Hollywood Dirt

by Alessandra Torre

  “Scripts aren’t the book. It’s an adaptation.” Now Grateful Dead boy was rising to his feet.

  “You—shut up,” Cole snapped, pointing at the writer and walking toward me. He glanced at his watch and stopped in front of me, so close that I could see the tiny green lines inset in his brown suit. “Summer, I’ve got to get on a plane in two hours. Please don’t fight me on this. Just say your lines, and let’s wrap this baby up.” He cupped the side of my arms with his hands, and I looked down at them in surprise.

  “It’s not her,” I hissed at him. “This whole hero-worship bit is bull crap. It’s completely out of character.”

  “Then ad lib it,” Don interrupted. “Like you guys did in the office. I can’t get either of you to stick to the damn script anyway.”

  I turned to Don, distinctly aware that Cole’s hands still were on my arms. I jerked my shoulders, and he let go. “Ad lib it?” I asked.

  “Sure. Say whatever you think Ida would say. But in return I need a kiss.” He pointed at me and held my contact. “Deal?”

  “A kiss,” I repeated with dread.

  “Yes,” Cole said. “I know. Painful. Trust me, Country. I’m not looking forward to it any more than you are.”

  I whipped my head to him, his mouth curving a little bit when he took in my glare.

  “Liar,” I accused.

  He laughed and leaned in, close enough for only me to hear his response. “Yes, baby. And so are you.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to mentally prepare for the scene. Tried to picture how I’d react if I walked out of my front door tomorrow and my truck was gone, a flashy new car in its place. I don’t think I’d handle it well.

  Beside me, Cole waited. “It’s not rocket science, Summer,” he said in a low voice. “It’s a fight. Something we do well.”

  “Lock it down!” I heard the AD yell, and the building fell silent. Showtime. I squared my shoulders and pushed on the door, my skirt tight around my legs as I stepped into false sunshine, a giant, artificial sun shining down from the rafters. Cole bumped into the back of me as I stopped short, my eyes scanning over the cars in the small lot. When I saw the bright red car, its white top down, the bow stretched across its windshield, I stared. I stared and tried to think of an Ida Pinkerton-plausible response.

  “Well?” Cole boomed out the question, walking around me, his hands extended, his face proud and happy. “What do you think?”

  “Do you often wrap up new cars for yourself?” I asked the question primly, tilting my head to the side and scratching at a tight place on my bun. The girl in Hair had gone way overboard with her bobby pins, a hundred pokes lying in wait for one wrong turn of my head.

  His smile fell, and he looked at me. “It’s for you.”

  My hand dropped from my bun. “Me?”

  “Yes. It’s red.”

  “I can see that, Mr. Mitchell. I’m a woman, not colorblind.”

  “You’re also not very appreciative.” He stepped forward with a scowl, and I saw, for the first time, the key chain in his hand. “It’s Coca-Cola red,” he said, turning to the car. “The dealership mixed up the color just for you. Since I agreed to change the branding.” He smiled like I should be grateful.

  “How generous of you,” I said tightly. “Where’s my car?”

  “This.” He extended both hands as if it made it clearer. “This is your new car.”

  “I’m not deaf, colorblind, or stupid. I understand that this car is red, and that you are of some misunderstanding that I should be happy to have you give it to me.”

  “Yes. Exactly. That is exactly my misunderstanding, Ms. Pinkerton. I’m so glad that, for once today, we are on the same page.” He stopped before me and held out the key. I tilted my head up at him and smiled sweetly.

  “Where is my car?” I repeated. “The black Ford.”

  He threw up his hands. “I’m not sure. Can you focus for one moment on this?”

  “Get it back.”

  “You don’t want it back.” He stepped closer, and his hand fell to my lower back, softly pushing, ushering me toward the car.

  “You don’t know what I want,” I sputtered.

  “I know you want this,” he all but dragged me to the car, my heels digging into the dirt, a puff of dust following the rough journey to the shiny red side, my hip knocking against the door handle as he pushed me up against its side.

