Below Unforgiven (The Movie Book 1)

by Kimberly Adams

  “Oh, my God,” I giggled, twirling my hair in my finger. Her oh-so-fake yelps filled the trailer, and I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes.

  Wait- was that a skip? Or some kind of bullshit attempt at fast-motion videography?

  I paused and unpaused. (I didn’t know why- like it would help.) Resuming play, the DVD definitely skipped. Now another ghost appeared at the top of the stairs, and there were only so many holes left for this guy. Deductive reasoning told me she wasn’t going to be shrieking much longer.

  “Um…”

  I choked and dropped the remote, spinning to the counter.

  A customer. A man. His cargo shorts were just the right amount of tattered, and his white t-shirt only accentuated his tan. He stared at me from behind the darkest hazel eyes I’d ever seen. Of course they were flecked with pieces of gold, like the highlights had been panned and placed there by miners. And, of course his hair- complete with a hint of sideburns- was every shade of dark in the sexy-hair rainbow.

  And, of course, he was watching me.

  Watch porn. Sitting on the counter, sucking on a lollipop, watching porn.

  “Please, carry on.” He gestured to the TV, and I flushed. Into an actual sweat.

  Shit, this had to be Robin’s older brother.

  “I’m checking for damage.” I cursed my shaking voice, clearing my throat and tossing the Blow Pop into the trashcan.

  He tucked his hands into his pockets, raising his eyebrows. I continued to stare at him, even as the trilling ‘actress’ on the screen took on the voice of a seagull with her repetitive cries.

  I cringed.

  Ghost number two must have been done with her smack.

  “I think the damage… has been done.” He leaned slightly to the left, peering over my shoulder at the screen.

  Facing forward, I tucked my lips into a reluctant smile, lowering my lashes again. “A customer complained that the disc was scratched.”

  “Don’t let me stop you from doing your job,” he teased, really teased, and I breathed a relieved sigh.

  “Are you Robin’s brother?”

  He nodded once, pulling his hands from his pockets and resting them on his hips. There was an insistent look about him- urgent, not frightening. Playful. His face was sculpted from a series of planes, unevenly attractive with the feigned look of disapproval he was shooting me.

  He gave me a once-over. “This is standard procedure, then? This used to be a family-friendly place.”

  I reddened. I couldn’t tell if he was serious anymore. He had at least five inches on me, and maybe five years.

  And if I was five-foot-five, then that made him… almost as tall as Matthew.

  Guiltily, I swallowed at the random chunk of candy in my teeth. “No one comes in here this late anymore on a weekday… unless they want porn.”

  He leaned forward, and I stiffened. His chiseled Clark Kent jaw-line occupied my view, and he smelled like peppermint… and some nice, manly smell… and good.

  Really, really, really damn good.

  “Maybe I just came for a Blow Pop.”

  I arched my eyebrow, smirking. “Fifty cents.”

  “Really? Don’t I get the family discount?”

  A pleasant chill began in my neck and ended in my stomach.

  “Everything has a price.”

  He grinned, his eyes shifting to the book on the counter. The novel was cover-side-up, bookmarked with three highlighters in three different colors (grammatical-pink, typo-green, spelling-yellow) faced his way. Boobs McGee sprawled across the front, frozen in place while Damon (no doubt) squeezed both of her ample tits in his hands.

  Mortification did not adequately describe the molecular reaction in my body. Of all of the six hundred and eighty people living in New Florence, Pennsylvania, their white-trash leader proudly ran Porn Central Station.

  “Thursday night is happening around here.” He waggled his brows, back to teasing. Or taunting, who cared, what was the difference.

  I automatically reached for my long ponytail, twirling it between my fingers, scowling. “I’m an editor. Hence, the highlighters. Not that it’s any of your business,” I snapped, maybe a little too harshly.

  “Hence, huh?” He grinned again. “Not that I asked,” he challenged.

  White teeth. Not creepy, Ross-on-Friends white, but just the right amount of sparkle. So straight.

  “Are you Robin’s brother?” I repeated.

