Chapter 27
Endangered species
Earlier, riding in the vineyards and lavender fields, it had seemed like a relationship between Logan and me was a sheer impossibility. But now, kissing in our private room in the restaurant, anything seems possible. That’s how it is with Logan. Every time I’m in his arms, all my concerns fade to background noise.
“So,” he says, pulling away just far enough to look me in the eyes, “you love me for my face and my body?”
“Yup.”
“Well, I am definitely a person of greater depth, Miss Romy Morgan, because I love you not only for your golden eyes and mermaid hair and delicious body.” I hold my breath, because his face is earnest now. “I love you for your kindness and your honesty, for your integrity and even your danged bossiness. I love how you want to save the world, and how you want to save me.”
I stare at him, lost in those pools of blue, drowning in the words.
“I love you, Romy.”
My heart stops, along with the rest of the universe. When it starts again, I say, “And I love you, Logan. I love you for your sense of humour and the way you laugh, for your chill —”
“My chill?”
“You are very chilled. You make me more chilled.”
“Go on.”
“I love your loyalty and cute Southern manners. I love the slow way you walk and how this lock of hair always flops over this eye. Oh, did I mention your eyes?”
“I notice we’re back to my face,” he says wryly.
“Right. But I also think you’re a seriously talented actor and a great — and I mean gifted — kisser.”
“It’s been said.”
I laugh and shove him back. “Plus,” I add, “I loved you before I met you, so I win.”
“It’s a competition?”
“Life is a competition. And I must win.”
I want this day to last forever. I wish we could run away together. But Logan needs to be back at the hotel by five, for a read-through of the next day’s scene. He’ll be spending the evening with Cilla and Britney. I’ll be spending the evening at home. Alone.
“Come with me,” Logan says.
“To the hotel?”
“To L.A. — I’m serious.”
Could I do it? It would be like running away from home, turning my back on my parents, betting everything on a relationship which has lasted just over two weeks, with a guy I met in the flesh for the first time just a month ago. And if I went, I’d be doing … what?
“What do you plan to do in L.A.?” I ask him. “Cilla told Polyp that —”
“Who?”
“Philip — who told Becka who told me that she’s pitched for another two Beast sequels after this one. Are you going to sign on for more of them?”
“Nobody seems to think I can do anything else,” Logan says, pushing his over-priced pork and grits around on his plate, trailing patterns in his gooseberry jus.
“What do you mean?”
“Back when I’d just landed the role in the first Beast, I was so happy. Man, I was over the moon! Fame, money, travel — all of it was mine, and it was more than I could ever have imagined. And I’m still grateful. It changed my life, you know? But now it feels less like an opportunity and more like one of the Beast’s traps. I’m tired of doing the same thing over and over. Chase Falconer gets to punch and kick and spout clichés — it’s not too much of an acting challenge, except for trying to find fresh ways of saying the same old things and having to wear different face fur. Or scales.”
“Sharks don’t have scales, Logan, you should know that after the dive.” I point a fork at him in admonishment.
“You’re not going to give up trying to educate me about sharks, are you?”
“Nope. I happen to think you could do some good with your fame, raise awareness, change attitudes.”
“Nah, who would listen to me? I’m not a scientist, I’m just an actor.”
“They’d listen to you because you’re an actor. But don’t get distracted now, you were telling me about your future. Go on.”
“So bossy!”
“Huh. You should be used to it in your profession — you spend your whole day being ordered about by everyone from the director on down. Say this, say it this way, that way, stand here, speak louder, softer, sit still, don’t eat that, do lift this. I think they pay you the big bucks so you’ll let them boss you around.”
He gazes at me, astonished, as if I’ve said something profound or pointed out something he’s never noticed before.
“Your future?” I prompt.
“So, there are a couple of things I’d like to try.”
“Tell me more.”
“I … Well, for a while, I’ve been wanting to do some writing.”
“Becka said you wanted to write a scene.”
“She’s right. I’ve actually re-written one of the scenes for this movie, and I’ve begged, pleaded, and half-threatened Cilla into agreeing to shoot it.”
“Wow!”
“Wednesday morning — if you want to give me some moral support.”
“I’ll be there. I’d love to see you doing something deeper, working with better material.”
“You don’t know that mine’s better,” he warns.
“Yes I do,” I say simply.
“Aw shucks, you’re just as sweet as syrup on a Sunday. Y’all got me grinnin’ like a possum eatin’ a sweet ’tater.”
“You know,” I say, “it hasn’t escaped my notice that you do an excellent rednecky trailer-trash accent.”
He shrugs. “What can I say, I’m a great actor.”
“Where did you learn it?”
I watch him carefully, thinking of that letter now hidden at the bottom of my underwear drawer and feeling a pang of guilt. He takes a last bite of his food and closes the knife and fork on the plate.
“From Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo, and Jerry Springer reruns,” he says smoothly.
Right. “Have you written anything else?”
“I’ve started working on an original screenplay.”
He looks at me warily, as if expecting me to mock him
“But that’s fantastic! What’s it about?”
“The Freedom Riders.”
“The who?”