  “I have a car, you bullheaded—”

  “Not the car,” he cut in. “This.” Then, with his hand firmly planted on the back of my neck, he pulled me up and hard into his kiss.

  There should be laws against men who could kiss like that. With a mouth that dominated yet begged. Tongue that teased yet delivered. Tastes that dipped into an addiction stream and hooked a woman after just the first hit. I had kissed him before. In his kitchen. In my bed. Both times I was distracted. This was a different experience entirely.

  I sank in his arms, my knees buckling, my body supported by him and the car, everything lost but the action between our lips. My fight left after the first break, his lips coming immediately back, the second kiss softer and sweeter in its coupling. His hand on my neck yielded, less of a grip and more of a caress, his other sliding down and pinning me to his body, our connection firm and complete as we explored each other’s mouths. I grew greedy, my tongue meeting his, and his yielded under my direction, letting me lead, our cadence perfectly coordinated. As my hair fell around my shoulder, his hand quick with the pins, diving into and gentle on my scalp, I wondered how it was so easy, how our mouths matched so well when our personalities clashed so strongly. I wondered how my mouth could crave this man when my mind hated him. He pulled gently on my hair, and I resisted, our kiss breaking, my breath hard in the gap. He stared down at me, his eyes on my mouth for a long moment, then his gaze lifted to mine. He stared at me, and I closed my eyes, pulling forward, back to his lips. I couldn’t have him look at me right then. In that moment, my legs wobbly from his kiss… there was no telling what he would see. I pressed my lips against his mouth, and it opened for me, his hand tightening on the back of my head.

  He was the one to pull off the second time, his hand keeping my head in place, and he placed a soft kiss on the top of my head before stepping away. I felt the press of his hand in mine before he stepped away and looked down, seeing the silver key lying in my palm. He stepped toward the building, his hands in his pockets, his head down.

  “I meant what I said, Mr. Mitchell,” I called out, and his stride stopped, his head turning my way.

  “About what?” he called back.

  “The car. I don’t want it.”

  “And us?” He turned to me, his hands in his pant pockets, like he didn’t care about my answer. I stared at his face and said, for a long period, nothing.

  “I don’t want the car,” I finally responded. “I’d appreciate it if you got mine back.”

  He nodded his head toward me. “Understood, Ms. Pinkerton. Enjoy your long walk home.”

  My mouth fell open, and I stepped forward, my hand reaching out, a protest on my lips, a trio of actions ignored by the man who pushed through the office’s faux door, the screen door smacking shut behind him with a loud crack.

  I let out a strangled yelp of fury and turned to the car, looking at the key in my hand and then back at the vehicle. My hand closed around the key, and I threw it down into the front seat of the car. I tucked my clutch under my arm and pulled one heel off a stocking foot, then the other. With my heels clutched in my free hand, I squared Ida Pinkerton’s shoulders and headed home through the dust.

  When my stocking foot hit the edge of the set, reaching mat instead of dust, I stopped, turned back and waited for Don’s voice to boom through the set. It didn’t, and I watched him zoom in a cam, manually circling the car before zooming in on the front seat, most likely the keys that had landed in the front seats. After a long moment, Don looked up from the camera’s monitor. “Cut. I think we got it.”

  Cole cr
acked open the door of the office building. “We good, Don?”

  “Got enough. Go catch your plane.” Don nodded at Cole. “Good work.”

  Cole nodded at him and grabbed a baseball hat off the back of one of the director’s chairs, pulling it onto his head and walking toward the exit. I watched him leave, my eyes narrowed. The least he could do, after kissing me senseless, was acknowledge me. I felt a general nudge against my elbow and looked left, a mic’d man gesturing toward Don.

  “Great work, Summer,” Don said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  I smiled weakly. “Am I done?”

  “For now, yes.” He walked over and flipped through a clipboard. “I’m gonna work with the guys to review this and splice and dice it before Cole gets back. We’re not shooting anything else with you until tomorrow, so feel free to get out of here if you feel like it.”

