Nothing but Trouble (Chinooks #5)

by Rachel Gibson

  “Have you eaten lunch?”

  He moved across the marble floor to the stainless-steel refrigerator. He opened it up and pulled out a bottle of water. “No.” Short and perky had never been his type. “Have I met you before?”

  “Do you watch The Bold and the Beautiful?”

  “The what?”

  She laughed. “If you’re hungry, I could make you a sandwich.”

  “No.”

  “Even though I don’t officially start until tomorrow, I could manage soup.”

  “I said no.” He tilted the water to his lips and looked at her over the end of the clear plastic. The bottom of her hair really was a weird shade. Not quite red and not quite pink, and he had to wonder if she’d dyed the carpet to match the curtains. A few years ago, a Chinooks’ fan had dyed her pubes blue and green to show her support. Mark hadn’t seen the woman up close and personal, but he had seen the photos.

  “Well, you just turned down a once-in-a-lifetime offer. I never cook for my employer. It sets a bad precedent, and to be totally honest, I suck in the kitchen,” she said through a big grin, which might have been cute if it wasn’t so annoying.

  God, he hated cheerful people. Time to piss her off and get her to leave. “You don’t sound Russian.”

  “I’m not.”

  He lowered the bottle as he lowered his gaze to her orange leather jacket. “So why are you dressed like you’re just off the boat?”

  She glanced down at her dress and pointed out, “It’s my Pucci.”

  Mark was pretty sure she hadn’t said “pussy,” but it had sure sounded like it. “I’m going to go blind looking at you.”

  She glanced up and the corners of her blue eyes narrowed. He couldn’t tell if she was about to laugh or yell. “That’s not very nice.”

  “I’m not very nice.”

  “Not very politically correct either.”

  “Now there’s something that keeps me awake at night.” He took another drink. He was tired and hungry and wanted to sit down before he fell down. Maybe nod off during a court TV show. In fact, he was missing Judge Joe Brown. He pointed toward the front of the house. “The door’s that way. Don’t let it hit your ass on your way out.”

  She laughed again as if she was a few bricks short. “I like you. I think we’re going to get along great.”

  She was more than a few bricks short. “Are you…” He shook his head as if he was searching for the right word. “What is the politically correct term for ‘retarded’?”

  “I think the words you’re fishing for are ‘mentally disabled.’ And no. I’m not mentally disabled.”

  He pointed the bottle at her jacket. “You sure?”

  “Reasonably.” She shrugged and pushed away from the counter. “Although there was that time in college when I fell doing a keg stand. Knocked myself right out. I might have lost a few brain cells that night.”

  “Without question.”

  She reached into the pocket of her ugly jacket and pulled out a set of keys with a little heart fob. “I’ll be here tomorrow at nine.”

  “I’ll be asleep.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” she said, all cheery. “I’ll ring the doorbell until you wake up.”

  “I have a shotgun loaded with buckshot,” he lied.

  Her laughter followed her out of the room. “I look forward to seeing you again, Mr. Bressler.”

  If she wasn’t “mentally disabled,” she was nuttier than squirrel shit. Or worse, one of those perpetually cheerful women.

  What a serious asshole. Chelsea shrugged out of her leather jacket and opened the door to her Honda CR-V. A bead of sweat slid between her cleavage and wet the underwire of her bra as she tossed the jacket into the back and slid into her car. She shut the door and dug inside the hobo bag sitting on the passenger seat. She grabbed her cell phone, punched the seven numbers, and got sent straight to voice mail. “Thanks a lot, Bo.” She spoke into the phone as she pushed the key into the ignition. “When you said this guy could be difficult, you might have mentioned that he’s a straight-up tool!” She shoved the phone between her ear and shoulder, started the car with one hand, and rolled down the window with the other. “A little more forewarning might have been nice. He called me retarded and insulted my Pucci!” She flipped the phone shut and tossed it on the passenger seat. She’d saved for two months to buy her Pucci dress. What did he know about fashion? He was a hockey player.