  “Keaton,” he answered, holding his hand out. I shook it awkwardly, snatching it back to my side as soon as possible. I was sure that my palms were sweating Purell.

  “Vivian Hale,” I greeted him, clearing my throat. “Laney Hale’s granddaughter.” Everyone in town introduced themselves by name and relation. Apparently, I was no exception. Maybe it was a precautionary measure to thwart inbreeding.

  He continued staring, and I grew more and more self-conscious by the second. “You have a classy name.”

  Classy, like whoops, your poor parents had no idea you’d turn out to be such a hick? I yanked on my hair too hard, trying to nonchalantly brush at the stray strands in my fingers. “Thanks. I’m named after a movie character.”

  Well, there you have it. Stamp loser on my forehead and call it a day.

  “Really?” His eyes lit up, and as they moved from California gold rush to mossy green, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “Pretty Woman. Julia Roberts,” I added.

  He smiled, the kind of smile that was meant to drop all defenses- and panties. “Suits you.”

  No prostitute references? This was a first. At least this guy had manners. “Thanks.” I handled his comment uneasily, willing my nervous system to quit with the rapid-fire anxiety attacks.

  “I guess Snow White would have been a little too arrogant.”

  Snow… White?

  Did he just compliment me?

  I felt my burning vanity prickle and come to life, and I batted my sooty lashes, flirt-ready.

  “Keaton, huh? As in the actor?”

  He laughed, and the dimple in his right cheek interrupted his face’s symmetry in the perfect way. “You’re a little young to know the great Michael Keaton’s work,” he challenged.

  Looking him over, I arched my eyebrow. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five or twenty-six himself. I took a step back, gesturing to the screen. “Are you kidding me? Beaverjuice? It’s a classic.”

  He groaned, and I grinned, toothy and stupid while I turned off the DVD player. “Come on, I’ve got to be around here somewhere,” he said, scanning the movie titles on the wall. I nodded, stepping out from behind the counter.

  “There you are. Right below Unforgiven.” I reached for Mr. Mom, handing him the case.

  He accepted the movie, those eyes roving all over me again. Not that I was protesting. Hell, no, I was inviting the shit out of his attention in my strappy tank top. Come on, C-cups, help a sister out here. “Well, this is completely unacceptable. Mr. Mom hanging out with Clint Eastwood?”

  “These are the classics. See?” I pointed to the dot-matrix-printed sign above the wall of ten or so movies.

  “Old isn’t necessarily classic. Unforgiven has earned its place. Mr. Mom? Come on.”

  Well, now our banter was just random, lame-o words to fill the insane amount of sexual tension in the inches between us. At least I felt it. I was sure he felt it, too, since I was Snow White and all.

  And in flooded the guilt. I closed my mind as soon as I pictured Matthew’s face.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you. Robin has been talking about you non-stop. She said you haven’t been home in years?”

  “Seven.” He tucked the movie case back on the plastic wall shelf, and I felt my stomach drop into my ass as I spied his left hand.

  Wedding band. Abort. Abort! Morals, Viv.

  “Your brother Luke’s wedding has been the talk of the town,” I recovered ungracefully, clearing my throat and hustling back behind the counter. “Well, I guess everythi
ng is the talk of the town here. At least since I got here in June. Robin’s doing some last minute stuff tonight, and then the rehearsal dinner is tomorrow, right? In Pittsburgh? You’re the best man, right?”

  Rambling. My greatest weakness. Well, that and impatience. He turned back to the counter, pulling at the collar of his shirt. The temperature in the trailer had begun to cool a little, but it was still well over eighty degrees. My iPhone buzzed, and I glanced down at the text.

  Pat: 103 Pine.

  Exhaling slowly, I swiped at the text, responding with just my thumb.

  Me: OK

  “Yes… yes… and yes,” he answered me, blatantly reading my phone. “103 Pine? Booty call?”

  I glanced down at my phone, rolling my eyes. “Pizza delivery. I have to close the store for a few minutes…”

  “Pizza delivery?” he smirked, and I grabbed my car keys, trying to ignore the way his baritone voice seemed to mock-flirt with everything that I said. “Video store, editor, and pizza delivery girl. How many jobs do you have, exactly?”

