“No.”
“Sebastien—”
“I said no, JD.” Reaching up, he tapped the earpiece, ending the call.
***
Outside, night had fallen.
Inside, Sebastien was completely unaware. With his eyes on the reels from You Wish You Knew—the romantic comedy he’d been shooting with Marin—he tried to pretend he hadn’t spent half the day thinking about the call from JD.
“I’ve got a part for you—”
A part. The last time he’d heard those words had been almost two years ago. He would have gotten to work on a sequel to the action comedy he’d done with a former wrestler turned actor after . . . His mind shied away from finishing that thought and just went with after. JD had stepped in and handled the production company, although the other costar had come out to visit Sebastien several times, tried to talk him into changing his mind.
He hadn’t had any more luck than anybody else. He’d also been pretty decent about Sebastien’s mouth, too. Especially after Sebastien had called him an asshole, a sell out, and a few other choice words—he’d just nodded and told Sebastien when he was ready . . . “Give me a call, kid. I’ll be there.”
Sebastien hadn’t called.
Fewer and fewer people called Sebastien and he stopped worrying about it much. Then JD goes and calls.
“I’ve got a part for you.”
The last time Sebastien had stood in front of a camera, it had been for this movie.
You Wish You Knew was trapped in postproduction and would probably stay there.
The production company had been polite enough, waiting until six months had passed before they started asking him about coming in to wrap up things so they could get the movie going.
He’d ignored the e-mails, calls, and letters.
They started sending people out next.
When he hadn’t talked to them, threats of suing for failure to fulfill his contract had come next.
He’d returned the money along with an explicitly worded letter on where to shove it.
At that point, he guessed they’d figured out to just let it go.
It was a move to keep from losing face on their part. If they sued, it would end up in court and while he was being an asshole—and he knew he was—they’d be the ones looking like scum. He was, after all, grieving and licking his wounds. He could already picture the headlines.
It all made him sick.
And JD wanted him to come back to that?
Marin’s laugh, the sound distant, imperfect, thanks to the lack of complete editing on the reels, came out of the TV and he leaned forward, studying her beautiful face, her glowing eyes as she stared back at his character.
“You want to know what I look for in a man, Scott?”
“Isn’t that what I asked?”
Sebastien tried not to pretend his heart wasn’t speeding up as she leaned in. He could remember that scene. How she had laid her hand on his chest. How she had smiled up at him.
“You wish you knew, baby. You only wish you knew.”
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.
Her face . . . Man, that face. The little dimple in her cheek flirting with her smile. “Shit.”
He shoved upright and hit the power on the giant screen before heading out of the room and up the stairs.
That was when he realized how late it had gotten. The day had died and night had come, and a few moments later, he found himself staring out at the endless black of the ocean. It wasn’t too different from the hours that stretched out in front of him, only those hours would be a lot quieter. Throwing open the door, he moved out into the night.
Wind slammed into him and he welcomed it, sucking in a half-desperate gulp of air.
Why hadn’t he paid attention to the time?
The days . . . yeah, the days were getting easier. He could get through the days, didn’t need to worry about really craving a drink—or even wanting one. Nights, though . . . nights were hard.
And tonight wasn’t hard; tonight was a mean bitch, and the urge to grab a bottle—
Spinning, he half stumbled, half ran inside and found himself in front of his liquor cabinet without any conscious decision to even do it.
A drink. Just one. Hell, he’d gone a few days, had proven he could. A few days . . . He thought back.
Five days.
The glass bottles glinted back at him, clear, blue, red, all of them catching the light like beautiful jewels.
Five miserable days.
Not since he’d stood in the darkened corner with Travis, sharing that bottle of champagne.
“Your life’s not over,” Travis had said.
“Be ready to be okay.” Mom’s voice mocked him.
His hand tightened on the cool, chrome plating of the cabinet. When had he even opened it? He’d been staring at the bottles through the clear glass.
With a curse, he turned and slammed the cabinet door shut with enough force that the bottles inside rattled.
***
“You do still want the part, don’t you?”
Looking up at her agent, she took a moment before she answered. Even though she loved and adored the man, Marin knew better than to let anybody know when she really wanted something.
Even JD.
Torn could be the most powerful part she’d ever play. Some people wouldn’t see it that way, but she saw the potential in it. She had from the beginning. But she hadn’t let JD see the greed in her. Did she want the part? Did seagulls fly? Did dolphins swim?
“Of course I still want the part. I’m glad Townsend is ready to go forward.” She placed the script facedown and settled back in her seat, studying her agent. “He has a lot of creative control. Has he talked about who it is he wants playing the male lead?”
JD tapped his index finger on the surface of his desk. “Actually . . . that’s part of why you’re here. I met with Townsend and Howard. They wanted to make sure you were still up for the part, and they posed a question to me.” He leaned forward, eyes intent.
The expression made her wary. “What?”
“I want you to talk to Sebastien.”