  She pulled the car out onto the street and drove past the homes of the rich and the snobby. A strong breeze blew through the window, and Chelsea pulled her dress away from her chest and let the cool air dry her skin. She was probably going to get a boob rash and it was all Mark Bressler’s fault. No, he hadn’t made her wear a leather jacket on a hot June day, but she felt like blaming him anyway. He was a jock. That was reason enough.

  God, she hated people like Mark Bressler. Rude people who thought they were better than everybody else. For the past ten years, she’d been surrounded by people like him. She’d booked their appointments, walked their dogs, and planned their events. She’d been the personal assistant to movie stars and moguls. Celebrities from A to D list until she’d finally had enough.

  “Enough” had come last week in the guesthouse of a B-list actor who’d suddenly hit it big with a leading role in an HBO series. She’d worked for him for five months, lived in the guesthouse, made sure he was ready for his appointments, and ran his errands. Everything had been fine until the night he’d come into the guesthouse and told her to get on her knees and give him oral sex, or get another job.

  Ten years of pent-up anger and impotence had curled her hand into a fist. Ten years of crappy jobs and disappointment, of working her ass off. Ten years of watching other pretentious, talentless, nasty people succeed, while she waited for her big break. Ten years of sleazy sexual propositions and thankless jobs swung her arm back, and she’d punched him in the eye. Then she’d packed up the CR-V and called her second-rate agent to tell her she’d had enough. She’d moved a thousand miles from Hollywood, away from the egos and arrogance, only to land smack-dab employed by one of the biggest a-holes on the planet. Although technically, she supposed, Mark Bressler wasn’t her employer. The Seattle Chinooks paid her salary—and the big fat bonus.

  “Three months,” she muttered. If she stuck it out for three months, the Chinooks’ organization had promised a ten-thousand-dollar bonus. After meeting Mr. Bressler, she knew the bonus for what it was.

  A bribe.

  She could do it. She was an actress. She’d put up with worse for far less. She pulled onto the 520 and headed to Bellevue and her sister’s condo. She wanted that ten grand. Not for any noble reasons like helping the sick or donating to a local church or food bank. She wasn’t going to please her family and finally get that degree in nursing, drafting, or graphic design. She wasn’t going to put a down payment on a home or a newer car. She wasn’t going to do any of those things that might secure a future or improve her mind.

  At the end of three months, she was going to use that ten grand to improve herself. Until a few days ago, she hadn’t had a plan of action. Now she did, and she had it all figured out. She knew what to do and how to go about it, and nothing and no one was going to stand in her way. Not the risk involved to her health or the disapproval of her family was going to keep her from her goal.

  Especially not one cranky, oversized, overbearing hockey player with a mean streak and a huge chip on his equally huge shoulder.

  Chapter Two

  “This is great, Chels. Thanks.”

  Chelsea glanced up from her plate of spaghetti and looked across the table at her sister Bo. The meal wasn’t great. It was Prego. “I’m a gourmet cooker.”

  “It’s better than Mom’s.”

  The sisters shuddered. “She never drains the grease off anything.”

  “Flavors the sauce,” Bo quoted their mother as she lifted her merlot. “Cheers.”

  “What are we toasting?” Chelsea reached for h
er glass. “My skills at opening a jar?”

  “That and your new job.”

  Except for the hair color, looking at Bo was like looking into a mirror. Same blue eyes, small nose, and full mouth. Same small bones and big boobs. It was as if the Olsen twins had gone out and bought sets of matching stripper boobs. Only the reality of being built like their mother wasn’t quite so glamorous. The reality was that they’d been born to suffer backaches and shoulder pain. By forty, they were doomed to start saggin’ and draggin’.

  Bo touched her glass to Chelsea’s. “Here’s to lasting longer than the other home care workers.”

  Chelsea was the older of the two, by five minutes, but Bo was the more mature. Or so everyone always pointed out. “I’ll last longer.” She wanted that ten grand, but she didn’t want to tell her sister what she planned to do with the money. The last time she’d brought up the subject of breast reduction, the whole family had flipped out. They’d accused her of being impulsive, and while that was occasionally true, she’d been thinking about getting a reduction for years. “He may have questioned my intelligence and disrespected my Pucci, but I’ve worked for a lot of jerks and I know how to win him over with my charming personality. I’ll just smile and kill him with kindness. I’m an actress. No sweat.” She took a drink, then set the glass on the table. “Although he must have a few brain cells out of whack, because who doesn’t love Pucci?”

