph, liking the way his G and S stood out in big, attractive loops in comparison to the brutal stiffness of the rest of the letters. I wondered how Patel got a signed copy.

  And not for the first time, I wondered what Stone was like.

  I felt strangely connected to his book.

  I enjoyed his ability to make me care for a deeply flawed character like Charlie and a determined, loyal woman like Una, even though she followed love into chaos.

  A shuffling noise behind me drew my attention over my shoulder and—

  My heart stopped.

  A man stood in the doorway.

  There was something incredibly familiar about him.

  As his face began to make sense, a cold sweat prickled my body as though I’d stepped into a shower of ice water.

  “Jamie?” I breathed.

  He glared at me with Jamie McKenna’s face. Older, harder, scruff covering his angular jaw. His hair was a little darker, too, but I’d know that moody brow and those soulful eyes anywhere. The book slipped from my fingers, making a soft thump against the hardwood. I took a step toward him. “Jamie?”

  He moved swiftly from the doorway, disappearing down the hall.

  No!

  Heart pounding so hard all I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears, I hurried after him, hitting my leg on a goddamn coffee table in my rush to keep up. Bursting out of the library, I turned right down the hall, but he was gone.

  “No, no, no,” I whispered, frantic, tears burning in my eyes.

  I searched the house from top to bottom, all thoughts of Patel’s privacy overshadowed by the blast from the past I’d just seen.

  Yet … there was no Jamie.

  Stepping into the huge entrance hall where the floating stairs led down to the first floor, I gazed into the crowded sitting room and tried to make sense of what had just happened.

  Had I imagined that Jamie McKenna, love of my life, had somehow appeared at a party in the Hollywood Hills? Wasn’t he supposed to be on the East Coast?

  Trying to breathe through the panic tightening my chest, my cheeks tingled as everything around me began to feel very far away.

  I was having an anxiety attack.

  Stumbling toward the staircase, I slumped onto the second step as I let the sensation move through me. It took a while for the chest pressure to alleviate, for the faraway feeling to fade, and for the noise of the party to return. Exhausted, I pressed my hands to my forehead and waited. I knew if I got up, it would be on trembling limbs. Nausea always accompanied my anxiety attacks, so I needed a minute to compose myself or I would eject the hors d’oeuvres I’d just eaten.

  Releasing a shaky breath, I chastised myself. After the last time I’d visited Jamie in prison, the doc wanted to put me on antianxiety medication, but there was no way. I did not have good memories associated with those meds. Instead, I fought my way through the anxiety and depression and thankfully made it to the other side.

  I hadn’t felt anxious in a long while, and I hadn’t had an anxiety attack in an even longer while.

  Fuck.

  That goddamn book. It reminded me of Jamie. It was making me see things that weren’t there. Shit.

  “Okay, I did not expect to find you like this.” Asher’s soft voice brought my head up.

  He was there. Lowered to his haunches in front of me, concern creasing his brow.

  Relieved to see him, I reached out a shaky hand and he drew it against his chest. I felt his slow, steady heartbeat and relaxed a little. God, I loved him.

  “Anxiety attack,” I admitted.

  “Honey.” He gave me a commiserating look and pulled me to my feet. Anxiety was something we unfortunately shared. He got it. I cuddled into his strong chest as he wrapped his arms around me. “You want to go?”

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I’m just so tired now.”

  “Do you want to tell Patel you’re leaving?”

  “No. Let’s just go.” I knew it was rude, but I was probably pale and shaken, and truthfully, I didn’t think he’d notice his art director’s absence.

  “What brought it on?” Asher asked as we walked out of the house. There was a cool evening breeze, welcome against my clammy skin. Parked cars lined the drive and two valet guys sat drinking coffee near the end of the driveway at a pop-up table. Since Asher’s car was parked near the gates, he hadn’t surrendered a key fob. Not that he could or would.

  Asher drove a Rimac Concept Two. The hypercar was fully electric, combining Asher’s eco-heart with his love for horsepower. I waited as the $2 million car scanned his face with its facial recognition sof
tware. The doors opened upward, like the Batmobile.

  I’d never get used to Asher’s wealth, no matter how hard he tried to insinuate me into almost every aspect of his life.

  Sliding into the tan, leather passenger seat, I didn’t speak until the doors closed. “I think I’m just exhausted,” I lied. “We’ve been working flat out.”

  I didn’t want to tell Asher about hallucinating Jamie. I didn’t want him to suggest, for the thousandth time, that I see a therapist.

  My best friend studied me, and I squirmed beneath his dark gaze. I hated lying to him. Those chocolate-brown eyes were so kind and warm, it felt evil to deceive him.

  “You’re doing a great job, Jane. No one is questioning how you got promoted. It’s not about me—it’s about how good you are at this job.”

  I gave him a grateful smile. He was the only one in my life who still called me Jane. To everyone else, I was Margot. I thought I could shed the name Jane easily. However, when our connection deepened, I realized how much I missed just being Jane and had asked Asher to call me by that name. He and Cassie, my friend from college, were the only people who did. It might have been confusing for some people, but not for me. There was still a part of me that wanted to hold on to a piece of the girl I used to be.

  As the car reversed out of the driveway, barely making a sound, I forced my tired eyes to stay open.

  “Anything on Foster?” I asked.

  I hadn’t asked in a while. But hallucinating Jamie tugged at my guilty conscience.

  “I can’t get Lisa to talk.” His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “He’s paid her off. Like he has the last few. And they’re too scared he’ll ruin their careers. I have to be careful too. If Foster discovers I’m investigating him, it’s all over.”

  My chest ached with sadness while bitter helplessness burned my throat. “Maybe it’s time I went in.”

  “No,” Asher snapped. “We will not have this conversation again.”

  At my dejected silence, he sighed. “Jane, a honey trap is too dangerous. And who’s to say whatever you discover would stand up in court? Worst-case scenario—and the most likely scenario—he takes what he wants from you and you’ll be just another one of his victims.”