Grin and Beard It (Winston Brothers #2)

by Penny Reid

  Marta called back immediately, earning me a severe frown from Cletus.

  “You should get that.” He gestured to my phone. “You get that and I’ll ruminate while eating this other doughnut.”

  Doing as he suggested, I answered her call. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Uh, on set. Why?”

  “Can you go to your trailer?”

  I frowned. Whenever Marta had bad news to deliver and I was on location, she would wait until I assured her I was in my trailer.

  “Is everyone okay? I just talked to Mom and Dad yesterday.”

  “Everyone is fine; this isn’t about the family. Just go to your trailer and call me back when you get there.”

  “Okay. Fine.”

  “Good. Talk to you soon.”

  She hung up, leaving me perplexed and anxious.

  “What’s wrong?” Cletus asked around another mouthful of doughnut.

  “I don’t know yet.” I thought about doing a Google news search for my name, but decided against it. “My sister won’t tell me until I’m alone in my trailer.”

  “What?”

  “This is how she operates.” I stacked the papers I’d spread out and closed my laptop as I explained, “She’s done it this way for years. She thinks I’ll react like a crazy person to bad news, lose my shit in front of people and make an embarrassing scene.”

  “Why does she think that?”

  I shrugged. “I think because I used to do that when I was five.”

  “You were five. That’s how a five-year-old rolls.”

  “I know. But to her, in some ways, I guess I’ll always be five.”

  “Hmm.” Cletus studied me, and then stood abruptly. “You’re going to your trailer?”

  Juggling my belongings, I stepped to the side as he pushed in my chair. “She won’t tell me anything until I’m there.”

  “Good. That’s good.” He nodded once, then unceremoniously jogged out of the tent, leaving me frowning after him.

  He really was odd. Delightfully odd.

  Shaking myself, because I didn’t have time to think about Cletus Winston’s oddness, I motioned for Henry to join me on the walk back to my trailer. Once there, he unlocked the door and held it open. Inside, I deposited my belongings on the table and immediately called Marta.

  “Sienna.”

  “Marta. I’m alone. In my trailer. What’s up?”

  I listened as she gathered a large breath before tearing off the proverbial Band-Aid. “Barnaby doesn’t think you’re right to play the role of Smash-Girl. But he still wants your script.”

  I let those words sink in. When they did, my stomach fell and I sunk to a chair. “Why?”

  “He says you’re too old.”

  I nodded, though I disagreed. I was twenty-five, would be twenty-six or twenty-seven when primary filming began. Assuming they were following my script, I was exactly the right age for the character. “Okay.”

  I was not okay. I was super angry. But I was also an adult and saw no benefit in ranting and raving on the phone with my sister.

  “Also, he’s worried that it would be typecasting.”

  “Why? Because I’m writing the script?”

  “No. Because you’re Latina.”

  Now I rolled my eyes, disgusted. “Are you saying he doesn’t want to cast me in a role about a woman who is quick to lose her temper because he thinks all Latina women are quick to lose their temper?”

  “No. He doesn’t think that, obviously. But it’s a stereotype. He’s already received pushback from racial equality groups, bad publicity about typecasting a Latina in the role.”

  “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” I leaned back in the chair and swiveled it from side to side. I gritted my teeth. It was dumb. It was preposterous. “So, Barnaby is worried racial equality groups will pitch a fit about a Latina woman playing a major film role because the role happens to involve a character who turns red when angry, never mind the fact that I’m the best person for the part. However, these same racial equality groups have no problem with a person getting passed over for the role just because she is Latina. It’s so dumb, it’s brilliant.”

  “Sienna—”

  “No. No. It makes perfect sense. Better we keep that glass ceiling intact rather than address the issue head-on. I mean, forget that having a Latina play the role will open up doors and encourage diversity in film. Never mind that. Much better we worry about perpetuating an outdated stereotype. In fact, they should probably just get rid of all colors but white in films. And all women. Shakespeare had it right; films should be all white men. Unless of course the character is privileged and rich. Then it should be played by a person of color, we don’t want to enforce a stereotype.”

