I spend the entire car ride home thinking about my inspiration. My friends. My family. Movies. The crew on Vamp Camp. The writers. This town.
By the time Lexi drops me off, I feel more inspired than I have in weeks. I walk into the house, dump my purse by the door, and stride purposely toward my bedroom.
I change into a pair of worn sweatpants from high school and my dad’s old Indianapolis Colts T-shirt and boot up my computer. After the talk with Lexi and the view next to the Hollywood sign, I think I’m ready to tackle Tower. It’s not even midnight. I can still make this crappy night worth something.
Except I can’t. An hour later, I still have nothing, and reading what I do have makes me feel worse. My protagonist seems foreign to me, the conflicts confusing and dialogue forced. Did a month in Hollywood really make me forget how to write? Even some of the stuff I had written before moving out here seems weak. Where did my fire go? Did I ever have it?
I decide that staring at a blank computer screen isn’t helping anything, so I shut down my laptop and walk to the bathroom to get ready for bed. While I’m brushing my teeth, I notice a bottle of face moisturizer that I’ve never seen before. It can’t be Brit’s, because she only uses an all-natural product that smells like grass and has a putrid brown bottle.
I stare at it for a moment until it dawns on me. Hannah.
At least one of us is getting the companionship she wants.
While the other one only has a seduction scheme gone wrong and a cheating asshole.
I spit angrily into the sink at the thought of Camden and quickly finish my nighttime routine. I climb into bed, not tired physically but certainly emotionally drained. I text my parents a quick “hi” and “I love you.” I scroll down and see the last text message from Tate: his reveal of what he put my name as in his phone.
Good news. You are now saved in my phone as DANI DIZZY D-DAWG.
That made me laugh so hard when I first read it. I sigh and toss my phone on the bed next to me.
I spot Tate’s favorite book on my nightstand, the one I bought to have something to talk about with him. Thinking about what Lexi said about inspiration, I pick it up off the nightstand. If it inspired him, maybe something in the book will inspire me.
I spend half the night reading it, losing myself in the images within the words and pages. Around 3:00 a.m. I finally give into the weight of my eyelids and put the book aside. My last conscious thought before I drift into sleep is how I can’t wait to talk to Tate tomorrow about what I’ve read.
* * *
“Suck it, Young!” Tate, red-faced and sweaty, screams triumphantly. I groan and sink dramatically to the floor of the break room.
“I can’t believe I just lost to someone as terrible at foosball as you,” I cry from the ground. “You lost nine games in a row!”
“Ah, yes. But it’s the tenth game that really counts. And it counts for twenty games. Isn’t that the official foosball rule?”
“Sure. In Tate World,” I say as I get up off the floor and dust off my violet leggings.
It’s been two days since that night at Plum, and Tate and I are deep in the friend zone, but not in the “bro, she totally friend-zoned you” kind of way. We moved on past work buddies to full-blown friends. He calls me by my last name now, especially when we’re goofing around. We’ve started eating lunch together, sometimes in his trailer. We share important details of our days instead of just “I’ve had a good day.” We laugh together. We complain together. We even split sandwiches.
If I let my internal guard down for one second, I would say that we are acting like we’re in a relationship. Minus the physical stuff and the unyielding devotion.
That’s probably why I’ve been ignoring Elise’s texts and calls.
Today was the last day of a grueling week of shooting for the penultimate episode of the season. It was a big one, mostly involving Tate’s character fighting a huge group of humans who had taken a special serum that gives them vampire powers for a short period of time. It sounded lame when I first read the script, but it’s coming out great on camera.
Unfortunately for Tate, that means early morning call times and filming late into the evening, plus some middle-of-the-night shooting as well. He’s been tired and cranky—according to Elise, at least. To me, he’s just been tired, but I only see him at lunch and in between takes, so she might have a better grasp on his mood than me.
Or that’s what I tell myself so I don’t feel weird spending time with him.
“One more game and then lunch,” he says, rolling the tiny white ball around on his palm. “Loser buys lunch.”
“It’s catered and free,” I remind him.