  If I feel like it? I reached up and fished the remaining bobby pins out of my ruined bun. “Sounds good.” I smiled at Don. “Thanks.”

  “Hey, thank you! Not many can ad lib, so great work, really. You guys work well together.” A compliment paired with insanity. But this time, when he smiled at me, my return smile was genuine.

  I had done a good job.

  We had kissed and I had survived.

  I had the rest of the day off.

  Things could definitely be worse.

  CHAPTER 73

  Cole sat alone in the cabin on the plane. One of his feet rested on the empty chair before him, his chair slightly reclined and a drink untouched before him. He watched the ice settle in the glass, and wondered what in the hell was wrong with him. The plane dipped slightly, and he glanced forward, the flight attendant smiling brightly at him. He looked back at the glass.

  The kiss had been different, so different, from the kitchen. It had been more like the kiss in her bedroom, and that was probably what was nagging at him. When he had been in her bed, and she had rolled over, climbing on his body and kissing him, he had been half-conscious, drugged out of his mind by the experience, his body on autopilot, their kiss just one more ingredient in a decadent dessert. But on that set, by that car, he hadn’t been drugged. He had experienced every sense, every taste, every movement of her tongue. He had relished it, dammit.

  Shifting in his seat, he closed his eyes and wondered why he was beating himself up so much over her. He hadn’t thought twice about banging the twins in the hotel room, or the Brazilian on Dillon’s yacht three days after catching Nadia in the act. It wasn’t cheating. Nadia had been photographed a hundred times since with that director; his cock was probably tattooed on her body by now. So what was the problem?

  Maybe it was Summer. Maybe it was some ingrained part of him that saw something he didn’t and wanted him to stay away from it. Maybe it was DeLuca and his threats. A piece of ass wasn’t worth losing half of The Fortune Bottle. And that’s all she was—temptation. That was what he needed to remember.

  He suddenly thought of Cocky and reached for his phone.

  When she answered, she was out of breath, her huffs into the phone completely innocent and completely erotic. He lost his mind for a minute, then found it. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “Interrupting something?” she pounced. “You left set an hour ago. I just walked in the door. How could you already be interrupting something?”

  He ignored the question. “I forgot to ask you if you’d watch Cocky. While I’m gone.”

  “Before I forget, I meant to talk to you about his name.”

  “You gonna give me hell for naming him?” He closed his eyes for a minute and massaged the bridge of his nose.

  “Cole, I cried like a baby when my first chicken died. I’m not going to make fun of you for naming him. I just think you could have been a little more creative than Cocky.”

  He dropped his hand and smiled. “Next pet chicken I get, I’ll let you name it.” He regretted the statement as soon as it fell out. It was too much, pushing their shaky ground too far. But she ignored it, breezing on to a new topic.

  “Where are you going?” The question had a naive curiosity about it, and he enjoyed, for a brief moment, their lack of sparring. Enjoyed and also hated it. There was so much familiarity in their battles that he almost felt uncomfortable with cordiality.

  “Home. Or, rather, Los Angeles. My home there is now under the control of my ex.”

  “So where will you stay?” She stopped him before he could answer. “Nevermind. That sounded… that came out wrong. Yes, I’m happy to watch Cocky.”

  “I’m staying at a hotel.” He didn’t know why he felt the need to tell her. He wanted her to know, wanted to follow up the detail with the word ‘alone.’ I’m staying at the hotel alone. She wouldn’t care. The insecurity in her voice had been imagined. Why would she care? She wouldn’t.

  “Fancy stuff.”

  “Lonely stuff.” Another stupid thing to say.

  “Right.” She snorted out a laugh. “Likely.”

  He stopped the runaway of his mouth by filling it with whiskey, tipping back the glass and finishing it off, the flight attendant at his side instantly, her fingers lingering over the back of his hand when she reached for his empty glass. She’d come back to the hotel with him if he wanted it. She already had, after the first flight when he’d gotten the divorce papers. Her hips were double-jointed. He looked away.