“In April 1961, a group of thirteen civil rights activists boarded a Greyhound bus in Washington, D.C. and headed south for New Orleans in Louisiana in a protest to challenge racial segregation laws.”
I roll my hand in the air, motioning for him to continue.
“The bus was for whites only, but the riders were both African American and white, and they used — or tried to use — restrooms and lunch counters designated as being for the opposite race only, which did not please too many people in those places.”
I nodded. “I can just imagine.”
“More riders joined, and as the rides grew and spread across the South, the opposition grew, too. They were met with violent white mobs, beatings, bombs, and even imprisonment. But the movement drew national and international attention to the racist policies, and in September, they achieved victory. Segregation on buses and trains was prohibited.”
His face is alight with excitement. I can tell he’s passionate about this project.
“It sounds like an amazing story.”
“Yeah, it’s important, you know? It needs to be told, and I feel like maybe I owe —”
There’s a loud knock at the door. The waiter, who’s come to collect our plates, does a double take at the sight of me with a completely different, and undeniably hot, man, but he’s too well-trained to betray his surprise with more than a raised eyebrow. He clears the table and promises to be right back with our desserts.
“What was the other thing?” I ask, removing the napkin from Logan’s collar.
“What other thing?”
“You said there were a couple of things you’d like to try.”
“Well, I would like to try different roles, something more edgy,
not all action or romantic leading man. My agent doesn’t like it, says it’s too risky. He says I should cash in on the heartthrob dollar while I still can. Bu-ut,” he draws the word out on a sigh, “they’re doing a production of Equus on Broadway next year, in February. And …” He pauses, shoots me a quick glance and then finishes in a rush, “And I’m busting a gut trying to land the role of Alan Strang. Do you know the play?”
“Yes!”
I do know it. Zeb dragged me to see a production of it earlier this year. It was hectic — a roller-coaster ride of raw emotions — and afterwards I felt like a wrung-out sponge. The role of Alan Strang is incredible. It’s possibly the most demanding role there is for a young, male actor. It would totally give Logan a chance to show his talent.
“That would be awesome. Awesome!” I’m bouncing in my seat with excitement at all his amazing plans.
“Yeah, I think so, too. But the producers and the director don’t seem to think I can hack it.”
I stop bouncing. “What do you think?”
“People don’t usually ask me what I think.”
“I’m not usual people.”
“No sirree, that you aren’t.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“Okay, then. I think I could. I think I could nail it.”
“Then you should totally go for it.”
The waiter returns with our desserts — gooseberry sorbet for Logan and crème brulée for me. We linger over the sweet treats, reluctant to end the day, but as we’re finishing our coffee, we become aware of a rising noise from outside — slamming car doors, loud voices, and then, unmistakably, the high-pitched mating call of the hunting Rusher.
Logan sighs and rocks back on his chair to peer out of the window.
“Yup, it’s over — we’ve been made.”
Damn. I’ll bet it was the waiter who ratted us out.
My fingers are already flying over the screen of my phone, checking the #RushTo hashtag on Twitter. I groan.
“The word is well and truly out,” I say, showing Logan the rolling stream of incoming tweets. “We need to escape now — the crowd’s only going to grow bigger.”
Logan peeps out of the window again.
“It’s like a scene from that Hitchcock film, The Birds. Every time I look, a few more have gathered, and they want to peck pieces out of me.”
I suddenly feel irresponsible for helping Logan ditch his bodyguard.
“Wait here,” I tell him.
I’m back in less than five minutes.
“Where did you go?” he asks.
“Can I boss you around a bit more?”
“Will you wear black leather while you do it?”
“Pervert.”
He laughs. “Is that a yes?”
“I have a plan. You’re going to go to the men’s room. I’ve reconnoitred it, and —”
“You checked out the men’s room?” He whistles.
“A good PA doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘no,’” I say. “And in the men’s room, there’s a window in the right-hand cubicle that’ll be big enough for you to squeeze out of. I’ll exit via the front, and get the car. Unfortunately, there’s no way I can get it to the back of the restaurant where the restrooms are, but I’ll get it through the boom gate and be waiting, engine running, in the road. You just need to cross the road, preferably without the Rusher pack seeing you, and we’ll take off.”
I shove my phone into my bag and stand. But Logan is still sitting back, completely relaxed, in his chair. As usual, he isn’t moving fast enough for me.
“What about the check?” he asks.
“I’ve already paid the bill.”
“But … nobody ever pays the check with me.” He looks bemused.
“What, you sneak out without paying? That is so not okay, Logan Rush.”
“No. I meant, I always pay the check, not anyone else.”
“What, always?”
He shrugs. “Pretty much.”
“Then your friends have no manners.” I sneak a last peep out of the window and grab my bag. “Okay, so I’ll initiate diversionary tactics, and you proceed to the escape module. On three … two … one … Go! Go faster, Logan!”
I stride through the main dining room and stand just inside the entrance of the restaurant. The flock of Rushers has gathered a little way outside the front door. Behind me, I hear Logan asking someone the way to the restroom — that’s my cue. As I walk slowly out the door, all faces turned towards me, and for a moment I feel like a movie star on the red carpet. But they look away as soon as they see who I’m not.