“Ready, go!”
I beat him 10 to 3, which is an improvement considering that when we first started, he wasn’t scoring any goals. He grabs us a couple of waters from the fridge and we start walking together to catering.
Seeing Camden around set, lingering around video village and sipping coffee like he always does, has been weird since I caught him with Imogen, I’ll admit. He represents everything I want for my career, and I thought he would help me get there. So his betrayal was more than just about our relationship, if we even had one. I had to let go of the pretty picture I had in my mind about us. I think that part will be the hardest.
So I focus on the non-pretty parts. Camden obviously drank too much for my liking, and he doesn’t mind driving after partying. He was kind of a braggart, and I constantly had to make sure I wasn’t stepping all over the names of celeb “pals” and “buddies” he dropped.
Finally, he never once looked at my screenplay. In fact, he spent more time promising he would read it than actually looking at it.
Oh, and I didn’t like the way he badmouthed Tate.
The strain of my thoughts must show on my face, because Tate asks me what’s wrong.
“Just . . . boy problems. You don’t wanna hear about them.”
“Sure, I do. I’m a boy. I have problems. So, I can help you with your boy problems.”
I laugh and look up at Tate’s face in time to see his giant, chipped-tooth smile stretching across his face. The breeze ruffles the curls that fall over his forehead, and I resist the urge to brush them back.
“I’ll tell you when we get to your trailer,” I whisper as we approach the line to get food. A TV set is basically a small town, and gossip spreads faster than air leaking out of a balloon. Once it starts, there is no stopping it.
We throw some food into to-go containers and head back to Tate’s trailer. I climb the steps and grin as I take in the now familiar surroundings. Books stacked on the table. His favorite hooded sweatshirt thrown on the floor. The smell of his Old Spice deodorant that seems to be seeped into the fibers of the carpet. I haven’t even taken my first bite when Tate attacks me with questions about my boy troubles.
“He likes you and you don’t like him? You like him and he doesn’t like you? He likes no one and you like no one and there is no point to this conversation?” Tate’s voice raises an octave with each question.
I scoop a glob of guacamole on a chip and pop it into my mouth.
“Young!”
“Fine.” I relent as I swallow my food. “I was hooking up with a guy I was really into, and I thought he was also into me. I caught him making out with another girl, and it sucked. The end.”
Tate nods understandingly and starts spearing at his salad with his fork. I see a flicker of recognition pass over his face. I wipe my mouth and lean back against the couch.
“Tate.”
“Hm?”
“Why do I get the impression that you knew what kind of boy trouble I was going through before I said anything?”
Tate stops mid-chew and looks at me, cheeks full like an adorable chipmunk. I smile at him. He smiles back. I wait. He finally swallows his food and takes a long swig of water before staring at my forehead, like he wants to look at me but not in the eyes.
“By any chance, is the boy Camden?” T
ate asks me carefully. I smile at his attempt to feign ignorance, because he obviously knew about us. I play along.
“Who told you?”
“Not who. What.”
“What told you then?”
“Well, I accidentally saw you guys kissing all the time. Don’t have to be a detective to figure that out. But even if I never saw him all over you, just the way Camden would hover around you, like a big dog protecting a bone.”
“Bone-like? You sure know how to make a girl feel pretty.”
“I could make a gross joke but we’re having an important conversation so I’ll just glide past it,” Tate says with a wave of his arm. “I’ve seen him do it before, and I’ve seen the aftermath.”
“Yeah, the aftermath of hurricane Camden is not a picnic. It’s the opposite of a picnic.”
“What’s the opposite of a picnic?” he asks, and I can tell he’s genuinely trying to think of the answer.
“I dunno. Whatever makes a girl cry.”
“He made you cry?!”
I hate that I just told him that, but when I see his reaction, my admission feels worth it.
Tate looks pissed. So pissed, that it makes my heart clench in my chest. He’s angry for my sake, and I like it. A lot.
“Yeah. You said you saw the aftermath. At Plum, I cried when I found him with Imogen,” I explain. “You didn’t see that?”
