If You Can't Take the Heat

by Melissa Brown

  “I know the feeling.” Her words dripped with sarcasm. “Like I said, this is the biggest opportunity of my career. I’m not going to blow it off to sit in your trailer all day.”

  “Fine, okay, whatever.” Clearly Whitney wasn’t the only one irritated by the direction of their conversation. “I can meet you back in L.A. next month. Coldplay’s touring—they’re your favorite.”

  No, U2 is my favorite.

  “There’s a show in August. I’ll get a private box, just you and me. My therapist says we need to reconnect.”

  “You talked to your therapist about us?”

  “I had to. She knows I need you.”

  Nolan knew exactly how to pull on Whitney’s heartstrings. Whitney imagined Nolan on his therapist’s couch, ragged from hours of missed sleep, dark circles under his eyes, pouring out his emotions, his heartbreak and loneliness over losing her. That thought made her sigh. Maybe I’m the problem, she thought briefly as her mind remained glued to the vision of him distraught and pining for her on a rough, cotton-weave sofa. Maybe I’m too damn stubborn. Maybe I haven’t really let him in.

  Without thinking another second, Whitney blurted out the problem. The one thing that held her back. “I need to trust you, Nolan. And I can’t. You have no idea how much I wish I could.”

  “How many times do we have to go over this? How many times do I have to apologize? I’m a dick, I get it.”

  “Do you? Do you really? Old habits die hard, ya know.”

  Nolan huffed into the phone. “Is this about Gina? We’ve been over this so many times. I made a mistake, Whit, that’s all.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Come to therapy with me.”

  Whitney raised both eyebrows and sat straight up. “Serious?”

  Her mind was spinning. Was Nolan so invested in their relationship that he’d consider couples counseling? She felt like the world had been tilted off its axis.

  What the hell?

  “As a heart attack. I want you, Whit, and if that means hashing out our shit in front of Dr. Iona, so be it.”

  “Couples therapy?” She grimaced, remembering her discussion with Elle. She wasn’t ready to dig deep, to delve into self-realization. “I don’t know . . .”

  “Please think about it, okay? It could be good for us.”

  “I will.” Whitney swallowed hard. “I’ll think about it.”

  She could hear Nolan sigh into his phone. “Good. Listen, I hate to cut you off but I’m due back on set. Think about it.”

  Whitney ended the call and tossed her phone across the bed. Still stunned from his proposition, she finished her soup and turned on the television, zoning out until she heard a text come through. Somehow, she mustered the energy to pull herself into a seated position and reach for the phone. She sank back into her cocoon of pillows before checking the screen.

  How’s that sexy bum of yours?

  She smiled, realizing it was her first text of the day from Charlie. They’d been texting like crazy since their last encounter in Chicago. Things were obviously casual, and Whitney was confident that’s how they would remain. Nonetheless, he was an excellent distraction from the stress provided by Nolan Rivera. His texts made her giggle and lightened up her moods after hours spent glued to a chair eating some really disgusting food during auditions. If she was being honest with herself, despite not having access to a scale for weeks, she knew she was packing on the weight. She was normally comfortable in a size four, but her pants were currently stretched to their maximum and might even need to be replaced if she didn’t reel herself in. Having the attention from Charlie was comforting and good for her ego. She knew once she was back in L.A., she’d get right back into juicing, her morning runs, and eating much less food. But right now, with the necessities of her job combined with her cold, she wasn’t feeling the best about herself and admittedly Charlie helped with that.

  A little thicker than I’d like. Too much food.

  She popped two NyQuil capsules out of their packaging and downed them with her glass of water while she waited for Charlie’s reply.

  Rubbish! You’re hot as hell.

  That’s exactly what she needed to read. Whitney smiled before responding.

  You’re not so bad yourself, you know.

  Thanks, love. Feeling up for a little . . . ring this evening?

