The hostess was making her way to me, so I stuck my credit card in the black folder to pay for my drink. The bartender knew I was waiting on a table, so I wouldn’t need to stay here for it to be returned. “That was really good,” I said enthusiastically. “Have you considered trying out for the remake?”
One of the fans squealed. “There’s gonna be a remake?”
There wasn’t, but it didn’t stop me from shrugging and offering a mischievous grin. “You didn’t hear it from me.”
“They’re gonna find someone twenty years younger to play you, right?” the guy asked.
My eyes widened, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. Let it go, Summer.
But dammit, I was tired of letting everything go.
I ignored him and walked toward the frazzled hostess, leaving the two women to their excitement.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Butler,” she said, cringing, “but your party’s been seated for five minutes. I forgot you were at the bar.”
“That’s okay,” I said. The clenching of my stomach made me wish I had time to go to the bathroom, but if Scott Schapiro was already at the table, I couldn’t keep him waiting.
The hostess led the way to a semicircular booth. A good-looking man in his forties, wearing a dress shirt and tie, sat on the opposite side. The way he impatiently tapped his finger on the table was a not-so-subtle sign that he was pissed.
“I told your manager one sharp,” he said in a cold tone. “I’m on a tight timetable.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Schapiro,” the hostess said. “It’s all my fault. She was in the bar, and I forgot.”
“Uh-huh.” He looked up at me like I was an ant he was considering squashing. “How much did you pay her to say that?”
My mouth dropped open in shock, and before I could respond, he gestured to the seat opposite him.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Sit down so we can get this over with.”
The hostess shot me an apologetic look, but I was more concerned with the man glaring at me. I slid into the booth as gracefully as I could manage in my tight dress and set my purse on the seat beside me.
“I’m so sorry about the mix-up,” I said with a smile as I folded my hands on the table in front of me. “I’ve been in the bar for the last fifteen minutes. The staff said they’d notify me when you arrived.”
“Are you drunk?” he asked hopefully.
“What? No! I didn’t even finish my glass of wine.”
He rolled his eyes in disgust. “That’s too bad.”
“What?”
“Whatever,” he said dismissively. “You’re here. I’m here. Let’s dispense with the niceties and get this started.”
“Okay.” I let out a tiny breath and waited for him to speak, which resulted in a five-second staring match.
He glanced down at his phone, then back up at me. “Well? I don’t have all day.”
He was really starting to tick me off. “And I’m ready to listen.”
“Listen to what?” he asked. “You haven’t even pitched me anything yet.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, trying to cover my shock.
His eyes narrowed. “Your manager told me you were pitching me a few reality TV shows.”
“He did what?” Justin had pushed me into taking this meeting, and I’d finally agreed because one, I was desperate, and two, Justin had said I would only have to listen to the producer’s pitches.
Disgust washed over Mr. Schapiro’s face. “So you’re not prepared.” He lifted a hand to flag down the waitress. “My time is valuable, Ms. Butler.”
“Of course it is,” I said, my mind scrambling. “You want ideas from me.”
“Isn’t that what I just said? Did I stutter?”
“No, it’s just that . . .” How was I going to come up with ideas in a matter of seconds? I was an intelligent woman. I could do this.
The waitress walked over, and Mr. Schapiro lifted a credit card. “I need to settle my bill.”
“Already?” she asked, taking his card. “You haven’t ordered your food yet.”
“And I won’t be. Just the drink.”
The waitress walked away, and I said, “I have ideas.”
“Then you have about three minutes to pitch—the time it takes her to bring my receipt and for me to sign it.”
“Okay . . .” Crap. Why hadn’t I paid more attention to reality TV? “You could follow me to auditions.”
“And when was the last time you had an audition?” he scoffed.
Score one for Scott Schapiro. “I’m considering renovating my house. You could follow that.” Oh, shit. I hoped he didn’t pick that one. Before long, I wouldn’t even own a house.