  Bo raised her hand.

  “You don’t count.” Chelsea twirled spaghetti on the tines of her fork. “You’re afraid of color, and Mark Bressler doesn’t count because he’s too big a jerk to appreciate the artistry of designer clothes.” Bo’s apartment was a lot like Bo. Stark and minimalist. There were a few ink sketches above the black-and-white-striped sofa. She had a few dusty silk ferns, but no real splashes of color anywhere.

  “He’s a hockey player.” Bo shrugged and took a bite. “Elite hockey players are arrogant and rude.” After she chewed, she added, “Although whenever I worked with Mark, he wasn’t bad. At least not like some of them can be. Before his accident, we were doing a big media push using him and some of the other players, and he was relatively nice. Sure we locked horns, but he eventually listened to reason. He didn’t balk at taking his shirt off.” She smiled and held up one hand. “The guy had an eight-pack. I. Swear. To. God.”

  Chelsea thought of the man walking slowly up the sidewalk toward her, leaning on his cane, looking anything but weak. Everything about him radiated strength and darkness. Eyes, hair, energy. A dangerous archetype. Like Hugh Jackman in X-Men, minus the claws, facial hair, and superpowers. Not to be confused with the Hugh Jackman who’d hosted the Oscars and sang and danced. She just could not picture Mark Bressler busting out in song. “How bad was his accident?”

  “No one in aftercare told you?”

  “Some.” Chelsea shrugged and took a bite of garlic bread. “They gave me a folder with his schedule and some info in it.”

  “And you didn’t read it?”

  “Glanced at it.”

  Bo’s eyes rounded. “Chelsea!”

  “What? I saw that he has a physical therapist come to the house twice a week, and I was going to read the rest tomorrow. I never read everything till the night before. It keeps it fresh in my head.”

  “That was always your excuse in high school. It was a wonder you even graduated.”

  She pointed her bread at her sister. “What happened to Bressler?”

  “Last January he hit some black ice on the 520 bridge. His Hummer rolled three times.” Bo took a drink of her wine. “It was horrible. The big SUV looked like it had been compacted. No one thought he was going to live.”

  “Is he…” Chelsea tapped her finger to her temple. “…a few fries short of a Happy Meal?” That might explain his rude behavior and dislike of her Pucci.

  “I’m not sure how he is mentally.”

  “I knew a makeup artist who worked on the set of The Young and the Restless. After she took a header off a balcony, she was never the same. It was like she didn’t have a filter anymore and everything that ran through her head spilled out of her mouth. She told one of the directors that he had shit for brains.” Chelsea finished her bread and added, “It was pretty much true, but she got fired anyway.”

  “I thought you were an extra on The Bold and the Beautiful.”

  “That was last month. I worked on The Young and the Restless about three years ago.” She shrugged. “I played a bar hag and I wore a tank top and a pair of Daisy Dukes. My line was, ‘Wanna buy a girl a drink?’” She’d hoped that that one brilliantly delivered sentence would evolve into a permanent role, but of course it hadn’t happened.

  “I have Slasher Camp,” Bo said through a smile. “We can fast-forward to your scene and watch it over and over.”

  Chelsea laughed. She’d been the first slut to get axed, literally, in the B-movie. “I think that was my best scream ever.”

  “I thought your best scream was in Killer Valentine.”

  “That was a good one too.” Again, she’d been the first slut to get killed off. That time with a dagger in her heart.

  “Mom hates the horror movies.”

  Chelsea reached for her wine and looked across at the good, successful twin. “Mom hates most things about me.”

  “No, she doesn’t. She hates seeing you seminude and covered in blood. She just worries about you.”

  This was yet another conversation that Chelsea didn’t want to have. Mostly because it always ended the same. Bo feeling bad because everyone thought Chelsea was a fuckup. Impulsive and rash, but in a family full of aggressive overachievers, someone had to be the bottom bear on the totem pole. “Tell me more about Bressler,” she said, purposely changing the subject.