  Yeah, I was being ridiculous and petty. But I’d just lost the role of a lifetime. I was allowed to lash out and be bitter. I think anyone would be, no matter their ethnicity.

  I’d grown up privileged, lived in a nice neighborhood, safe, surrounded by people who loved me. My parents were physicians, made a good living. I didn’t think all white people were privileged any more than I thought all Latina women had irrational tempers.

  But white actors were never denied roles that potentially perpetuated negative stereotypes about their race. So why was I being denied the role of a badass superhero?

  It’s so dumb, it’s brilliant.

  “Honey, I know you’re upset. But on the bright side, they’re thrilled with the last script, and the pages you already sent in for Smash-Girl. They still want you involved.”

  I tucked my chin to my chest, slouching in my seat and glaring unseeingly at the inside of the trailer. I didn’t respond.

  “Sienna? Are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “There will be other roles.”

  “I know.”

  She hesitated, then asked, “You’ll continue to send pages? For Smash-Girl?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Sienna,” she firmed her voice, “keep sending those pages, do you hear me?”

  “I have to go.”

  “Sienna, you listen to me—”

  I ended the call and turned off my phone, tempted to throw it. I didn’t. Instead, I steeped in my frustration. But the super odd thing was, I didn’t know if I was more upset about losing the part, or about the reason I lost the part. Yes, I was profoundly irritated I’d been passed over because of my ethnicity . . . but losing the part—and therefore all the associated pomp and attention attached to it—actually felt like a relief.

  A knock sounded from the door. I ignored it. The knocker tried a second time, louder. I ignored that, too. The person knocked a third time, and I was just about to holler in response when I heard the door open.

  “Sienna?”

  I closed my eyes, blocking out the world, because the persistent knocker was Jethro.

  He didn’t wait for my response, just let himself in the trailer, closing the door behind him. I sensed him cross to where I sat slouched in the chair, felt his eyes move over me.

  “Hey,” he said, nudging my foot with his boot. “Are you okay?”

  I swallowed an abundance of emotions. I was frustrated. And as I’ve mentioned previously, when I’m frustrated I cry.

  Once I was certain I’d be able speak without crying, I said, “I’m fine.”

  Jethro was quiet. I felt him still watching me, so I opened my eyes and met his. His handsomeness felt overwhelming, his presence in my trailer confusing.

  So I asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “Cletus said you were getting some bad news.”

  “So?”

  “So.” His gaze sharpened; clearly he found my question wearisome. “I was worried about you.”

  I frowned at his statement, how he’d said he was worried about me as though it was obvious. It wasn’t obvious, not to me. Not when one minute he was kissing me like I’m the most delicious thing since Daisy’s doughnuts, and then the next
minute he leaves. He picked me up this morning, and then used his brother as a third wheel so he could keep distance between us.

  While I debated whether or not to ask him why he’d kissed me, and if he had plans to do it again, Jethro pulled his phone out of his pocket. He frowned at the screen. He tapped and scrolled with his thumb until he found what he was looking for. Without warning, music reverberated from his phone.

  I recognized the song but didn’t recall the title. It was an old recording. A woman’s voice singing French words filled the space between and around us.

  “What song is that?”

  Jethro’s warm gaze moved over me, an alluring smile just curving his lips. “La Vie en rose.”

  “It’s beautiful.” It was beautiful, but it wasn’t helping my mood.

  Then Jethro held out his hand. “Dance with me.”

  Blinking, first at his offered palm and then at his features, I asked, “Why?”

  Not immediately replying, he reached for me, pulled me to my feet, and slid an arm around my waist. I allowed him to hold my body against his, fit our hands together, and sway to the lovely music. Begrudgingly, I admitted to myself he had great rhythm. Someone had taught him to dance.

  Jethro dipped his mouth to my ear, his beard tickling my neck as he finally whispered an answer to my question, “Because you want me to hold you, but you don’t know how to ask.”

