Cherry Bomb: Forbidden Bad Boys

by Clara Leigh

  He lifts me into his arms and soothes me with fierce cuddles until the chill air starts nipping at our skin and yawns stretch both of our faces.

  “Shall we meet here again tomorrow?”

  “It’s probably not wise to come back to the same place again so soon.”

  “Where then?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I’ll work it out. There’s a few days scheduled downtime at the end of the week, maybe we can get together away from here.”

  A chill ices the flow of my blood. “Are you brushing me off?”

  He laughs and pulls me close. “No way. I’m just saying we’ve been cautious until now. It’d be silly not to continue being so now that the stakes are raised. We’ll find a way, Flicka. I promise you that.”

  -18-

  Dare Wilde

  Jace is waiting in my trailer when I get back. He takes one look at me and infers the rest. The only weird thing is that he doesn’t savage me with words, or echo his earlier threats. Instantly, warning bells start tolling inside me head.

  “What is it?”

  He rises from the chair he’s clearly been occupying for some time, takes off his glasses, and rubs the lenses.

  “Chase called. You’re needed at home.”

  “Why?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Are you firing me?”

  Another shake.

  “Sending me away in disgrace.”

  I’m delaying the words he actually needs to speak, because I don’t want to hear them. My guts knot themselves, as I cringe in anticipation.

  “It’s Arrietty.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There was an accident. She’s okay, but she’s asking for you.”

  “Is there a car I can use?”

  “On its way,” Jace assures me, patting me on the back in a way that’s mean to be comforting, but is really just irritating. Twin lights laser through the trailer windows announcing the arrival of my taxi. I pause only long enough to collect my wallet. Nothing else is vital.

  -19-

  Felicity Caine

  I’m yawning through my earholes when I droop into the make-up chair the next morning. There’s no sign of Summer or any of her various assistants, which is unusual at this hour, but my brain is so fuzzy, the fact I have to wait doesn’t seem like a problem. The incline of the chair is perfect for snoozing. It’s only when Tyler bludgeons his way in that I realise an hour has passed, and I haven’t miraculously been transformed into a swan.

  I blink at him in his everyday clothes, with his bed hair full of styling wax, unable to comprehend why he’s Tyler and not Johnathan.

  “Did I miss something?”

  “Jace gathered everyone. Didn’t you get the message? We’re breaking for a few days now instead of at the weekend.”

  The way he says it, makes it sounds as if it’s no big surprise, but the truth is that I’m utterly confused. “Since when? Why?”

  “I dunno, who understands the whims of directors, but it’s a hundred per cent official, so I’m not hanging around here wasting it. I came to find you to see if you want to share a cab to the station.”

  “I guess, but I’ll need to get changed.” This turning upside down of Jason Jones’s regimented timetable is taking a minute or two to properly sink in. If it wasn’t for the absence of Summer, I’d entertain the possibility that this was a wind up.

  “I can hang on ten minutes for you.”

  That’ll have to do. Tyler follows me back to my trailer and waits in the lounge while I tear a brush through my hair and gather a few things together in an overnight bag. I can’t work the magic on my face that Summer does, but I do take a couple of minutes to smarten myself up. “What about the others? Is everyone leaving?”

  “I think most of them have already gone. I waved Trisha, Galen, and a few others off right before I came to find you. As for mister hotshot, he must have got an early heads up as he’d left before Jace called us together.”

  A hole opens in my chest and whitens my reflection. I turn away from the mirror, but keep my back to Tyler. If Dare was gone already, he must have left almost the moment he got back to the paddock last night. Shit! I mean, it’s impossible not to wonder if the two events aren’t somehow related. The fact we finally got hands on and then he’s away before dawn. That definitely smacks of something. I’m not quite sure what that something is, but it’s definitely something concerning, and probably not cool. The net effect is that I’m left with a numb ache I can’t get rid of, and a mind full of questions.

