by Devney Perry
“That was cool,” he said. “Worth your waiver to learn how they build the bikes. Do you spend much time in the shop?”
“No.”
“Have you worked in other garages?”
Wasn’t he here to watch his bike? This wasn’t get-to-know-Presley day. “No.”
“Did you grow up in Clifton Forge?”
My mouth flattened into a thin line. Seriously, the show was over. Why was he still here? “No.”
“Is this you making sure I’ve been told no enough times this week?”
I shot him a glare. If Shaw turned out to be funny, I was screwed.
“Isaiah seems like a nice guy. I appreciate that he took the time to humor me today.”
“He is a nice guy,” I said. “You do realize he’s connected to this movie you’re making, right? His wife’s mother was murdered.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “I know about the connection.”
“How much else do you know?”
“Enough to do the story justice.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Says a guy who wasn’t here and doesn’t know the actual story.”
Shaw picked up a pen from the edge of my desk and spun it around his fingers. “You don’t like that we’re making this movie.”
“Of course not. You’re glorifying a crime that stole my friend’s mother.”
“Trust me. We’re not glorifying anything. Certainly not Marcus Wagner.”
I arched an eyebrow. “You’re playing him, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
That was a different role for Shaw. Every movie I’d watched, he’d been the hero who saved the day. Marcus’s role didn’t fit his roster. He’d be better suited to playing Chief Rosen.
“What about the rest of the characters? Who’s playing them?” I pointed to the picture of Draven, Dash and Nick on the wall. “These are real people. Draven was a good man. Is that how you’ll show him? Or is this going to be a movie about a bad cop going after a bad guy? Is this more interesting than any other murder in the past decade because the person framed had ties to a motorcycle club?”
Shaw spun the pen again, then caught it and placed it back on the desk. “This story is interesting because of all the elements involved. People want to watch interesting movies. Don’t you?”
“This isn’t fiction. This is my family. Did you ever once ask yourself who was on the other side of the murder? Or have you been too busy worrying about Marcus? That man deserves to rot in prison. What happens after this movie? Does he start getting fan mail from other sickos in the world?”
Shaw frowned. “There’s no way he comes out of this movie looking like anything other than a villain.”
“So you say.” I shrugged. “Until then, I get to watch my friend worry about how her mother is going to be portrayed in a movie. How her father will be portrayed. I get to watch her husband come to work with circles under his eyes because she had a bad night and couldn’t sleep. You’re here, years after we’ve started putting the past behind us, and now we have to relive it over again.”
There was a flicker of remorse in his gaze as he shook his head. “That’s not our intention.”
“But it’s reality,” I fired back. My mouth was running away with itself. “How far are you going to go? Will you show Amina’s murder? What about Draven? Is the world going to know he was a good man?”
Shaw didn’t answer.
“That’s a no,” I muttered.
The world would see a glimpse into Draven’s life and be told he was a criminal. This movie would focus on his death, and everyone would think he was a coward for taking his own life when I thought—no, I knew he’d done it to save the rest of us from watching him wither away in prison.
“Presley, we’re not doing this to hurt people.”
“I actually believe you think that. But you will.”
Shaw was quiet for a few long moments. Over his shoulder, Dash approached the door but I gave him a slight headshake that turned him in the opposite direction.
“How does it go?” I asked. “The movie.”
“We aren’t telling anyone. The cast and crew have all signed NDAs.”
“Tell me anyway.”
He narrowed his gaze. “Why? So you can sell it to the press? Spoil it before it releases?”
“No.” I barked a dry laugh. I had no desire to bring any more attention to myself than necessary. “Because no matter what I say, you’re going to make that movie. You can at least tell us what to expect so we don’t have to walk into the movie theater and find out ourselves.”
He studied my face, then nodded. “Fair enough, but not today. What I can tell you now is that we’re trying to keep it as authentic as possible.”
“Authentic.” I rolled my eyes. “Authentic. What does that even mean?”
“It means we’re here, aren’t we?”
“You’re here shoving authentic horseshit in our authentic faces and expecting us to like how it smells because you’re tossing authentic money around like it grows on authentic trees.”
“I’m not the bad guy.”
“No. You’re just playing one on TV.”
Shaw flinched at my insult, the slash deep. Pain crossed his handsome face and his eyes pleaded with me to understand.
If I stared at him too long, maybe I would, so I turned my attention to my computer screen, dismissing him.
Guilt snaked its way through my veins, his stare hot on my profile. I’d been harsh, too harsh, and Dash would scold me later for not playing along.
My runaway tongue was Shaw’s fault. His presence unsettled me, and he made me say the first thing that came to mind instead of thinking it through.
Shaw finally stood, not saying a word as he walked to the door.
I braced, waiting for my Goodbye, Presley, but it didn’t come.
He was gone and I’d likely ruined our chance at finding out about this movie. I hadn’t been able to resist the opportunity to rain on his Clifton Forge parade.
Stupid, Pres. Damn it.
In my defense, Shaw was living in la-la land, and he had to know how hard it would be for Genevieve to see him on the street. He had to know how much Isaiah had probably hated entertaining him today.