  Whitney released a sardonic laugh, knowing exactly what Charlie was looking for. While she was in New York City, and their time zones weren’t terribly far apart, she’d come back to her hotel after an exhausting day and drinks with the crew. Texting with Charlie had led to a phone call. And that phone call had led to a satisfying phone sex experience. His accent combined with his suggestive, flirty nature sent Whitney over the edge. Within minutes, she was reeling from her orgasm and Charlie was more than proud of himself. And now, he was looking for a repeat performance. But sexual gratification was the last thing on her mind. She just wanted to sleep this cold away.

  Not tonight. I have a cold, I’m sorry.

  Whitney stared at her phone after minutes of no reply. Perhaps Charlie felt he was getting the brush-off. Obviously that wasn’t her intention since she felt like absolute hell. But she wasn’t a pushover and had no desire to go along with Charlie’s plans just to keep him interested. If a little bit of rejection due to illness would cause him to bore with her so easily, then Whitney was fine with wiping her hands of the entire flirtation. She’d dealt with too many selfish men in her past and had no interest playing games just to hold on to a man. No thanks.

  Oh no. Rest up, love. I’ll check on you tomorrow.

  His response was short and sweet. Not overly nurturing, but what did she expect? He was still in Chicago and their relationship was in the beginning stages—at this point, she didn’t know if it would develop into anything beyond hot sex and flirtatious banter. Only time would tell.

  Slowly, with thoughts of the confusing Nolan and the mellow Charlie dancing through her brain, Whitney succumbed to the power of her cold medicine and the hum of the air conditioner and drifted into a heavy sleep.

  CRUISING AT THIRTY-FIVE THOUSAND FEET (PROBABLY SOMEWHERE OVER WYOMING)

  What’s going on? What’s wrong?” Katie asked.

  Their elbows were touching, but Whitney was so lost in thought that it seemed as if her assistant were talking to her through a long tunnel. She sat in her cramped airline seat, fingers clutching the magazine on her lap.

  “Son of a bitch.” Those were the only words she could muster as she stared down at the picture in Us Weekly. Candid photos of celebrities were jumbled together in the two-page spread. “Stars, They’re Just Like Us” was the title above Nolan’s head as he leaned in to kiss his female companion. They were holding grocery bags and each other’s hands. It wasn’t clear who the petite blonde was until Whitney read the caption. “Guess the rumors are true! Heartthrob Nolan Rivera and his rumored girlfriend Loren Quigley look cozy as they lean in for a quick kiss in the Hollywood Hills.”

  Loren Quigley.

  Loren Freaking Quigley?

  Saul Greenberg’s producer niece had never liked Whitney, that was common knowledge amongst employees of the network, but her attitude had grown especially hostile in the past few months. Now Whitney knew why Loren constantly questioned and overruled Whitney’s decisions. Her vendetta was personal, not professional.

  “Son of a bitch,” Whitney repeated, staring at the blue stitching in the seat in front of her, tears fighting their way out of her eyes. She willed herself to stop them, closing her eyes tight and pushing her head into the firm back of her seat.

  Whitney could feel Katie lean in closer. And then she heard her gasp. “Oh no.”

  Whitney swallowed hard, unable to even make eye contact with her assistant. She was stuck in an airplane, unable to use her cell phone to confront the son of a bitch. She was trapped in a giant metal tube tens of thousands of miles in the air.

  “I’m so sorry,” Katie continued, attempting to pull
the magazine from Whitney’s grasp. Whitney’s fingers dug into the pages and she turned her head to glare at Katie. “I shouldn’t have given you this, but I swear I didn’t know. I never even opened it.”

  Seeing nothing but red, Whitney reached beneath the seat in front of her for her Coach bag.

  “What are you doing?” Katie asked.

  “Calling him.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  Whitney glared at Katie and gritted her teeth as she spoke. “It can’t wait.”

  She switched her cell from airplane mode and waited for bars to appear. Nothing happened. Her frustration was reaching a tipping point.

  “Why don’t they have phones on these things?”

  “They don’t have them in coach. Plus, everyone has cell phones now—”

  “Ugh, I know that, Katie. It was a rhetorical question, for God’s sake.” She ran her fingers through her hair as sweat built on her neck. She didn’t mean to snap at Katie, but she couldn’t control her anger, it was taking over and emanating through every pore of her body. Nolan had played her again. Again!