  ***

  We were walking through the prairie holding hands.

  HOLDING. HANDS.

  My brain shouted this fact at odd intervals, because it was both confusing and exciting.

  We’d danced in my trailer, “La Vie en rose” on repeat, until I was finally ready to tell him about the bad news.

  Upon retelling, I grew agitated all over again. He suggested we go for a walk under the guise of checking the bear traps. The rhythm of the walking, paired with the loveliness of the park—plus the approaching sunset streaking the sky blue and purple—made recounting my tale of woe easier.

  Jethro listened attentively, with equal measures of concern and anger on my behalf. Then he expressed sympathy and support, reaching for and holding my hand.

  Now here we were, and the silence stretching between us rivaled the length of our shadows.

  He broke the comfortable silence with, “Something my momma used to say, something I try to remember, is ‘Don’t go skinny-dipping with snapping turtles.’”

  I glanced at his handsome profile, grinning at the saying because Hollywood was chock-full of snapping turtles, but was distracted by the strength of his jaw, neck, and shoulders. His hand in mine also felt solid. Jethro was coiled strength and power, and his strength felt genuine and wild. Or rather, wild in comparison to the civilized strength to which I was accustomed. My fellow actors, and I included myself in this category, cultivated strength in an air-conditioned gym with a personal trainer.

  Jethro used his strength daily, as part of his job, sometimes alone, sometimes as part of a team. It felt real. He felt real. I loved that he was real.

  His eyes flickered to mine, waking me from my musings.

  “Uh, did she?” I huffed a laugh, shaking my head. “She sounds like a smart woman. Did she work in Hollywood?”

  He grinned, but it quickly waned. “No. Her snapping turtles were more of the biker variety.”

  We walked a few more paces, and then I said and thought in unison, “She sounds like my mom. She likes to give me advice of a similar sort. But instead she would say something like, ‘You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,’ where the sow’s ear are shitty people.”

  His answering smile was wry and sympathetic.

  Because I no longer wished to discuss the unfairness of Hollywood and, as I was curious, I asked, “Did you always want to be a park ranger?”

  “No.” Jethro shook his head, both amusement and vehemence in his denial. “Not at all. I couldn’t stand the wildlife rangers growing up. They were always spoiling my fun.” He was quiet for a moment, but it was the kind of quiet that promised more information was forthcoming. “I grew up wanting my own Iron Wraiths cut.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He brought us to a stop and released my hand, folding his arms over his chest and squinting at the horizon. “That means I wanted to be a biker, a member of the gang.” Then, quieter, he added, “That’s all I ever wanted.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  Jethro’s gaze flickered over my face, inspecting me before he began reluctantly, “I had a close friend growing up. Ben was his name.” His eyes dropped to the reedy prairie grass reaching our knees. “We had the best time, did everything together whenever possible. He was a real good person. In fact, he was the best person. I was always getting in trouble, and he was always there to rescue me, trying to reform me.” Jethro chuckled at some memory and shook his head. “I guess I counted on him for that, always thinking the best of me when everyone else saw only bad. Does that sound strange?”

  “No. Not at all. I think we all need someone who sees the best in us.” For my part, the concept of Jethro as a bad person felt completely discordant with reality, if not impossible. “Did you know him your whole life?”

  “Yes. I can’t remember my life without him in it. Until he died.”

  I kept my expression supportive but neutral. I knew how Ben had died because Hank had told me weeks ago, but I had the impression Jethro needed to talk about it. So I asked softly, “How did Ben die?”

  “He joined the Marines, wanting to do good and make a difference before settling and starting a family. But he died in Afghanistan on his first tour. Ben was the one who wanted to be a park ranger.”

  “Ben wanted to be a ranger?”

  His gaze grew unfocused. “That’s right.”

  “So you became one?”

  His eyes cut to mine, held them. Usually Jethro had at least a whisper of a perma-smile in his expression. It was one of the things I liked most about him, how easy-going and friendly he was. But now there was nothing happy in his looks, nothing joyful or tranquil.