“This isn’t HGTV, Ms. Butler,” he said in disgust. “It’s E! Didn’t you do your homework?”
Dammit. The waitress was heading our way.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I said. “You could follow me on some dates.” When he looked unimpressed, I added, “I could do one of those dating sites.” What the hell was I thinking? Had I really sunk this low?
I imagined myself posed on a school desk, naked from the waist up, wearing my character Isabella’s plaid school-uniform skirt, my leg hiked up enough to give viewers a peek underneath it. Because that was probably my only other option if I didn’t come up with something. And quick.
The waitress set the black bill folder in front of him, then scurried away. He lifted the flap and picked up the pen. “What else do you have?”
“I take yoga. Maybe I could teach classes.”
He grunted and signed his name.
Crap! I was so pissed at Justin for doing this to me. Pissed at Scott Schapiro for treating me like I was worthless. Pissed at the people who still expected me to be Isabella Holmes, amateur teen sleuth at the made-up Roosevelt High School, who solved small mysteries for her friends and family. I was pissed at my mother for making me do the damn show at all and for stealing most of my money.
“Fine,” I said in a snotty tone. “How about this? I’m a private investigator like my character in Gotcha!, only I solve real-life crimes. You like that one any better?”
He set down his pen and looked me in the eye. “Do you want to know what your trouble is, Summer?”
“Why do I think you’re going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not, Scott?”
He grinned—slightly. “Your problem is that you’re vanilla. You were a nice girl in a nice show, aimed at the tween demographic, and you’re still nice. You don’t drink to excess. You don’t party. Hell, I don’t think you’ve had a boyfriend in two years.”
Three, but I wasn’t about to correct him.
“Sure, you were embroiled in some controversy with your costar.” He circled his finger. “Whoop-de-doo. You were nineteen fucking years old. What actor hasn’t slept with a costar.” He put his card into his wallet. “You’re boring, Summer. Boring with a capital B. No one would want to watch your show because no one gives a shit.” He stood. “Frankly, I was shocked to see a little bit of fire from you a moment ago, but a lit match isn’t enough to make viewers watch. You’d be better off giving up the ghost and getting a real job.”
I stood, getting really ticked off now. “Do you think I haven’t tried? I’m too recognizable to get a normal job.” I’d taken a managerial job at an upscale boutique, but the customers had all seemed more interested in getting autographs and selfies than in buying the merchandise. The owners had fired me for being too distracting.
“Not my problem, sweetheart . . .” He grinned. “Or should I say, Darling?”
The hostess slinked toward me with a nervous look. “Uh, Ms. Butler. Your credit card was declined.”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Of course it fucking was.
Scott Schapiro laughed.
Palm-tree guy from the bar walked past our table and headed straight for me, wobbling a little.
“Hey!” he said, wandering over to us. “Isabella! You didn’t say your line.”
Scott Schapir
o glanced back at the man and let out a bark of a laugh. “You better give it to him, Summer,” he said with a weaselly smile, “because this is about as good as it’s going to get for you.”
Those words were still echoing in my ears as the tourist came to a stop in front of me. “I want my line,” he said, invading my personal space with his pointer finger. “Some America’s Darling you are.” Then he poked his finger at me, aiming for my chest before he wobbled and got a handful of my boob.
Everything welled up inside me—the debt, my mother’s betrayal, my frustration at being the butt of everyone’s jokes, and years and years of failure.
“You want the line?” I shouted, pulling back my arm. “Here’s your fucking line!” I screeched as I punched him in the eye. “Gotcha!”
The man fell to his knees, covering his face with his hand. “Isabella Holmes just punched me in the face!”
I leaned over him and sneered, “How do you like America’s Darling now?”
CHAPTER TWO
“Shit. This is bad,” I said as I watched the video phone footage on TMZ while balancing a bag of frozen peas on the knuckles of my right hand. Lucky for me, I’d been captured on half a dozen camera phones, all showing me from various angles punching Richard Abbott, a forty-three-year-old mechanic from Omaha, Nebraska, in the face.