  Whitney looked around her, looking for some sort of escape. She and Chris locked eyes from across the aisle. “You okay?” he asked, looking over his reading glasses and closing his book.

  Whitney swallowed hard. Her mouth was dry, her head was spinning. She wanted to kill Nolan. Kill. Him. “No, everything is not okay. I just found out Nolan’s been sleeping with Loren Motherfucking Quigley. And I can’t call his sorry ass because I’m on a motherfucking airplane that no longer has phones on the seats!”

  Chris’s mouth dropped and several passengers looked up from their reading material. Chris’s cheeks reddened before he released his seat belt and crossed the aisle. Leaning over Katie, he spoke in a low register. “This is not the place.”

  “Do I look like I care?” Whitney snapped. Couldn’t he understand that Nolan had betrayed her?

  “Look, Whit, I know you’re pissed, and I don’t blame you, but that’s not something the rest of the plane needs to hear. We’re landing in an hour, you can deal with it then.”

  “You don’t understand, he told me—”

  Chris’s nostrils flared as his eyes bore into Whitney’s. He meant business. “I don’t care. We’re representing the network and you’re making fools of all of us. Get a hold of yourself right this second.”

  “Excuse me,” Whitney snapped, releasing her seat belt and standing with her hand on the seat in front of Katie. “I have to use the washroom, or is that not allowed?”

  Chris shook his head and took a step back. Katie stood to move into the aisle, giving Whitney access to the walkway. “Can I get you anything? Some water or something? I can call the flight attendant—”

  “No, I’ll be fine.” She locked eyes with Chris, daring him to get in her way again. He conceded, shaking his head as he returned to his seat. Whitney sighed and looked back to her assistant. “Just give me a minute.”

  Whitney closed the door to the tiny bathroom and sat on the toilet, burying her head in her hands. Was she terribly surprised that something like this had happened? Of course not. The one thing holding her back from being with Nolan was the potential for situations just like this. In her gut she knew it—Nolan could not and would not ever be satisfied with just one woman. Whether he loved the chase too much or loved the possibility of getting caught juggling more than one partner, it didn’t matter. The point was he couldn’t be trusted. Not now, not ever. There would always be a Gina, always be a Loren. It would never just be Whitney and Nolan.

  But why did she have to find out this way?

  Why did she have to be trapped in an airplane, reading a stupid gossip magazine like an unsuspecting idiot? And why couldn’t she make just one goddamn phone call? This was the very last time Nolan would play her for a fool. She was done.

  Done.

  “How long?” Whitney asked into her cell, the words forceful and direct. Her bullshit meter was maxed out as she walked to the baggage claim of Billings Logan International Airport. Luckily Katie and the rest of the staff had read her body language and walked ahead of her to give her time to make the call she’d been waiting to make.

  “Whit? What do you mean?” Nolan laughed uncomfortably on the other end of the line.

  “How long, Nolan? How long have you been fucking her?”

  “Who?”

  Whitney released a sardonic laugh—it hadn’t crossed her mind that there might be other possibilities, but perhaps it should have. She had no reason to believe this began and ended with Loren.

  “Tell your assistant to bring you this week’s Us Weekly. Page five. I’ll wait.”

  Silence.

  Yeah, that’s right, asshole. I’m on to you.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, I guess you thought you were safe while I was traveling, huh?”

  More silence.

  “Now, this is the last time I’ll ask you. How long?”

  “I don’t know . . . a few months?”

  “Liar,” Whitney snapped. “She’s hated me for much longer than that.”

  “Okay, fine,” Nolan conceded. “You’ve made your point.”

  “My point?” she screeched, so incensed that she almost ran into an older gentleman who had abruptly turned toward the men’s room. “My point is you’re a liar and a fucking cheat! You just promised that I could trust you, Nolan! What happened to waiting by the freaking phone? You’re such a liar!”

  “Calm down. We haven’t been official in almost a year. I wasn’t cheating, I was . . . exploring other options. Besides, you’re still nailing the Brit.”