The jump made her head spin. “I talk to him once a week at least, JD.”
“I know. But I want you to talk to him about a part . . . specifically.”
Marin’s stomach did a funny little dance. “A part?” Her voice sounded terribly faint now and she cleared her throat before saying anything else. “JD, I think Sebastien would be better off talking to you about any parts he’s interested in.”
“I’ve already tried to talk to him, sweetheart. Talked to him two days ago—tried to call him yesterday and he wouldn’t even pick up the damn phone. So I’m calling in my secret weapon . . . you.” JD pointed a finger at her as he leaned forward and the intensity on his face only deepened. “There’s a special kind of magic between the two of you on the screen. Everybody can see it. He’d be perfect for the male lead in Torn—especially since you’re the one Townsend wants to play Marlena.”
It wasn’t often that Marin found herself speechless, but in that moment, she couldn’t think of much of anything to say. After a few moments, she finally found her voice and offered a weak smile. “JD, as much as I’ve always enjoyed working with Sebastien, I think he’s . . . done with it. He shows no interest in coming back.”
“That’s because he thinks he can’t. He thinks nobody wants him. He’s dealt with a lot of shit this past year and we’ve left him alone to do it.”
“I haven’t left him alone.” She stared him down.
“True.” JD nodded, stroking his chin. “Granted, he hasn’t jumped on you like a pissed-off bear the way he has with everybody else.”
“Even he had, I wouldn’t have left him alone.” She knew Sebastien hadn’t been easy to handle the past year, and more th
an once, she’d had to smack him in the head—had even done it physically once or twice—for how he’d treated people. But the last thing he’d needed was to be left alone.
“I suspect you wouldn’t have. The thing is, Marin . . . you can still reach him. Some of us can’t.” Leaning forward now, JD held her gaze. “Some of us felt it was best to back off for a while, but maybe we let it go for too long. It’s just . . . nobody has been able to reach him the way you have.”
“But I . . .” She floundered, struggled to find a rebuttal to that.
“But what, Marin?” JD studied her. “What are you afraid will happen if you go out there and talk to him? I’ve already tried. He shut me down, just like he has a hundred times. That’s the worst thing that can happen to you. Or . . . you could reach him.”
Marin had no argument for that and she looked back at the script for the movie. Inspired by a book of the same name by author Michael Townsend, Torn had become a runaway bestseller several years back. If it hadn’t been for Townsend’s wife, the movie might have already been in theaters. But Linnea Townsend’s persistent cough had turned out to be something much more serious.
The cancer in her throat had been far advanced by the time it was discovered.
The movie was put on hold.
Linnea had died six months earlier and Marin had gotten the call that the project was back on just a couple of weeks ago, but the actor previously contracted to play the male lead wasn’t going to be available for quite a while, thanks to schedule conflicts. Honestly, Marin didn’t mind. She’d never much cared for the guy anyway.
And they wanted Sebastien.
She closed her eyes and tried to picture him in the role.
The male lead was known simply as Rand, and he was an assassin for a local crime syndicate. After a cop refused to back down over incriminating evidence he had uncovered, Rand was supposed to kill the cop’s wife, Marlena, as punishment, but he ended up developing an obsession with her and became her silent protector, killing those who were sent after he refused the job. Even when her husband was killed shortly before he could testify, the head of the criminal organization wanted Marlena dead, but Rand continued to watch over her, eventually bringing down the crime lord himself.
Rand’s part was dark, deep and intense.
Marin thought of the darkness she had seen in Sebastien over the past months, and then she looked at JD. Her manager was right. Sebastien could play that part.
The question was . . . could she make him see that?
And did he even want to come back?
JD stroked a finger down his mustache, holding her gaze. “He can do it.”
Marin looked up from the glass of wine she’d yet to touch. “Oh, I know that,” she said, her voice husky. A year ago, no. But what had happened a year ago, and everything that had happened since, all of that had changed Sebastien.
He could do it. He could bring Rand to life in a way that would make the man who’d written him weep with joy.
But . . .
“It’s a matter of whether or not he wants to.”
JD kept the electronic cigarette clamped between his teeth and she eyed the thin stream of smoke—no, vapor, she corrected—it emitted from the end. She’d always wondered how well those things worked, but then again, she’d always wondered why people would suck all that tar and rat poison into their lungs to begin with.
Finally, she shifted her gaze back to JD and his insightful stare. He’d been her manager for a long, long time. She had been the one to tell him to take a chance on Sebastien. So many had just assumed that pretty-boy exterior was all there was. JD had never regretted a moment.
His too-knowing gaze had always annoyed the hell out of her. “That boy doesn’t know what to think.”
She swallowed and looked away.
Satisfied now, he leaned back. “’Course, it gets worse when you’re around.”
“Well, geez.” Skewering him with a look, she grabbed her wine and knocked it back as if it were whiskey. Lounging back in her seat, she gave him an arrogant look. “And here you were pointing out that I was one of the few who could get through to him. Tell me something, genius . . . why are you so certain that having me talk to him will make any difference at all?”