“No, not exactly. My friend did.”
I take a second to think about who might have seen me and who ran and told Tate. It doesn’t take long to figure it out.
“Lexi told you about Plum?”
“Kind of. She told me Crap-den—that’s what she calls him—had struck again. And I already saw you guys hooking up, and I knew what happened to her. I put two and two together and came out with four.”
Tate puts his container of food on the ground so he can fully turn and face me on the couch.
“Math never made me as angry as it did than when I figured out that Camden had treated you like dirt,” Tate says. “I thought you needed a friend that night, so I asked Lexi to drive you home.”
“You told Lexi to give me a ride?” I laugh. “That explains why she was so nice to me that night.”
“I know she can be stand-offish, but she’s a really good listener. And I was worried about you, so I wanted to make sure you got home okay. And Lexi has a cool car, so . . .”
I laugh again, but I can barely hear the noise come out of my lips as I’m in a haze of confused feelings. Tate is worried about me. Tate cares about my feelings. Tate thinks I’m tough.
“I haven’t liked that piece of crap since he messed with Lexi, plus I don’t think he cares much about the people on the show, which annoys me,” Tate grumbles. I nod along, agreeing with every word he’s saying.
“I wanted to tell you a couple weeks ago, he always scams on the new interns,” he continues, knotting his fingers together and looking down at the floor. “But I didn’t think it was any of my business.”
“Well, we’re friends now, so next time a showrunner starts sniffing around—”
“—I will punch him in the nose.”
“Well, maybe you can just warn me so I don’t act like an idiot,” I say with a smile. “I appreciate your concern, though. Really. It’s so weird, because the people who I trusted when I first started this gig have turned into assholes, while the people I thought were assholes have turned into—”
“Dani, you flatter me so,” Tate interrupts, as if he wants to stop me before I gush too much. I want to call him out on that, but I just bite my lip and go back to my lunch. Except I’m not hungry anymore, so I put my lunch on the floor next to Tate’s.
“It’s better if you’re single, I think,” Tate tells me. “Especially when you are trying to figure out your career. Relationships can kind of mess things up.”
This phrase coming from Tate stops me cold.
Before I can stop myself, I ask, “Is everything going okay with Elise?” I’m just looking out for Elise, I think as I wait for Tate to respond.
“I guess,” he answers, sounding less than confident. His handsome face is all scrunched up with confusion, and I see the light behind his blue eyes fade a bit. I want to make him feel better, but I’m not sure how. I automatically scoot a tiny bit closer to him and turn my back to the door, as if to protect him from the confusion and sadness he might be feeling.
“She’s really sweet and easy to be with. But I think she’s more concerned with my lifestyle than with my life,” Tate says. “It just doesn’t feel . . . right. You know that feeling you get when your sock is on wrong and you keep trying to fix it but no matter what, your sock still feels like it’s on sideways?”
“Oddly enough, yes. I know exactly what you’re talking about.”
“That’s what it’s like with Elise. It’s all pretty much fine, but there is something that’s just not making me completely comfortable. Also, I’m pretty sure she’s not over her ex.”
“No way!” I blurt out. When Tate stares at me with questions in his eyes, I cringe. Crap. I’m not supposed to know how Elise feels. I need to change the subject! I need to change the subject right now!
“I’m halfway done with your book,” I tell him. He grins, and I can tell he’s ready to stop talking about Elise, too.
“I didn’t know I wrote a book,” he jokes. I give him a friendly little shoulder push.
“You know what I mean. I love it.”
“That’s great! Is it inspiring you?”
“Absolutely. Except I still haven’t been able to write much, and I can’t figure out why.”
“Do you want me to help? You definitely got me out of an editing jam when you were over a couple weeks ago. I’d be more than happy to take a look at it,” he offers. The thought of Tate in my room, hovering over my shoulder as I type, in my bedroom, so close . . .
“Nope! Um, no. I mean, yes, that would be great. What I mean is, I think it’s not about someone helping me, but maybe . . . um,” I’m stammering like an idiot, trying to cover up my knee-jerk reaction to the thought of Tate in my room with me. Tate either doesn’t notice or is thankfully not calling me out on it.
