Ethan (California Dreamy)

by Rian Kelley

  But Chad was successful at chasing away the demons. He’d produced some amazing films. He had gotten married the year before and the bastard was so happy there were some seriously tense moments when Ethan wanted to wipe the goofy smile off the guy’s face.

  “And Ethan, even when you think you’ve got it taken care of, you don’t,” Chad had warned and nodded, confirming some inner thought. “You have to stand your guard, and when you feel the pressure squeeze your heart, you leap on it.”

  And so Ethan sat down at his computer and recreated probably the most painful moment of his life—the arrival of the unit’s Chaplain, gripping that telegram from the Red Cross. The pain in Ethan’s chest had radiated outward, spreading in a number of directions. But Chad was right. Each ray was a road into territory Ethan needed to explore. They were clearly defined. They were pitted paths filled with the possibility of ambush, but he had maneuvered through several of them and he had gotten to a point where he actually felt a loosening inside, the release of a heavy load. The world was full of color again, pushing back what he hadn’t realized was a persistent gray, like a settling of fog on his personal landscape.

  It was thrilling. Exciting. New. It trembled like a day old bird in the palm of his hand. He didn’t want to do anything to mess it up. He liked his new surroundings. He’d found a small nugget of the peace he had long forgotten. And now he wanted it all.

  He liked where he was at so much he was afraid to move, paralyzed by the fear he’d make a mistake and lose what ground he’d recovered. Where was he meant to place his next step? He couldn’t figure it out. He knew it had something to do with his marriage. Not the end of it, but the soft shallows that had populated it. He needed to go there. But he couldn’t seem to find a point of entry.

  So he had reached out to Stevie. The guy had been his agent when Ethan had first come on the scene. Back then, Ethan had been billed as a military expert and it just so happened that Hollywood needed a few good men in that capacity. Ethan’s career took off. He made connections that grew in a sinuous pattern throughout the industry. It gave him Stevie, and in turn, Shae Matthews—the screenwriter of woman’s drama.

  Ethan needed a woman’s point of view. A writer’s perspective, because he feared he had lost his due to his proximity to the subject matter.

  “Hey, bro?”

  Training made Ethan’s response to the sudden and cutuous, a dead calm. While his heart jumped in his chest, he turned slowly and regarded his youngest sister. He’d forgotten she was in the house.

  “What is it, Eva?”

  She’d shown up last night, claiming she needed a break from everything. Yet she’d spent most of the past fourteen hours texting and checking e-mail from her smart phone.

  “Why are you so stressed?”

  His tone had been biting. The tension in his shoulders was unrelenting. He glanced at the clock again. In an hour, maybe two, he would be sitting down with Shae Matthews and telling her about his marriage, dissecting it, wondering aloud, with an audience, if perhaps marrying Tina had been the right thing for them. They would tackle infidelity and his role in the destruction of his marriage.

  Tina had cheated on him. She’d begun another life while he was half a world away. And Ethan wanted that not to matter.

  “I’m working.”

  “No you’re not,” she challenged him. “When you’re working you have that helium thing going on. You’re so happy we have to pull on your pant legs to get you back to earth.”

  Ethan let out a long breath and regarded his sister with growing wariness. “Since when did you become an expert on me?”

  “Duh,” she replied. “You’ve only been my brother for twenty-four years.”

  “I was gone a lot of that time,” he pointed out.

  “I know, but I idolized you before you left and you made up for it when you came back.”

  He was trying to. A military man pretty much took one of two paths when he went off to war—he either clung to any and every shred of home and family, or he isolated himself in the hopes of surviving the constant barrage of violence and death. Ethan had chosen the latter.

  “Okay, so I’m not working. I’m stuck,” he admitted.

  “On what?”

  He shrugged, but it was an uncomfortable movement. “I’m writing something. A screenplay, I think.”

  She almost snickered and Ethan was beginning to understand Brian’s—Ryan’s—whatever the guy’s name was—problem with Eva.