  If it wasn’t so vital that we maintained secrecy, I could call him and ask him what the heck was going on. I initially hold off doing anything quite so stupid, but when even my longed for reunion with Flo fails to quietened the nagging doubts in my head, I resort to text.

  Flicka: You fled awful fast.

  I don’t receive a reply. Nausea hits me hard and I start wishing there was a way of clawing back sent messages before the world somehow becomes aware of my folly.

  “You look like shit today, by the way,” Flo greets me when she collects me from the station accompanied by Kurt.

  “Yeah, cheers for that.” She knows just how to make me feel great.

  Nevertheless, we exchange hugs.

  “Didn’t you get any sleep last night?”

  “Not enough,” I tell her without elaborating. It’s easier to let her draw her own conclusions as to why I’m so down at the mouth, and better for the both of us if she doesn’t know anything official about my interactions with Dare. At least if anything comes out, no one can accuse her of being a conspirator if I keep her in the dark.

  The afternoon drags on into evening. Flo takes me to the studio to listen to the tracks she’s been laying down while I’ve been “playing at being a movie star.” They’re good, really supremely awesomely good. There’s a sophistication to the lyrics and the rhythm changes that hasn’t been there before. She talks at length about a drum track she wants to add and how she thinks she’s found the man for the job. On another occasion I might have teased her about her mystery musician, but all I can think about is Dare’s sudden departure, and his insistence that we didn’t meet up again too soon.

  Considering his reputation, I’d be a fool not to consider the possibility that I’ve been had. I wonder how many models and singers and actresses he’s entertained for an evening and then left behind. Tyler warned me I was at risk of becoming one of them.

  ***

  “Hey, your boy’s on TV,” Flo calls me into the lounge early on Friday evening. She’s watching some celebrity gossip show. It’s vapid stuff for the most part, speculation about popular shows, possible contenders for the role of Jack Bold, anticipated box-office takings, and who had a wardrobe malfunction this week. I can’t really fathom why Flo’s tuned in, but she’s pretty glued to it.

  I’m expecting to hear a few soundbites about Dare, and I’m already anticipating the rush I get from hearing his voice. Instead I’m blasted with snapshot after snapshot of him holding hands and smooching with his “secret lover.”

  Right away I’m caught in the embrace of that old cliché of the floor opening up and pitching head first into a deep dark hole. He’s playing games with me on set, while he’s still getting his kicks with whomever he fancies back in the real world.

  Admittedly, the glossy, gossipy world of Showbiz Exposé isn’t terribly well grounded, but it’s hard to refute reams of photographic evidence. I’m such a fucking idiot. Why would I allow myself to believe that I’m anything more to him than any other woman he’s wined and dined for his own entertainment?

  “I guess the Chinchilla ploy scuppered things big time for you,” Flo remarks. She’s slightly to my rear, so she can’t see my expression. “I thought maybe…but I guess there’s no reason why he’d deliberately court scandal by chasing you when he can have any woman he damned well wants.”

  I’m not sure what to be more cross over, him for being him or Flo for her assessment of the situati
on. Why can’t I be special? Why can’t he want something with me despite the odds and be prepared to aggressively pursue getting it?

  “You’re okay, though, aren’t you?”

  No! My scream is entirely internal. I’m not okay. I’m not okay with any of this. Not Chinchilla, not her inability to recognise my distress, not with Dare for having felt me up and then dropped me like a ton of bricks for some blonde with red-painted talons. I suppose I should be pleased we didn’t go all the way.

  Although, what exactly was that about? Who the hell says no to sex when it’s being so freely offered? Not Mr International Playboy, that’s for sure. Maybe he is gay like Tyler said.

  Nah – I’m just clutching at straws, trying to make sense out of something that doesn’t make sense.