  Bo stood and grabbed her empty plate and glass. “He’s divorced.”

  Chelsea probably could have guessed that one. She stood and drained her wine. “Kids?”

  “No.”

  She reached for her plate and followed her sister into the kitchen. “He was the captain. Right?”

  “For about the past six years.” Bo set her dishes in the sink and looked over her shoulder at Chelsea. “He had some of the highest stats in the NHL, and if he’d played in the winning game last night, he would have won MVP.” She turned on the water and rinsed her plate. “The day after the accident, the whole organization was in turmoil. Absolute chaos. Everyone was worried about Mark, but they were also worried about the team and what the loss of the captain meant to the Chinooks’ chances at winning the cup. The late Mr. Duffy moved quickly and signed Ty Savage. Everyone was shocked at how well it all worked out. Savage stepped in and did an awesome job of filling Mark’s shoes. Or skates, rather. Mark didn’t have to worry about anything but getting better.”

  Chelsea had been at the winning game the night before with Bo and Jules Garcia, Mrs. Duffy’s assistant and a dead ringer for Mario Lopez. The Mario when he guest-starred on Nip/Tuck. Not the Mario of Saved by the Bell.

  Chelsea wasn’t much of a hockey fan, but she had to admit that she’d gotten caught up in the fever and had watched from the edge of her seat. The three of them had stayed during the cup presentation ceremony and watched all the players skate around with it held over their heads like conquering heroes. “Was Bressler at the arena last night?” She opened the dishwasher and loaded it as her sister rinsed.

  Bo shook her head. “We sent a car for him, but he never showed. I think he has good nights and bad nights. He must have been having a bad night.”

  Chelsea pulled out the top rack and loaded glasses. “It must be a huge load off his mind to know that his accident didn’t cost his team the cup.”

  “I would imagine. He almost died and had bigger things to think about.” Bo handed her a plate.

  “And I imagine that waking up after an accident like that, a person must feel so lucky to be alive. I knew a stunt double who fell from a burning building and hit the air bag wrong. After he woke from his coma, he went back to s
chool and is now an injury lawyer. It changed his whole life and put it right into perspective.”

  “Yep. Sometimes something unforeseen happens and can change your life.” Bo turned off the water and dried her hands. “What are you going to do with the ten-thousand bonus?”

  Chelsea shut the dishwasher and turned her face away. If there was one person on the planet who could read her, even when she didn’t want to be read, it was her twin. “I haven’t decided.”

  “What about school?”

  “Maybe.” She walked into the living room and ran her finger over a fake fern that needed dusting.

  “What about investing? I could hook you up with my broker.”

  She could lie, but her sister would know. Evasion was her best option. “I have a while. I’ll think about it.”

  “You can’t just blow it on designer clothes.”

  “I like blowing money on clothes.” When she had the money to blow. “Especially designer clothes.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Mark Bressler is right. You’re a collision of discordant color.”

  Chelsea turned and looked at her sister standing in the doorway to the kitchen, dressed in black and white with her short dark hair pulled back in a stubby ponytail. She almost smiled at her sister’s description of her.

  “The bonus you get from the aftercare program won’t go far if you spend it on clothes. If you sign up for classes now, you can go to school this fall.”

  They hadn’t talked about Chelsea leaving, but now was as good a time as any. “I won’t be here this fall. I’m going back to L.A.” She expected her sister to protest, to try and convince her to stay so they could live close to each other. She didn’t expect her sister’s next words to feel like a punch in the chest.

  “You’re thirty and it’s time to be responsible, Chelsea. You tried the whole actress thing. You need to set more realistic goals.”

  She’d known the rest of the family felt that pursuing her acting dream was silly. She knew that they rolled their eyes and said she was unrealistic, but she hadn’t known Bo felt that way too. The punch turned to a little pinch in a corner of her heart. “If I suddenly get responsible, what would everyone talk about when I leave the room?” The rest of the family could say what they wanted about Chelsea and it never hurt near as badly as when Bo said it.