  “You’re writing?” Her eyebrows shot up—both of them.

  “Why is that so hard to believe?”

  “Must be all those letters from boot camp, and Iraq, and—”

  “There was never anything good to say,” he cut her off.

  “Any word would have been welcome on this side.”

  Ethan let the dagger of guilt pierce his skin. He deserved it. Still, he said, “Dear Mom, we were shot at again by a roving band of insurgents…”

  “You could have done better than that.”

  “Apparently not.” He looked at the clock again. He felt a cold sweat at his hairline.

  “Why do you keep staring at the clock?”

  “Help is on its way.”

  “Help?” She slid onto a bar stool and gazed at him with her chin in her hand. “Chad?”

  “No. Shae. Shae Matthews. She’s a real screenwriter. She writes—”

  “Are you kidding me? I know who she is. ‘Personal Touch,’ ‘Send Her’ and all that. Why is she helping you?”

  He frowned and felt the skin fold between his eyebrows. “Because I’m a world famous, critically acclaimed director with—”

  “Blah, blah, blah…Really—why?”

  “We have the same agent. Or we did, back when I needed one.”

  “You called in a favor?”

  “It happens all the time, all over the world.”

  Eva nodded but didn’t bother to hide her doubt. “You don’t like cashing-in. You’re a giver. You always have been.”

  “Then it’s time I took a favor.” Or two. It was going to take time and expertise to get him where he wanted to be. He hoped Shae had patience. That she didn’t mind pitching a tent and staying a while.

  “So why are you so nervous about it?”

  “I’m not nervous.”

  “You’re sweating.”

  “It’s hot in here.”

  “The air is pumping full blast.” She waved toward the vent over Ethan’s head. “And you need to change your shirt.”

  He looked down and noticed the half-moons of sweat spreading under his armpits.

  “Shit.” He lifted the shirt over his head and tossed it on the counter. He stuffed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels. “You’re right, I am nervous.”

  “Why? Because she’s wildly talent? Incredibly sexy? Or because you don’t want to show off your stunning lack of talent when it comes to stringing words together?”

  It was probably a mix of all three. Shae had talent in surplus. She had that all-American sexy going on. And he definitely didn’t want her to read what he had written and then cough through a series of excuses on her way out the door. More than any of that, he didn’t want to explore his feelings with her and if it hadn’t been so helpful—so exorcising—already, he wouldn’t even entertain the thought of such an excruciating exercise.

  “I’ll take that as a yes on all counts.”

  Eva sat back, folded her arms over her chest, and gazed at him. Her eyes were considering him and all that he’d already shared, and she suddenly looked a lot older than she’d been acting lately.

  “What?”

  “Shae Matthews writes deep, dark woman stuff.”

  “I know.” He could already feel the skin peeling off his bones. If her movies were anything to go by, Shae Matthews knew women. She knew women when they were involved with men, and vice versa. She knew the human condition and its natural inclinations, all the ways people sabotaged a perfectly good t
hing, and for what little they were willing to cling to the unhealthy. She understood relationships better than Dr. Phil. Yeah, he was going to need some intensive first aid when they were done.

  “So what is she going to help you with? Your movies are about social change or they’re all action no fluff. It’s either box office blockbusters or a call to arms.”

  “Maybe I want something else this time. Something—” he searched for words, “more dimensional.” He was thinking on his toes, something he happened to be very good at.

  Eva pursed her lips and didn’t bother hiding her skepticism. Yep, she was definitely looking every one of her twenty-four years.

  “Bull.”

  “What?”

  “There’s something else going on here.”

  “When are you going home?”

  “Tomorrow. Maybe this afternoon, if three’s a crowd.”

  “This afternoon would be good.” He didn’t want his little sister sitting in on his bare-all.

  “Then tomorrow, definitely.” She smiled and the corners of her lips twitched with wicked intent. “Or maybe Dylan needs to stew a little longer. Maybe I’ll stay through the weekend.”