I waited until his SUV crunched over the gravel on its way out of the parking lot before ungluing my eyes from the screen. Then I dropped my head into my hands and blew out the breath I’d been holding. The wounded look on Shaw’s face was burned into my brain.
“Shit.”
Why did I feel so guilty? Everything I’d said had been the truth, though I could have delivered it with more grace. Why did I care if Shaw’s feelings had been hurt?
Because I’d built this image of him in my head based on his movies. He was the good guy. Good guys didn’t deserve the kind of attitude I’d served him cold.
But what if he wasn’t so good? Would this softness I had for Shaw go away if I learned he was a massive prick and not the dream guy from his movies?
I sat up straight and clicked my mouse. So far, I’d avoided the tempting combination of Google and Shaw. He already steamrolled through most of my thoughts, so I hadn’t wanted to add oil to that engine. And looking him up felt . . . sneaky. Underhanded.
Though that was probably how Shaw had learned about us. I was sure he’d spent time reading through Bryce’s newspaper articles and looking at our social media profiles.
He was exploiting the sliver of information he’d found, and it wasn’t fair.
Yet here I was with my hypocritical fingers typing his name into the search bar.
The first thing to pop up was a row of pictures. In each, Shaw was at a movie premiere. His shined shoes gleamed atop the red carpet and the man wore a black tuxedo well.
The few times Shaw had come to the garage, he’d been in a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up his tanned forearms, his jeans draped down his long legs. I had purposefully not let myself look at his ass because my imagination was running rampant on
its own.
Shaw had been casual. Natural. And even without a hair and makeup team, he was billboard worthy. He really was just that good-looking.
Natural didn’t play into these photos. Every line of his suit jacket had been tailored to his strong body. His slacks tapered with precision down his muscular thighs. In most he had one hand in a pocket. In some, he was waving to a fan.
He was utterly gorgeous, and everything was for show, including his smile. It was a practiced version of the easy grin he’d been flashing me.
The cameras ate it up.
Beneath the photos, the first link was to Wikipedia. The next was a movie database. I clicked through it, making sure I’d hit all of the movies on Netflix that he’d filmed.
I had—twice.
On his Wikipedia page, the most recent movie listed was titled Dark Paradise. Was that this movie? Our movie?
According to the status, it was in preproduction, whatever that meant. Given the influx of Californians to Clifton Forge, I was guessing the page hadn’t been updated recently. There was nothing pre about what was happening in town.
I went back to the photos, expanding the results, and did a double take. Woman after woman. Model after model. If Shaw had a type, it was simply beautiful.
There was only one woman repeated in multiple photos. She was tall, much taller than my five two, though most women were. In one photo, she was holding Shaw’s arm as he escorted her down the sidewalk on a sunny day. Both were laughing. In another, the couple was dressed to the nines without smiles, standing on the steps of what looked like a museum.
Christ. Here I was lusting over a man who had supermodels as companions. For all I knew, this repeat woman was his girlfriend. The idea made me squirm. Why was I more jealous of the blonde in a photo than I was whatever Warrior club slut was hooking up with Jeremiah?
“And we’re done with the photos,” I muttered, going back to Wikipedia.
Shaw had been born and raised in Southern California. His mom was a retired drama teacher. His father had been a decorated police officer and Shaw had followed in his footsteps.
I snapped my fingers, remembering a story I’d heard ages ago on the news. I scrambled to type in a new search. Shaw Valance school bus.
How long had it been, seven or eight years? The details of the story came rushing back as I scanned the words of the first article I found. It was about a cop who’d gotten national media attention for saving a school bus full of children from an armed psycho who’d taken it hostage.
The hazy images from the past mixed with the details of the present. That cop was Shaw. Why hadn’t I put that together sooner? Maybe because I’d been too busy back then, at barely twenty years old, to think about much other than my own problems.
He’d been so popular, so heroic, after the school bus incident that his face had been splashed over every news outlet. Someone from Hollywood must have snatched him up after that and made him a star. Clearly his mom had taught him a thing or two about acting.
I kept reading and researching, and according to what I could piece together, Shaw had quit the police force a year or so after the school bus incident. In the last picture of him in uniform, he was wearing a pair of dark sunglasses over those brown eyes and holding a large, automatic rifle.
He looked like a cop, stoic and serious.
So why had he quit? He’d been such a hero. Was it because of the media attention? Was it for the money? Most actors didn’t make squat, though I was learning that Shaw didn’t exactly fit the mold.
I spent the rest of my morning hunched over my screen, ignoring the work I was being paid to do. I’d make it up to Dash by staying late.
By lunch, I was in a fog.
I’d opened Google, hoping it would make me hate Shaw Valance, except he came across so freaking nice and genuinely kind.
How was it the paparazzi hadn’t caught him on one off day? Hadn’t one of them ever managed to piss him off? Shaw’s smile never seemed to falter. Hell, in most of the photos, he was waving to whomever had the camera aimed his way.
So why was he playing the criminal in Dark Paradise? Why not play Draven?