“Dani, have you ever thought about writing from the heart?” he asks me. I open my mouth to respond that yes, that’s what I’ve been doing, but nothing comes out. I try to look for sarcasm in his face, but I only see two very sincere (and very intensely handsome) eyes. I stare at Tate, and he looks back at me. The air around us is buzzing, and the noise grows louder and louder the longer we just look at each other. My heart thunders in my chest and Tate leans a little closer to me.
Tate stands up suddenly, breaking the spell and releasing me from my daze. He puts his arms over his head and stretches upward. His shirt rides up and his tattered jeans are riding so low that I can make out the muscles of his hip curving down along his waist. I tear my eyes away, my cheeks on fire with both embarrassment and pleasure at the sight.
“We both need a break,” he suddenly decides. “With Camden and your writing and everything, we need a distraction.”
Tate rubs his chin thoughtfully while I try to gather myself after . . . after whatever that was. But it must have all been in my mind, as Tate seems oblivious to anything but the chin hairs he’s rubbing.
“I got it. Let’s go rock-climbing!”
“What?” I say, already dizzy from the thought of falling to my death.
“Yeah, I haven’t been forever. But I’ve been dying to since I saw your magazine the other day,” he says. I squint at him.
“My magazine? Oh, right! Climbing Magazine. Rock climbing. A habit I’m into,” I remind myself out loud. Tate looks at me, clearly exasperated by my enthusiasm.
“C’mon! It’s exercise and fun . . .”
And heights, I think to myself, horrified. How do I get out of this? Tate is still yammering away.
“We wrap kind of early today, so we can go to the gym right from set. Okay?”
“Well, I wanted t
o write more,” I insist. “And . . .”
“You just said you’re stuck!” Tate reminds me. “This will help, I promise.”
I’m trapped. I can’t confess that I hate heights because I’m supposed to be into rock-climbing. And Tate looks so excited, like this could actually fix all my problems. Maybe he believes it will fix his problems. I can’t say no to him.
“Sure. Let’s do it,” I finally say. Tate claps his hands and lets out a “woo!” just as a P.A. knocks on his trailer door and yells that Tate has three minutes to get to makeup for some touchups. He yells back he’ll be right there.
“So let’s meet in the break room after my last scene, which should be around 6:00 p.m. And get ready to have your ass handed to you, Young,” Tate says gleefully. I force a smile back and watch him bound down the steps of his trailer. I let out a puff of breath and fall back against the couch, deflated.
I have five hours to get over my fear of heights, or Tate will be climbing with a scared Chihuahua who just might pass out as soon as she’s off the ground.
Rules of Checking Out Tate a Hot Guy
Don’t get caught.
Chapter Nineteen
Tate is wearing a sleeveless shirt. This would make me pass out even if we were just in the cafeteria, but throw in a rock wall that might as well be the same height as the Sears Tower and my heart rate triples. Getting on the third rung of a ladder makes my pulse race.
And speaking of a racing pulse, did I mention that Tate is wearing a sleeveless shirt? I decide to neutralize the situation by doing what I do best: make a joke.
“Did the sleeve-monster getcha?” I ask him with a poke to his bicep. Bad idea.
“Yeah, I got a sleeve monster chained up in my basement. Can’t keep these pythons under wraps, ya know?” he says with a big arm flex.
His body is perfect. Long, lean, and not too muscular. He’s got definition, but not those gross veins. Maybe it’s best that I’m thinking about his body because then I’m not thinking about the fact that I have to climb a giant wall. In front of Tate. In shorts.
Unlike Tate, I don’t carry around workout clothes, so I had to run to the nearby Target to pick up some suitable rock-climbing gear. I don’t know what you wear to climb walls, so I went with what I wear when I clean the apartment, which is pretty much the only exercise I get. So blue shorts and a gray tank top it is. Luckily, the shoes I wear to run around the set will do just fine.
Rules of Seduction Page 22