  My lip trembles, but I refuse to give in to the crushing sobs building in my chest. I’m queasy, and darkness creeps in around the edges of my vision. I clench my fists and fight back. I can’t have a breakdown, not unless I want to lawyer up. No one can know anything about what has happened between us. No one. And that includes Flo. I have to deal with this now, ahead of having to face him back on set again.

  “We should go out tonight,” I say. “Enjoy our weekend together.” I’m not going to mope over him. Forget the last few days. I don’t need Dare Wilde. He’s a mistake. I’ve always known that.

  “Flicka, I’ve already arranged to head back to the studio.” In my absence, Flo’s become a workaholic.

  “But you don’t have to go. It’ll do us both good to take a break and live a little.”

  She bites the inside of her lip, then crosses her arms. “You’re talking about what – going clubbing? You do remember that if we go anywhere, then Kurt follows, and he’ll definitely report back to Mum and Warren. Have you forgotten the freak out mum had the last time we tried to party?”

  I’ve not forgotten. I still don’t see what the issue was with us celebrating our nineteenth at a non-Chinchilla organised event. However, I had momentarily forgotten about Kurt in relation to this evening. I guess I’ve grown used to being able to move around without being constantly tailed while shooting.

  Point aside, I’m not sure I care if Kurt follows and reports back any more. I’m sick of fucking rules, and watching my life slide past.

  I’m sick of being moulded into an image because it suits marketing’s purpose. I’m not some wholesome, slightly geeky high school chick. I’ve never even attended high school. I’m a nineteen-year-old with hardly any friends, no real concept of how the world works outside of a showbiz bubble, and who’s just found out that the guy she’s nuts about is screwing someone else. I need to go out. I need to get drunk and I need to stick two fingers up at the world and everyone in it.

  Flo shakes her head, making her long ponytail bounce. “Sorry, but no.”

  “You won’t come?”

  “I’m going to the studio. If you don’t want to come, then why don’t you take the opportunity to grab an early night? You look like you need one.”

  “Yeah,” I sigh, like she’s made a sensible suggestion and I’m totally going to slip into my pyjamas and take a long snooze. Good idea, sis. That’s totally what I’m going to do—not. Flo heads out right after dinner with Kurt in tow. The minute I see the car pull away from kerb I slip into my party clothes. Ten minutes later I’m in a taxi heading down town.

  Fuck the world. Flicka Caine has had enough.

  -20-

  Felicity Caine

  I don’t deliberately set out to stalk Dare. Leastways I don’t consciously make that decision, but it’s not long into my evening of cutting loose that I find myself in the vicinity of his favourite haunt. I pass time in the surrounding bars, blending in, forgetting my celebrity status, and that I’m one half of a famous pairing. I’m done being half of anything. Flicka Caine is a singular entity, perfectly capable of functioning outside of a partnership, be that with my non-mindreading sister or my stupidly handsome and adorable shithead of a co-star. If I could only figure out why he went to the effort of frigging me before running off to do the dirty with someone else, I’d be a prime example of togetherness.

  By the time I stumble down the steps into the bowels of the Bad Boys Stygian Refuge Garden or whatever the hell his club is called, I’ve transcended the entire notion of togetherness, which is why the niggling wonder as to why they’ve let me in without being a member fails to materialise into anything more than an irksome niggle. The bar’s serving. The place is packed with gyrating bodies. Why worry when there’s no particular need? I work my body hard on the dance floor, rubbing up against whom the hell knows, losing myself in the repetitive movements. This is living. This is what I want life to be about, not obeying rules and fretting over what others will think if I’m less than immaculately presented. It’s when the beats become heavier, slightly discordant and yet strangely enthralling, that I notice his scent. It creeps inside my head, waking desires that even betrayal can’t quash. It spins a web of need, and makes my body ache for his touch, the rasp of his breath just before his lips touch my skin, the strength in his arms when he holds me. And his beauty—God, I crave the vision of him. I could worship him all day, if he hadn’t destroyed my trust in him.