  I snatched my purse from beneath the counter, biting back a snide comment. “I’m an actress. Or, I will be. Someday. For now, I need money, and I need to move out of my grandma’s basement. But- you probably could have read my life story in the section over there marked ‘Comedies.’”

  He groaned with laughter and followed me to the door. I waited (impatiently) for him to move ahead so that I could lock up the trailer. “Actress? Well I’m guessing, Vivian Hale, that my gossiping sister told you that I’m a director?”

  I tossed him a shut-the-fuck-up glance, hurrying to my grandma’s 1999 Cadillac. “Riiight. I’ll bet that’s what you tell all the girls.”

  He chuckled, moving to my side. I almost dropped my keys when I saw the car that was parked next to mine.

  Cherry red. Convertible. Mint condition.

  Holy hell. Point- all I could do was point, like some soundless apparition in a low-budget horror film. Finally, my words peeled out two decimals higher than usual.

  “That is a 1961 Ferrari GT.”

  He watched my face, grinning slowly. “Actually, 1962. Not quite Ferris Bueller’s car.”

  “It was Cameron’s. Dad’s. And this car is worth- like eight million dollars.”

  He scoffed. “Ten.”

  I raised my eyes to his before looking around me. The town consisted of one main road through the valley, and several side streets branching off into the mountains. The street lights flickered on, and only Pat’s Pizza appeared alive at just past eight forty-five. Well, Pat’s Pizza, Uni-Mart, and the Conemaugh power plant.

  “What do you… direct?” I asked, my jaw still hanging open.

  “This was my grandfather’s car,” he explained, completely evading my question. “It’s been in my mom’s garage. My grandfather left it for me.”

  “And you’re driving it? You’re going to drive it back to California?” I cringed, mentally calculating the mileage as I stared at the pristine condition of the classic car. “How could you do that?”

  He laughed, stepping around to my side and opening my car door for me. I lifted my chin, gazing up at him in the humid evening light. “You only live once, right?”

  The space between us closed up in a flash of heat. His eyes reached deep inside, searching through every one of my failing, attempted breaths. The intensity in his face intrigued me, encouraged me, and built a stage around me, finally casting me as the leading actress in my uncertain life.

  He took a step forward, his hand sliding up my arm and resting at my elbow.

  I forgot how to think.

  My dramatic self leaned in, heart pumping.

  Now normally, I prided myself on being level-headed and practical, until that theatrical bitch inside of me took over. I prided myself on a lot of things, probably more than I deserved. I read too many ninety-nine cent, insta-love eBooks on my free Kindle app, and watched too many romantic comedies that threw the characters into manufactured situations where they would inevitably fall desperately, soulmatey in love.

  But the actress part of me wanted to swoon in the middle of the parking lot, right into his sexy, muscular, waiting arms. She wanted to scream at him, tearful and broken, “where have you been all my life!?”

  (She would probably slap him, just gently, and he’d love it- he’d eat that shit up like Rhett Butler.)

  And then it’d start raining, because love was always better in the rain… and then she’d cry into his mouth, “I’ve died a million times waiting for your lips on mine.”

  I thought of the collection of New Adult books that were lined up on my Kindle, wondering if his pulse was thundering and his dick was twitching.

  I cringed, fighting the urge to glance at his crotch.

  There was no way on Earth that I believed that the hormones-at-first-sight that I was feeling for Keaton Thorne were coming from anywhere but between my cobweb covered thighs.

  But, for good measure, I nodded at his hand. “Is your wife here with you?”

  He blinked, casting his eyes down to his left hand. The marquee across his crinkled forehead flashed oh… yeah… her… damn… ring.

  Pulling away, he cleared his throat. “No. Listen, I know you have to go… but do you have Robin’s number?”

  I slid into the driver’s seat, flipping through my contacts on my phone. “You don’t have your own sister’s number?”

  “I haven’t called her in a while.”

  Shooting him a hesitant look, I finally relented. He listened, and I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel impatiently. “Um, you want to write this down?”