My front door opened, and I whipped around to see Marina walk in carrying a brown paper bag. I pushed out a breath of relief. I was so tightly wound, I wasn’t sure I could handle this alone. I hadn’t called her, but I wasn’t surprised she’d come anyway even though she was supposed to be working.
“What in the hell happened?” she asked, walking toward me.
“I just snapped,” I said, turning back to the TV as the host discussed what had led to my emotional breakdown.
“I’ll say,” she said in awe. “Have you been taking kickboxing or self-defense classes on the sly? Because that was quite a punch.”
“No.” I groaned and began to pace again. “Just hot yoga.”
“Don’t discount the Pilates,” she said with a grin. “Your solid core helped with your follow-through.” Then she imitated the punch that was replaying on my TV screen.
“Not helping.”
She cringed when she saw the peas. “What in the hell is on your hand?” She stuck her finger into her mouth and made a gagging sound before she grabbed the package and tossed them across the room. The peas hit the wall and bounced to the tile floor, but before I could put up a fuss, she handed me a small container of gourmet ice cream. She winked. “You deserve it, America’s Slugger.” Her eyes widened. “Hey! Maybe you can get a job on one of those women’s wrestling shows. Or roller derby.”
I shot her a glare and muted the TV.
“What?” Marina asked in fake innocence, her hands wide. Her grin spread. “Too soon?”
I moved over to the front window and peered through the blinds. There were multiple cars parked up and down the street, and the paparazzi were standing on the sidewalk. “Did you see the police out front?” My neighbors were going to get pissed if the photographers blocked the street.
“Surely they’re not going to arrest you for this,” she said. “What two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man is going to admit to getting punched out by a tiny woman? He’s more likely to file a civil suit.”
Great. One more thing to worry about. “I can’t afford a lawsuit. You can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip.”
She studied my face. “I know things are bad, Summer, but how bad are they?”
“I’m losing my house.”
“What? How?”
I stopped pacing and ran my fingers through my hair. “Two words: my mother.” The source of pretty much everything that had gone sour in my life.
“That bitch. What did she do now?”
I’d called my mother much worse names after discovering the extent of her thievery. “Nothing new. Just the same old shit cropping up anew.”
“How much do you owe the bank?”
“Three million dollars.” For the second mortgage on my house.
Marina’s eyes bugged out of her head. “Oh. Shit.”
I sat the sofa. “Shit is right.”
“I told you to go after her when she cleaned you out and ran.”
“I couldn’t.”
The dark look she shot me suggested she strongly disagreed, but I didn’t expect her to understand. Marina had run off to LA fifteen years ago and left her family behind. While I’d left mine in the past too, Marina was actually glad to be rid of hers. I hadn’t wanted to be estranged from my grandmother and my cousins. But it was my fault their scandal had hit the tabloids. My fault the tragedy of the fire had been compounded by the coverage of it. And I had plenty of other things to feel guilty about too.
Suing my mother would have dragged what remained of my family into closer scrutiny, something she’d counted on. I’d decided to do my part to protect my cousins. And, even though she hated me—Meemaw. Any more drama from me would have kept them—especially my little cousin, who would have never purposefully set that fire, charges notwithstanding—in the spotlight. So I’d sucked up the multi-million-dollar mess, reasoning that I’d soon earn it back.
But I’d already spent so much money by then—on this house, on the furniture, on a wardrobe that had quickly gone out of style—and I hadn’t booked any major jobs since then. The money from re-airings of Gotcha! brought in ridiculously low royalties, again thanks to my mother, who’d insisted on more money up front.
“You could sell your story about what happened,” she suggested with raised eyebrows.
I shook my head. I couldn’t risk it.