  Whitney found baggage claim, but rounded the corner so her staff members wouldn’t hear her. She stood, leaning against the wall, staring at advertisements for transportation services.

  “You have a lot of nerve, Nolan. Seriously. Exploring other options? Is that what your therapist calls it?”

  “You haven’t exactly been there for me.” Nolan’s tone was snide, as if he could possibly turn this around on her in any way. “And Gina has—”

  Wait one freaking minute. “Gina? What do you mean, Gina?”

  “Oh shit.”

  Whitney’s muscles went weak. Her entire body was numb. Her eyes searched the area for a bench on which to sit. If she didn’t find one soon, she might faint.

  How many? How freaking many?

  “Listen, doll, I can explain everything—”

  Whitney didn’t want to hear his explanations. She just wanted a number.

  “Exactly how many women are you sleeping with, Nolan? And don’t lie to me. We’re already over so you may as well be honest.”

  “Just the two.”

  Whitney wasn’t about to fall for that again. She wanted to hear him say it. She had to know for sure.

  “Say their names,” she sneered, lowering herself to a nearby bench, her knees shaking.

  He huffed into the phone. “Is that really necessary? We both know who they are.”

  Whitney scoffed. “Well, I think I do. But that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”

  “Fine. Gina and Loren, okay? Are you satisfied?”

  “Oh, Nolan, you know me so well.” The sarcasm poured from her. “Finding out that the man who just told me for the first time ever that he loved me is fucking not only his ex-girlfriend, but one of the only people in the industry who hates my guts, is incredibly satisfying. The fact that I was actually thinking of giving you another chance makes me physically sick!”

  “What do you want me to say, Whit? I’m sorry, okay?” She heard no remorse in his voice. None at all. A chill ran down her spine.

  “You listen to me. We’re through. Don’t call me, don’t send me flowers or concert tickets or bouquets of candy. No texts, no e-mails, no pop-ins at my hotel. We. Are. Done.”

  “C’mon, baby, I—”

  “Do you understand?” she said, punctuating each word through gritted teeth.

  Again, silence.

 
“Nolan?” she screeched.

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  She heard a click on the other end of the line. Her shaking hands placed her phone inside her purse. Quickly, she stood from the bench, smoothed out the fabric of her pants, took a deep breath, and walked to baggage claim. On her way, she tossed the Us Weekly into the trash bin, ridding herself of Nolan Rivera for good.

  Whitney stumbled down the hall of her hotel after a miserable day of casting. She couldn’t get Nolan’s deception out of her mind and so, instead of fighting the lingering thoughts of his flippant, egotistical betrayal, she chose to drown them in large amounts of vodka. Katie was a good sport, listening to Whitney whine and moan about her ex, but even in her drunken haze, she sensed she was approaching a line with Katie—she didn’t want her PA to lose respect for her. She wanted to maintain the professionalism of their partnership, and so she excused herself from the hotel bar and made her way upstairs.

  When her key card failed again and again, Whitney banged on the door, even though she was the sole occupant, begging someone, anyone, to let her in.

  “C’mon, I’m tiiiiiired. I wanna go to sleep.” She tried the key again, seeing the maddening red light flash again and again. “Damn you, why won’t you work?”

  She pressed her head against the cool wooden door of the rustic hotel. She was shocked when she heard someone release the latch and the door swung open. She lunged forward and was met by two foreign hands, who steadied her to her feet.

  “Oh,” she said, making eye contact with a pair of stern brown eyes. Those eyes were attached to a man. A man she’d never seen. He was mostly bald, with wild gray hair sprouting behind his hulking ears. “Sorry, um . . . are you in my room?”

  “No,” he deadpanned. “Try again.”

  Whitney laughed uncomfortably, releasing a stray hiccup. She looked down at her key card. The numbers were fuzzy and she struggled to match them to the door. “Uh oh, did I go to the wrong place?”

  “It would seem so.”

  A woman walked up behind the man, tying her bathrobe as she looked at Whitney with disgust. Rubbing her eyes, she snapped, “Rupert?” She glared at the bald man, who was rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Who the hell is this?”