  “Flicka?” He places a hand on my shoulder. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  It should be obvious, but apparently he needs it spelling out.

  “I’m dancing,” I yell at him to make sure that he hears me over the deep hollow reverberating sighs of the track that’s playing. It’s not a song I’m familiar with, but that’s no surprise, it’s too raw to be mainstream. There’s no way it has commercial backing.

  “We’re not supposed to be seen together, you said it. So why the hell would you come to my club?”

  “So I can dance without being hassled.” Seems obvious enough to me.

  “Who are you here with?”

  He tries to pull me towards the edge of the dancefloor, but I’ve no desire to go anywhere with him.

  “I’m not with anyone.” Definitely not with him. Never again will I let myself be taken in by him. Not that we ever went the whole way.

  “You need to get out of sight, Flicka. You’re going to stir so much shit up by being here.” His hand locks around my wrist. “Come with me.”

  “Don’t want to.”

  “Don’t be a fucking idiot. Walk.”

  Where his fingers press against my skin, heat sears the nerve-ending, sending wave after wave of cutting pain straight up my arm. I kick at his shins, which instantly creates a wide circle of space around us. It’s only then that he releases his grip. He raises his hands and drags them through the longer strands of his hair. “What the fuck?”

  His eyes turn almost fully black. Rage makes a straight-line of his mouth. “Have you been drinking? How much have you had?” He leans in scenting the air around me.

  “Two or three.” Maybe that’s three or four. I don’t really know. I’m drinking cocktails. There was no need to keep a tally. In any case, I’ve been burning it off. I’m not drunk. A little merry perhaps—or I was until he appeared—but my brain and everything else is still functioning.

  “I won’t be used as a scapegoat, Flicka. If you want to start a war with Chinchilla, by all means, but I’ll negotiate the terms of my involvement for myself, thank you.”

  I don’t know why he thinks this is even about them. I haven’t given them a thought all day. All right, half as many as usual. “Fuck them, and fuck you,” I snarl. “I don’t even want to be near you, so just fuck off.”

  The number of fucks in my last two sentences in no way equates to how badly I want him to fuck me.

  I do very badly want him to do me. Leastways my traitorous body does. I’m wet and sticky in ways I don’t wish to be simply due to his nearness. But in my head, I know the truth. He’s a spineless git, who’s used me for entertainment, and who has no genuine interest in me or my well-being. “If anyone is throwing accusations around it should be me, Mr. Shady.�
�

  “Shady? In what way is that justified?”

  “You got what you wanted and then fucked off as fast as you could to someone else’s bed.”

  “What?”

  “Marie Logan. You’re fucking her. You’ve been fucking her for months, no doubt. You and her, you’re like this.” I link my two index fingers and pull as if to break them apart, but fail to do so. “Were you ever planning to mention her? Was it before or after you relieved me of my –.”

  “Stop it,” he cuts me off. “I’m not involved with anyone, so why would I need to tell you about something that doesn’t exist? I came back to town because Arrietty fell down the stairs and had a suspected fracture, not so I could shag some glamour model.”

  “You’re not denying you know who she is.” I fold my arms across my front and puff out my chest.

  Lorne appears at his side. “Hello, Flicka,” he says, before throwing an arm around his buddy’s back and leaning his head close to Dare’s. “Might be a plan to move this showdown elsewhere—someplace quieter with less of a free-to-view appeal.”

  “I was trying. She won’t budge.”

  “Let’s all go and have a drink together,” Lorne suggests, wrapping an arm around my back too. The pose is friendly, but the strength with which he steers me towards the bar is unyielding. Doesn’t matter that all I want to do is dance the night away, Lorne’s sitting my arse on a bar stool. “Now, what is it you’re both so riled up about?”

  “Dare was explaining how he isn’t a lying, manipulative creep.”

  Lorne orders whisky for himself and Dare. He plants a diet coke in front of me. “Can it with the vitriol, Flicka.”