“Then you have to do the nude photos, Summer,” Marina said. “You need the money.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I groaned in frustration.
I put the ice cream in the freezer, grabbed the phone, and moped all the way to the high-end sofa my designer had insisted I buy. Something so uncomfortable no sane person would want to sit on it. “I was desperate enough to consider a reality TV show.” I leaned my head back and moaned. “That’s why I was at the restaurant taking a meeting with Scott Schapiro—to pitch ideas to him.”
“Reality TV?” she asked, sounding hopeful.
I sat up and gave her a look of disbelief.
“Wait. You hate reality TV. You must be rock-bottom desperate.” She sat down sideways beside me and crossed her legs. “Jesus, Summer. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Utter embarrassment? Or maybe it was plain denial. But I wasn’t copping to either one. “What good would it have done? It doesn’t matter anyway. Schapiro told me I was too vanilla for people to care about. This probably blew the Alpha deal too. They wanted a good girl gone bad, but the effect would kind of be ruined now that I’m plastered on all the gossip sites.”
My phone began to ring, and I glared at the screen when I saw Justin’s name. I considered letting it go to voice mail, but this was all his fault, and it was time for me to fire his ass for good.
“You have a lot of fucking nerve,” I said as soon as I answered.
“Summer, darling.”
“You set me up. Did you want me to fail?” I demanded, moving to the window and peering through the blinds. There were a couple of news trucks and more paparazzi now.
“No, of course not. If you’d known you would have to pitch, you never would have gone at all.”
“Justin, I looked like a fool! It was so obvious I was unprepared . . . Besides, it was a waste of time. Schapiro said I was too boring.”
“That’s why I’m calling.”
“To gloat?”
“No! To tell you that Schapiro changed his mind. He’s offering you a contract, but you have to move fast.”
I froze. “Wait. What?”
He laughed. “Schapiro is offering you a contract for a limited-run series. Kind of like a test series.”
“What made him change his mind?”
“I don’t know . . . probably
watching you beat the shit out of that old man.”
“He wasn’t an old man, Justin. And it was one punch.”
“For all I care, you could have used Rip Van Winkle as a punching bag. Schapiro is offering fifty thousand dollars per episode for six episodes. But you have less than twenty-four hours to sign and seventy-two to show up on set.”
“That fast? Is it possible?”
“He’s using the negative publicity to help grab an audience.” He paused. “Are you sure that guy wasn’t old? Only old guys wear palm-tree shirts.”
“You’re watching the videos?”
“Of course I am. I have to know what’s going on.” He let out a groan. “Damn, girl. I should have been trying to get you parts in action movies.”
“Justin.”
“My advice? Take the deal. You’re not going to land anything that pays better.”
I put my hand on my chest to slow my racing heart. “I don’t even know what the reality show’s about.”
“Schapiro’s assistant was fuzzy about the details, but I know there’s travel involved.”
“Travel?”
Marina gave me a thumbs-up sign, then handed me a glass of wine. God bless her.
“His producer is headed to your house right now with the contract. She’ll give you all the details.”
“Aren’t you going to read it first? Aren’t you going to come over?”
“Sorry, Summer. I’m tied up, but you’re in good hands. Besides, you’re a pro at this. Congrats, darling! You’re back.” Then he hung up.
I was back. I wasn’t nearly as excited as I’d hoped I would be.
“Travel?” Marina asked. “Can I be your assistant again? I’ve always wanted to go to Greece. All those men wearing togas and wreaths on their heads.” She made a roaring sound.
“That is Rome, Marina, and you’re about two thousand years too late.”
“Huh. Too bad.” She grinned, and I shook my head.
“So what’s the premise of the show?” she asked.
“I have no idea.”
“He didn’t give you any clue at your lunch?”
“There was no lunch,” I said, flopping down on the sofa. “There was only a stolen glass of wine, and then I was whisked out the back.”
Deadly Summer (Darling Investigations Book 1) Page 4