“Hey, are you guys waiting for Logan Rush?” I ask, loud enough for all of them to hear.
“Yes!”
“Is he in there? Have you seen him?”
“I’m gonna faint.”
“I’m gonna die!”
“He’s just behind me,” I say. “He should be out any moment now.”
Squealing, they get out their phones, focus their cameras on the doorway, pull the caps off their permanent markers, wipe their teary eyes, and spray their mouths with breath freshener. Are they expecting to kiss him?
While their attention is riveted on the restaurant entrance, I hurry to my car. I drive it to the security boom, where I hand the guard on duty my token.
“Does this boom work?” I ask him.
“Of course, yes,” he nods.
“Maybe, when all those screaming girls want to get out, it will be broken.”
The guard frowns at me, puzzled.
“Just for one or two minutes,” I say, handing him a R100 note.
He nods again, smiling in perfect understanding this time.
Tactical-delaying deal done, I turn into the main road that runs alongside the restaurant and wait with the engine running, my eyes fixed on the back corner of the building I’ve just exited. The gaggle of girls is still clustered around the front, craning their necks, and taking pictures of the maître d’ now flapping his gloved hands at them as if to shoo off a flock of troublesome pigeons.
Finally, Logan emerges from the back corner of the building, rubbing his head. Has he hurt it? Again?
He strolls casually away from the building, but just as he reaches the road and is about to cross, he’s spotted. Shrill screams rend the air, and the pack of crazed fans hurtle towards him. He glances back reflexively and only then notices the car headed directly at him. He leaps backwards and is well out of the way by the time the ancient Peugeot, driven by a tiny old lady barely tall enough to see above the steering wheel, drives slowly by. Logan dashes across the road and leaps into my car.
“You took your time,” I say.
“I had an altercation with a drain and a pipe. And the ground. Where’s a stuntman when you need one?”
As we screech off, I see the Rushers are scattering for their cars, but the security guard is out of his booth and examining the boom as if there’s a fatal fault with it.
“So long suckers!” I yell, waving a hand out of the window.
Logan laughs at me. “You know, you could always become a getaway car driver. There’s lots of work for those in L.A.”
Chapter 28
Keeping quiet
Logan Rush in hit-and-run!
Demented pensioner hits Logan Rush, condition stable
Tightwad Logan Rush makes his dates pay for lunch!
Logan Rush killed in car accident!
Logan shrugs when I tell him about the outrageous headlines early on Tuesday morning while we wait to start filming a romantic scene with Britney on soundstage three.
“Logan, Logan! We need to rehearse the scene,” Britney calls from where she sits on a large leather sofa on the dressed set. A dimly lit lamp and a vase of lilies grace a side table. High bookshelves stacked with fake books stand behind the couch, and a blood-red Persian carpet covers the floor. The contrast between the warm, luxurious feel of the set and the jungle of wires, lights, cameras, and hubbub of action that begins where
the carpet ends, is stark — almost surreal.
“I’ll be right there,” Logan tells Britney. With his back to her, he gives me one of his lazy smiles. “Don’t worry, sugar — as Mark Twain said, reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”
“It’s ridiculous. Will you look at this!” I pass him my phone so he can see the tributes pouring in on the Twitter feed. Today’s top trending topic is #RIPLoganRush.
“Places, please. I’m looking at you, Logan,” the assistant director calls.
“Logan!” Britney is starting to sound petulant.
“At least I’d be free and have some peace then,” Logan says, his expression something between humour and longing.
“Um, yes, but you’d also be dead!” I say.
“Ah, good point. Maybe I could just fake it and disappear.” He ambles off to join Britney, who flashes her Hollywood whites at him in a sparkling smile.
“Cilla would track you down,” I call after him.
“Did someone say my name?” Cilla has arrived.
She comes to stand next to me, plucking one of her pet dragons off her shoulder. She cradles the critter under its belly and strokes its back as if it’s a cuddly kitten.
“Yeah, me,” I say. “I was just pointing out to Logan that I don’t see the retake of scene thirty-one, his new rewritten version of it, on the schedule for Wednesday’s shooting.”
Cilla stares at me in disapproval, her eyes glittering like the reptile’s.
“You still haven’t learned to shut up. Dear.”
“No, I admit I am still struggling with that.”
“Here, speak to him.” She thrusts the pet dragon into my surprised hands, where it squirms, digging its sharp little claws into my skin. “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say and neither, I think, does anyone else.”
Mouth twisted in an evil smile, she turns to survey her two leads on the set. Britney is nestled in Logan’s arms on the sofa, and they’re cuddling. He strokes her hair, and she kisses the base of his throat.
My stomach clenches painfully. They’re just practising for the scene, I tell myself. It’s just acting.
But it looks very real.
Logan whispers into Britney’s ear and they giggle intimately. She caresses his arms and shoulders, and I’m suddenly — viciously — jealous. Not just of her hands on my man, but of the freedom she has to touch him openly, when I have to keep my hands firmly in my pockets. When I have to watch my every word and guard my every look.
Hushed Page 17