  He grinned, tapping his temple. “I have a good memory. Now, your number.”

  I scoffed. He stared.

  Finally, I decided to play along. I rattled off my number without a breath, knowing it was impossible that he could hear me clearly, let alone remember.

  He grinned, wide… and a little nuts, to tell you the truth. “See you soon, Vivian.”

  I exhaled slowly, deflated. I wouldn’t be seeing him anytime soon. He’d be with his brother all weekend- and on his way to California by Monday.

  And everything about that scenario disappointed the hell out of me.

  I rolled the window down. “No, you won’t… so I guess, have a nice life,” I said pointedly, starting the car.

  He turned before reaching for the Ferrari’s door. “You’re not going to the wedding?”

  I shrugged. “Like I said, I just moved here in June. Plus… I have to run the store all weekend.” And that meant taking Robin’s hours… which meant I wouldn’t have to slave over Mrs. Mason’s overgrown flower garden all day Saturday for twenty bucks.

  He stared at me as though he was weighing the most important decision of his life. I tried not to look as confused as I felt, waving my fingers at him before throwing the Cadillac into reverse.

  “I’ll wait here.”

  I slammed on the brake, turning back to him. “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll wait here. Until you get back.”

  Peering at him through the semi-darkness, I tilted my head slightly. Goddamn he was cute.

  And completely out of place in the middle of the Valley Video parking lot.

  Completely out of place talking to me.

  “Why? For what?” I sounded irritated- I couldn’t help it. I didn’t do evasive. Blunt was sometimes synonymous with bitch, but come on, let’s be honest here. If you wanted to cut the shit, just cut it already. “What are you waiting for?”

  His manner completely changed, and he straightened, tucking his hands in his pockets again and walking to my car. Squatting, he rested his arms on the window, raising his dark eyebrows.

  “I may have a job opportunity for you.”

  His face was incredibly close. So. Incredibly. Close.

  Jesus Christ, my brain went staccato.

  “Job?” I knew my eyes were saucers, I couldn’t help it.

  I couldn’t help anything. My normal brea
thing patterns were interrupted as my heartbeat took on a jagged new rhythm.

  “I’ll discuss it with you when you come back. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I continued to stare into his eyes. Lost. His nose was a little crooked, beautifully crooked, like it’d been broken once upon a time. I wondered how someone with such imperfect features could look so… perfect. He flashed a grin, the kind of wolfish grin that could swallow me up.

  If I’d let it.

  “Okay,” he repeated. I jerked as he slapped the car door twice in a jovial send-off.

  Pulling away, I drove all the way to Pine before realizing I’d forgotten the get the pizza.

  The Hoax

  K

  “Hey, sis.”

  “Keaton, where in the hell are you?” Robin’s gravelly voice was just as pissy as I remembered. “It’d be nice if I had your new number, you know, you dick.”

  “Be nice,” I drawled, smiling to myself as Vivian’s car doubled back and pulled into the pizza parlor.

  “Be nice? Are you fucking kidding me? You haven’t been to any of the tux fittings; I need to know how long your speech will be, and the rehearsal dinner’s tomorrow-”

  “I sent my measurements. Five minutes. And I’m definitely going to be hungry tomorrow. There, now will you calm down?”

  She took an exaggerated breath. “Mom is so overwhelmed, Keat. Luke acts like this is no big deal, like three hundred people are just going to entertain themselves!”

  “And what about Madeline?”

  “Mad is worse than he is. I swear to God, she doesn’t even care if her wedding gown fits!”

  I wanted to ask her why she cared so much, but I already knew the reason. When I left town- and my mom crawled into the bar and never crawled out- Robin became Luke’s world. “And I have the store to run, but I’m seriously thinking about closing it-”

  “If you’d just let me give you money, you wouldn’t need this trailer.”

  She was silent for a moment, and after a jostling I assumed she dropped her phone. “Are you there? At the store? Right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew it. I could hear it in your voice. Leave her alone, Keaton. She’s young and fucking naïve. And after what Kelsey did to you, you’re just going to screw her up. I won’t let you hurt her.”