I trusted Shaw as the good guy, to play Draven as a good guy. But as Marcus? It seemed like too much of a jump. Would Shaw, just by being Shaw, make Marcus some kind of hero?
The door to the shop opened and Dash walked inside, chugging a bottle of water. “So? Did you find out anything?”
“No.” I shook my head, then looked out to the parking lot. “But I will.”
If Shaw Valance returned, I’d lay off. I’d find out why he’d chosen to play Marcus in this movie, and I’d make sure he knew down to the bottom of his soul that Marcus Wagner had been a vile and evil human being.
Because while I hated the idea of this movie, while I hated that it was happening right here in my own town, Shaw was the only person wrapped up in this movie visiting the garage. He was the only one who might listen.
And trusting him with the truth might be the only way to set the record straight.
Chapter Five
Shaw
“Ann, I should have asked this question months ago.” I paused, hating what I was about to ask. Ann would no doubt see this as me doubting her screenplay. Maybe I was. But mostly, I was doubting my own conviction. “You said this was based on a true story. I know you did a lot of research and spent time in Clifton Forge, but how true are we talking?”
“It’s true, Shaw.”
Yeah, she was irritated. “I’m sorry to ask. I just . . . I had to know.”
The line was quiet for a few moments, then she blew out a breath. “I get it. You’re there and people are questioning what the movie is about.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s true. It’s as true as I could make it. Marcus answered my questions and so did his wife. Ex-wife, I guess. Unless they lied, which I don’t think they did, because it matches up with other sources. It’s true.”
Thank fuck. “Then we’re good. That’s all I needed to know.”
When I’d received the screenplay, I’d instantly gotten caught up in the story. When I’d called Ann to ask her about buying it, she’d told me it was based on a true story—the words were on the front page—but I hadn’t stopped long enough to ask exactly how true.
I’d found a unique script. I’d seen an opportunity to play a different role. And I’d gone from zero to sixty in less than a week, and my foot had been on the gas ever since. Sure, I’d spent time reading articles online about the murder and Marcus. I’d spent hours on Google. But I’d skimmed articles and glazed over facts.
Then came Presley.
She’d challenged me and I hadn’t liked not knowing if I was standing on solid rock or quicksand.
“I took some liberties to fill in the gaps,” Ann said. “I had to. But I cross-referenced everything with the newspapers. I bought the transcript to Draven’s trial. And I only used a piece of hearsay if I’d heard it more than once. Maybe they were rumors, maybe some of the gossip was wrong, but that’s all I had to go on.”
“Okay.” Hearsay wasn’t great, but it was all we had. And if the rumors were common enough, I was confident we could sell this story to the vast majority of people in Clifton Forge.
But could I sell it to Presley?
She probably had a different opinion than most people in town. She had a different perspective.
The real truth, the one we’d never be able to replicate, was likely somewhere in the middle.
“Thanks, Ann.”
“Yeah,” she muttered. “I really did try.”
“You succeeded,” I assured her. “Put this phone call out of your head. We’re good.”
She hung up the phone and I tossed mine beside me on the bed, closing my eyes and rubbing my forehead. A headache was brewing behind my temples, probably from all the time I’d been hunched over my laptop.
Over the past four days—since Presley’s questions had stirred this slurry of self-doubt—I’d gone
over the script with a fine-tooth comb. I’d scoured the news archives at the Clifton Forge Tribune, grateful they were all kept online. I’d matched scenes and dialogue as best I could to the news.
I’d dried up two highlighters marking lines as either fact or fiction. Yellow or blue. In the end, the pages blended into green.
Ann had done a fantastic job writing a tale based on the truth. But this was a movie and the line between entertainment and reality was often what kept viewers glued to the screen. That line, if we got it wrong, was where Presley would nail my balls to the floor.
Why the hell did Presley’s opinion matter so damn much? How had this woman, this stranger, managed to turn me inside out about my own movie?
Because she made it real.
She’d turned a movie into life. This project had taken on a whole new meaning. It wasn’t about satisfying investors or turning a profit. Now, I had an urge to do this story, the real story, justice.
Financial gains and academy accolades didn’t mean success anymore. For me to consider this a win, I wanted Presley’s approval.
I was going to have to break confidentiality to quiet her voice. I’d already considered asking her to sign an NDA, but I suspected she’d tell me to shove it up my ass, so I’d take a leap of faith and trust her with the truth.
There’d been vulnerability in her voice when she’d asked me to tell her about the movie. Her curiosity didn’t seem devious, and I’d been replaying our conversations on an endless loop.
When had life gotten so complicated? When had I started measuring every single conversation?
I missed the simple days, the early days, when I was a new cop. Back then, I’d been so focused on following orders and enforcing laws, life had been easy. The world was black and white for a kid barely twenty-one years old. I’d gotten my associate’s degree. I’d gone to the academy. I’d joined the force. Wrong was wrong, and right was right.
Then it had blurred to gray.
Kind of like this movie. The vision had been so clear before I’d set foot in Montana, but it was blurring now too.