“Because he wants the part.” JD lowered the slim, black pseudo-cigarette to the table and mirrored her pose. The intensity on his face told her he’d been holding this part back until it was time. Apparently, it was D-day, in JD’s eyes. “You see, when word got out that Michael Townsend had finally done the screenplay—and that he wanted you for Marlena, Sebastien started calling me. Asking me who would be playing Rand. I told him then that he wasn’t right for it.”
Marin tipped her head back to stare up at the sky. They were sitting in a sweet little outdoor restaurant, the rush and bustle of LA muted by the greenery wrapped around the private pavilion. Overhead, she could see the almost painfully clear blue of the sky and she searched it, as if it held answers. It didn’t even hold a single damn cloud she could pretend was a fat, fluffy bunny.
Son of a bitch.
“He’d be right for it,” she murmured. She knew without a doubt. Sebastien had the depth to play a lot of parts, but the part of Rand would require more deep-seated pain and anger than Sebastien had ever known, had ever been through in his life. That had been the truth of it a year ago.
But last year’s truth no longer applied.
“When do you need an answer?”
“Townsend won’t let it go to production until he’s got a cast he’s satisfied with. You already know that.” He lifted a shoulder and cocked a brow, a smug smile curling his lips. “You should know that Sebastien was actually his idea. He loves the projects you two have been in, although he did listen to the director’s advice when she suggested he probably wasn’t right for this part when it was first being tossed around. When we were talking things over a few days ago, he mentioned Sebastien again, though . . .” JD shrugged. “Sebastien’s different now. He had to grow up. He can play that part.”
“So I’ve got a few days.”
“Probably a week or two.”
She grimaced. She might be able to pierce the thick skull of a Barnes man in that time frame.
If she had a battering ram.
***
Sweat dripped from his brow.
His muscles were warmed and tired from the hard, driving five mile run.
Sebastien had plans for the day ahead—he usually did. Now that he’d finished his workout, those plans included a long, cool shower, a nice quick lunch, and then a long drive down the coast.
He was trying to pump himself up to head up to San Francisco and visit his parents.
He thought maybe he could do it.
He missed them.
He missed his brothers.
He missed his little buddy Clayton, and he had to admit, he was sort of falling in love with Ressa’s niece, too. Or he had been, until he’d fallen into this hole he was now stuck in. Seeing them all again at the wedding had been . . . nice. When he hadn’t been overthinking things.
“Not stuck,” he muttered, staring up the steps that led to his house. The waves rolled up against the beach behind him and he was tempted to just flop down until his legs no longer felt like putty, but he knew better.
So he put one foot in front of the other and dragged himself up the steps. While his body was worn out, his brain was revved up and he felt more . . . at peace with things than he had in a while.
A week of sobriety had done him wonders. When he’d gotten through it the other night without breaking, he’d almost felt . . . well, not good, but . . . decent.
Sebastien was most definitely scraping rock bottom—or he had been until Marin had shown up at his door and told him he was going to his brothers’ weddings.
She’d all but pushed his sorry ass out of th
e door and he was grateful.
Seeing his folks, his brothers, Abby . . .
He realized he was smiling when the scar on the side of his face tightened, but he didn’t stop just because of how the twisted tissue tugged, at odds with the rest of his features.
Yeah. He thought just maybe he would go see his folks.
***
An hour and a half later, he was slumped in front of his computer, staring at an amateur video uploaded to YouTube, watching the spray of blood as he killed Hanson Smith.
He’d gotten online for one simple reason: he wanted to book a room in San Francisco. He might not need it—he usually stayed with his folks—but he wanted that escape in case things got hard. He didn’t want to need it, but he’d feel better if he had it.
But he never made it to the hotel website.
He’d seen a headline on the home page and he hadn’t been able to stop himself.
He’d clicked.
Now, mind awash in memories and grief and regret and rage—and booze . . . mustn’t forget the booze—he sat there staring at an oversized image of Monica’s face.
The memory of her, the last clear memory, kept playing in his mind over and over.
The wind teasing her hair.
Her lips curved in a sad smile.
That pretty sunset dress.
His hand tightened around the bottle of scotch and he lifted it to his lips. It was a quarter empty now. In some dim, still-functioning part of his brain, he realized that it would have been wise to just dump all the booze out, like he’d originally planned.
The video ended.
The link to another came up and he clicked play.
This one showed in detail—in slow motion, guys!!!!—how Sebastien Barnes smoked that fucker’s ass.
That was the title of the video.
The whiskey in his gut sloshed around and he thought he might be sick.
It would have been Hanson Smith’s fiftieth birthday today. Sebastien hadn’t known. If he had, he would have stayed the hell away from the internet. The headline that had caught his eye had infuriated him. He shouldn’t have clicked.
Ruined Page 5