  “I did.” He nodded once. “Because when Ben died, I couldn’t stop thinking that it should have been me.”

  “Oh, Jethro. No.” I reached for his hand but he saw my intention and placed his hands on his hips, evading my touch.

  “I was a real asshole. Disrespectful to my momma, arrogant, cocky. I once tried to pimp out my sister.” Jethro’s lip curled and he spat the words, visibly disgusted with himself. “Rather, my father tried to and I didn’t do anything to stop him. She was only fifteen at the time, but I thought he’d hung the moon. Luckily my brother Billy found out and put a stop to it. I wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps, saw him as a big man. Important because the Wraiths considered him important. But the truth was, all he had was the respect of his fucked-up brothers, the gang members. He had power in a shitty little biker gang. That’s all he had.”

  I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t think Jethro was finished. I remained quiet, watching him, wishing he would let me hug him or something.

  “But when Ben died,” Jethro’s voice deepened, rough with emotion, “I took a step back and realized it wasn’t the Iron Wraiths that I loved, or my father. It was the loyalty, the family, the belonging to something important, to someone important. That’s what I’d wanted. And I’d already had that, with my real brothers. And Ben.” He sounded so tortured, so remorseful, I felt tears sting my eyes, but I couldn’t look away. “That’s what I had with my momma and my sister, but I’d thrown it away.” Jethro shook his head, his grin held unmistakable self-loathing.

  “You changed,” I pointed out, hating how his features were twisted with bitter anger, all directed inward. “You changed and look at you now.”

  “I didn’t change, not the way you mean. What I did was become someone new. What I did was decide to live the life Ben never got a chance to live. I’ve tried to live his wishes and dreams. I want to be the person he never got a chance to be.�
��

  This statement hurt my heart. I gripped both of my hands at my chest to keep from reaching out again. “But what about the life you want to live? What about Jethro’s wishes and dreams?”

  Jethro shook his head again, his smile wry and tired. “Those dreams died with Ben McClure in Afghanistan. And good riddance.”

  I breathed out a pained exhale. “I’m not talking about the dreams and wishes of becoming a motorcycle gang member. I’m referring to new wishes, new dreams, good ones. What do you want to do? If you could do anything, what would it be?”

  Jethro shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Not hurt people.”

  “Okay, so we can take axe murderer off the list.”

  This drew a light laugh from him. The tightness around my chest lessened as a semblance of his easy smile returned.

  “I’m serious, though. What do you want?

  Once again, I found myself being the subject of Jethro’s gaze upon. And once again, I held my breath.

  As he’d done Friday, Jethro took a step toward me, nearly closing the distance, and slid his fingers into my hair. Goosebumps raced over my skin, sensitive to his touch. I tilted my chin, wanting his mouth, because the man was truly a gifted kisser.

  Also, my stomach and heart were engaged in synchronized gymnastics.

  Also, I just really freaking liked him a lot.

  Instead of kissing my lips, he tugged me forward and pressed his lips to my forehead. My breath came out in a confused whoosh.

  “Jethro—”

  “Hush,” he said, his lips still hovering against my hairline.

  Jethro dipped his chin and pressed our foreheads together, breathing me in. I gripped his wrists and gave my head a small shake, not wanting to break the contact, but I was a mess of confusion. I didn’t know what we were doing. I wanted more contact, not less.

  “What are we doing?” I asked, feeling restless.

  “Taking comfort.”

  That made me smile, so I peered up at him. “You’re taking comfort in me?”

  “Yes.”

  My smile grew and I closed my eyes, giving myself over to the moment.

  Gradually, I heard a symphony of sounds rise around us. Wind played through the grass, rustled the small but plentiful leaves of a nearby lonely oak. Crickets and other insects chirped and hummed. I felt the beat of Jethro’s heart in his fingertips and where I gripped his wrists. My heart slowed until it matched the rhythm of his.