  “Where’s Cocky’s feed?”

  “It’s by the kitchen door, in a clear container, there’s a scoop inside. I’ll have Justin send you more info.” He cleared his throat, well aware that the next sentence would make him sound like a pansy. “He’s used to me being around a lot… I don’t know how he’ll do at night, I’ve never left him in the yard all night…”

  “Do you want me to bring him to my house? Or want me to stay at your place with him?”

  The image of Summer at his house, in his bed… his hand trembled slightly when he took the tumbler back from the flight attendant. “Yes,” he choked out. “Stay at the house. If you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind.” She laughed a little, and he heard water start to run in the background, heard the sound of metal banging. Pots and pans, probably in the sink. He could picture her easily, her shoes kicked off, her sleeves rolled up, her house phone resting against her shoulder. “Did you leave it unlocked?”

  Shit. “No. I—”

  “Ben had an extra key from when he signed the lease. I’ll find out what he did with it. Anything else?”

  He tried to think of something, a way to extend the conversation, but came up blank. “No. Call me if there’s any issues.”

  “When are you getting back?”

  “Tomorrow night. Early.” He should invite her to dinner. Any other costar he would. Especially if they’d pet sat. Though, when he flipped through his last dozen costars, none of them were the type to pet sit. They all had people for that, or a pet nanny on salary.

  “I’ll be sure to be back home before you land. Call me if you need anything.”

  “Will do. Thanks.” The word sounded odd when it came out and he tried to think of the last time he’d used it. Scary that he couldn’t remember.

  “You’re welcome,” she said soberly, then laughed. He hung up before he laughed back, then smiled at the ridiculousness of it all. A chicken. He had a pet chicken. What the hell would he do with Cocky once filming wrapped? He couldn’t leave him behind. He’d have to—he dialed Justin’s number before he got sidetracked and forgot.

  “Hey boss.” Justin sounded good, his voice clear and healthy.

  “Hey. How’s the healing going?”

  “Good. I’ll be flying back with you tomorrow night. Can’t wait, man. I’m going stir-crazy over here.”

  “Did DeLuca tell you about the mediation?”

  “Yep. I got a car ready for you at the airport. You eaten? I can have him grab something on his way.”

  “No, I’m good.” Cole pulled down on the window shade and closed his eyes, half listening, hi
s purpose for calling already forgotten.

  “You’re at the Avalon tonight, and I put your Ferrari in one of their private garages. I’ll have a full details sheet for you in the car. And for dinner, I have Dan Tana’s, the Prawn House, and Morton’s all reserved, if—”

  “Justin.” When he said the man’s name, his assistant stopped. It was one of Cole’s favorite qualities, his ability to run a thousand miles an hour and then stop on a dime.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll be fine. Cancel the dinner reservations; I’ll fend for myself. Can you join me for breakfast in the morning?”

  “Breakfast?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Since when do you eat breakfast?”

  Cole laughed. “You got time for me or not?”

  “Of course I do. I’m just surprised.”

  “I’ve missed you, man.”

  The man laughed in response. “Who are you, and what have you done with Cole Masten?”

  “Seven at that restaurant in the Avalon lobby. Get us one of those pool cabanas, something with some fucking privacy.”

  “There’s the man I know. Consider it done. See you then.”

  Cole suddenly remembered the reason for his call. “Any luck finding me a house?”

  “I have four or five that are up your alley. I’ll bring sheets on them tomorrow.”

  “Make sure you get one with a yard. And find out the city code on owning a chicken.”

  There was a long silence on the other end. The man had organized sex parties, bribed paparazzi, and given Cole his pee for a studio drug test, yet this is what gave him pause.

  “A live chicken?” Justin finally asked.

  “Yes. A rooster.”

  “I’ll find out,” Justin managed.

  Cole said goodbye and hung up. He had lost a wife and gained a pet chicken. Yep. Sounded about right.

  CHAPTER 74