  “You’re out of here today.”

  She laughed, thoroughly enjoying herself. “What are you hiding, big brother?”

  He wrestled with her words. He’d decided to strip away the camouflage, to stop ducking for cover whenever the subject of Tina came up. So, even though he was reluctant, he divulged, “Tina.” And it felt right. He’d spent the past two months staring at his memories of her, of them together. There was something about their relationship that hadn’t been right. He wanted to know what it was. He wanted to know how their lives had unraveled, at what felt like lightning speed, reduced by betrayal and desperation to a place of utter darkness. Was he responsible for Tina’s decisions? If so, he wanted to learn from his mistakes so that he didn’t repeat them. And if not, he needed to know how to avoid a similar set of circumstances. But first the problem had to be identified. That was the way with all targets. All enemies. Identify and obliterate.

  A stunned expression bloomed on Eva’s face. It was a slow motion kind of thing. Her lips parted, almost like a starburst. Her eyes flared. But then they filled with liquid.

  “You’re not going to cry, Eva.” It was an order. “You’re definitely not going to cry.”

  “I’m not,” she agreed, her eyelashes fluttering. She rubbed a hand under her nose and pulled herself together. “It’s just, you never talk about her.”

  “I know.”

  “Ever.”

  “Not much to say.”

  “Not true.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I should have dealt with it. I’m dealing with it now.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s holding me back.”

  “Unfinished business,” Eva said. She nodded her understanding.

  “Yeah, but what unfinished business?” Because it was more than unfulfilled dreams. There were times when he felt like he was wearing blinders, and he wanted to rip the damn things off and just deal with the reality and move on.

  “You were so young,” Shae said. “My age when she died.”

  Ethan nodded. Tina had been Ethan’s high school sweetheart. They’d started dating in the tenth grade. He had put an engagement ring on her finger before boot camp. On first leave, he’d followed through with his promise. They’d wed in a grassy park, with a sword ceremony and a catered surf-n-turf reception. And thirty days later he had left again, taking his bride with him to South Carolina, where he’d been stationed for six months for training before beginning his first tour of duty in the Middle East, and where Tina had drifted like a hot house flower among pond lilies.

  He should have moved her back to San Diego, but he had no idea what that first deployment was going to be like, and by the time he returned, she’d had a job and friends.

  “If Dylan died, I’d feel lost,” Eva said. “I’d feel cheated.”

  “Why?”

  She was silent, surprised by his question. Or by the intensity in his voice. “A whole life together, wiped out.” She waved her hand. “No happily ever after. No starter home and fabric swatches. No children and mini vans, happy holiday meals or camping trips. . .of course, you didn’t have that anyway, did you?”

  He and Tina had five years, three months. Most of it separated by miles, the end separated by something more than geography.

  “No,” he agreed. “And I get all that. I felt that.” But there was something else. Probably the fall out of betrayal—Tina’s or his?

  But that wasn’t something he discussed with his baby sister. In any case, she was slipping into her own situation.

  “I love Dylan’s laughter. It was the first thing I noticed about him, and the most sustaining. If I had to return home to a silent house, it would kill me.” She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed. “You know how some people say they hear the chains of ghosts moving in their homes? I would hear Dylan’s laughter. It would haunt me. Because it would always be out of reach.”

  And that was it. Ethan was haunted, not by a wife who had died too soon, but by her willingness to go so easily. Somewhere along the way, Ethan had stopped being important to her, and he wanted to know why.

  Chapter Three

  Absolute Cinema Productions. Shae did a quick Google search on Ethan Abrams. Of course it brought up a plethora of images, from his high school year book mug shot to caught-in-the-clinch photos of the director with beautiful women. None of them, that Shae could find, featured a starlet or a matron of the arts. In fact, he didn’t seem to go for the tall, willowy super model or the hit-me-in-the-heart singer-songwriters he rubbed elbows with. He didn’t climb to his position in Hollywood by slithering through the beds of the established elite. He’d sweated his way in, first as a consultant on anything and everything military, foreign policy, or international conflict, working with big names and in small places. He’d made his way through Sundance and Cannes and other venues with docudramas focused on just causes. He had more than a few blockbuster, action-packed thrillers that drew in crowds and gave him clout. But he had pet projects, too, that he wasn’t afraid to explore.

  In Shae’s estimate, all of that placed him rungs above many of her colleagues.

  Also in his favor, as far as she was concerned, was the fact that Ethan Abrams was not gorgeous. Not pretty. Certainly not sculpted for his position by something as urban as a personal trainer and a stylist. The man was rugged, with strong cheekbones and shoulders that seemed to take up the breadth of every shot snapped of him. Ethan Abrams was intense. He had a steady gaze and, so far, two countenances—a grim smile and an open, in your face laughter. She wondered if he was a man of extremes, swinging from one emotion to another. Shae had been there, done that, and it was a ride that had left her with motion sickness.

  She’d forgotten to ask Stevie about Ethan’s temperament. Would she be working with a prima donna? A control freak? A man for whom rules and propriety meant nothing? Shae had had her share of all of that while making a name for herself and she’d survived, she reminded herself. She didn’t want to waste any of her precious time with a scoundrel, though, not when she had ideas for cribs and carriers to work out.

  Abrams was thirty-four years old with blond hair he’d barely allowed to grow out of its Marine buzz cut. He was more often than not photographed with a five o’clock shadow. With green eyes and a nearly perfect smile—a slim gap between his front and eye teeth gave him a roguish grin—he was almost the boy next door. Except that intensity.

  It was a staple of creativity. Shae knew it could drive a person to great heights when channeled correctly. It could also ruin a person. She’d lived in L.A. long enough to witness the implosion of more than one talented artist.

  That was as far as she got in her search. Not bad for a first impression. Abrams seemed like a decent guy.

  Running short on time, she downloaded a list of all the movies
he’d worked on and their storylines into a file on her iPhone. If need be, she could investigate more later.

  She stowed her laptop in the back of her Audi Q5, dropped her purse on the passenger seat and settled in for the ride. A glance in the rearview mirror revealed a freckled nose, clear blue eyes and lip gloss as her only make up. She was, after all, on vacation. And she’d long since stopped trying to impress anyone in the business. She’d set aside three weeks to get herself up the coast and settled into her new suburban life. She had appointments with a realtor to look at houses and lots of catching up to do with family before she began her next project. The sooner she got this little detour out of the way the better.

  The 101 Freeway twisted along the Pacific but gave only a few, stingy glimpses of the ocean until she neared her destination, and then it was a spectacular show of rolling waves and foamy surf. She loved the water, was raised on it by a father who was enthusiastic about surfing, kayaking and pulling yellow fin from its depths. He worked his job around his passions, and as a physician, he made enough money to do that. Her mom, on the other hand, had a job that was her passion. She was a midwife who delivered babies in the location of her client’s request—within reason. She believed in compassion as the cure for all pain and exercised it regularly.

  Shae wondered again why Ethan Abrams had chosen her specifically when seeking help. He’d worked with a lot of talented writers, male and female, action and drama. So she kept coming back to the subject matter of her cable movie. It was an intimate and relentless ruin of a relationship, where husband and wife reacted rather than responded. The characters were controlled by their needs, driven by them to the point of destruction. It was easily one of her darker films, ending with both characters realizing their mistakes, but too late to do anything about them.

  But true to Stevie’s word, Shae had found nothing when she searched Abrams name with ‘divorce.’ In fact, she’d uncovered only a few personal details on him and most of it centered on his military career—six years and a Bronze Star—and, under a heading, ‘Little Known facts About Hollywood’s Makers and Shakers,’ that he was a twin. His brother passed away shortly after birth.