Why Resist a Rebel?

by Leah Ashton

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting we make out on set, you know,’ he said dryly. Ruby raised an eyebrow. ‘I promise.’

  She shook her head. ‘Film sets are full of gossip. And my professional reputation is everything to me.’ She paused, then repeated her words, almost to herself. ‘Everything to me.’

  Commitment to your job—sure, Dev got that. Until very recently, he’d practically been the poster child for the concept. But—really? Liaisons between crew and actors were not a crime, and far from uncommon. The world would not end.

  But apparently, according to Ruby, it would. It was clear in every tense line of her expression.

  They stood in silence for a while. Dev wasn’t entirely sure what would happen now.

  He was out of his element: he’d just been rejected. Inarguably so.

  But rather than shrugging, comfortable in the knowledge that he had many other options, he found himself...disappointed.

  And reluctant to walk away.

  ‘Anyway,’ Ruby said in a different, crisper, tone. ‘You have an early call tomorrow morning, and I need to be at the office an hour earlier. So, goodnight.’

  With that, she turned on her heel and walked away. Out on the street he watched as she walked down the motel driveway to an apartment on the bottom floor of the two-storey building. Then he waited until she located her key in her oversized handbag, unlocked the door, and disappeared inside.

  Then he waited, alone on the street, some more.

  It was odd. All he knew about this woman was that she was blonde, and cute, and felt pretty amazing in his arms.

  What was the attraction? Why did he care?

  How was she different from the many other women who he’d met in the past few, dark, blurry months? Months where no one had stood out. Where nothing had stood out.

  Where when, a few weeks after Estelle had left, he’d attempt to chat to a woman—but his mind would drift. Where he’d find himself with suddenly no idea what had been said in the preceding conversation.

  And didn’t care at all.

  That was why she was different.

  Ruby pushed his buttons. Triggered reactions that had been lying dormant. Attraction. Laughter. Surprise.

  So simple.

  THREE

  A loud bang jolted Dev out of his dream.

  He blinked, his eyes attempting to adjust to the darkness.

  What time is it?

  He lay on his back in the centre of his bed. Naked but for his boxer shorts, the sheets and quilt long ago kicked off and onto the floor.

  He remembered feeling restless. As if he needed to get up and go for a run. Or for a drive. Or just out. Somewhere. Away.

  Where?

  It wasn’t the first morning he’d asked that question.

  Another bang. Even louder than before. Or maybe just now he was more awake?

  The thick cloak of sleep was slowly lifting, and his eyes were adjusting.

  It wasn’t completely dark in here. Light was managing to push through the heavy curtains that he’d checked and double checked were fully closed the night before.

  He shivered, and only then did he register it was cold. He had a vague recollection of turning off the heater on the wall. Why? The nights were still cool.

  Obviously it had made sense at the time.

  Another bang.

  The door. Someone was knocking on the door.

  What time is it?

  He rolled onto his side, reaching across the bed, knocking aside a small cardboard box and a blister pack so he could see the glowing green numbers of the clock on the bedside table. There were none. He didn’t remember turning it off, but it didn’t surprise him that he had.

  He had set that alarm last night, though. And the alarm on his phone. He had an early call today. He’d been going to get up early to read through today’s rehearsal scenes.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  Dev swung his legs over the side of the bed in slow motion, then shoved himself to his feet. Three sluggish steps later, he discovered his mobile phone when he kicked it in the gloom, and it clattered against his closed bedroom door.

  By feel he found the light switch on the wall, then rubbed his eyes against the sudden brightness.

  His phone located, he picked it up to check the time. He pressed the button to illuminate the screen, but it took a while for his eyes to focus.

  How long ago had he taken the sleepers?

  He still felt drugged, still shrouded in the sleep that the tablets had finally delivered.

  Seven thirty-two a.m. Why hadn’t his alarm gone off?

  Bang, bang, BANG, BANG, BANG!

  ‘Mr Cooper? Are you awake?’

  Graeme. Of course.

  He twisted the old brass doorknob to his room, then padded up the wide hallway. Morning light streamed through the stained-glass panels of the front door around the over-inflated shape that was Dev’s warden.

  He took his time, his gaze trained on his phone as he checked that his alarm had been set. It had. So it had gone off.

  Presumably he’d then thrown it across the room, given where he’d found it.

  It shouldn’t surprise him, but that wasn’t what he’d meant to do today. Last night he’d felt...different. Today was supposed to be different. Different from the past ninety-seven days.

  How specific.

  He smiled a humourless smile. Who knew his subconscious kept such meticulous records?

  The thing was, today wasn’t the first day that was supposed to be different. But then, they never were.

  Graeme was still hammering away at the door, but Dev didn’t bother to call out, to reassure him that his charge was in fact awake and not passed out in an alcoholic stupor or worse—whatever it was that Veronica was so sure that Dev was doing.

  In some ways Dev wished he could apply a label to himself. Alcoholic. Drug addict.

  But he was neither of those things.

  What about his sleepers?

  He dismissed the idea instantly. No. They were prescribed, and temporary.

  Definitely temporary.

  Hollywood wasn’t the shiny happy place people imagined. It was full of egos fuelled by intense insecurity. Stars that shone while simultaneously harbouring the intense fear that their light could be extinguished at any moment: at the mercy of their next role, of public opinion, of the whims of studio executives...always others.

  So little control. It was no surprise that so many teetered over the edge. Fell into...something. It was just the label that changed.

  But Dev had no label.

  He just had...nothing.

  He opened the door while Graeme was mid-knock. The other man started, then took a step back, clearing his throat.

  ‘We need to leave in five minutes, Mr Cooper.’

  Dev scratched his belly and nodded. He left the door open as he turned and headed for the bathroom. Four minutes later he was showered and had dragged on a T-shirt, hoodie and jeans. He pulled the front door shut and locked it as Graeme hovered nearby—impatiently.

  When he was growing up, his mum had done the same thing—although not as silently. She’d tap her foot as she waited for her youngest and most disorganised son. The other two boys generally already in the family Mercedes, all perfect and consistently smug. Hurry up, Dev! You’re making us late!

  And just because he’d been that kind of kid, he’d taken his own sweet time.

  This was why he didn’t like having drivers. Why he insisted on driving himself to and from set for every single one of his many movies. He was a grown adult with a driver’s licence—why the hell did he need a chauffeur? He was far from a child any more; he didn’t need to be directed and herded and hurried. He was a professional—always on time. Always reliable.

  Until now.

  Today was not the first time he’d slept through his alarm. Or, of more concern: he’d heard it, switched it off, and deliberately rolled over and gone back to sleep. More than once the action of even setting his alarm had felt i
mpossible. Weirdly overwhelming.

  Other nights sleep had never come. Where his thoughts had echoed so loudly in his skull that even drugs had no impact. And those days he’d watched time tick by, watched his call time slip by, and switched his phone to silent as his agent, or the producer, or even the director would call, and call and call...

  That had got him fired from his last film. The contract was pulled on his next after whispers had begun to spread.

  So here he was.

  And although he hadn’t meant to—because of course he never meant to—it was happening again.

  Without Graeme, he’d still be in bed, time passing. He hated that.

  He sat in the back of the black four-wheel drive, staring unseeing out of the darkly tinted windows. Beside him was an insulated bag that Graeme said contained his breakfast, but he wasn’t hungry.

  You’re not welcome here.

  Closer to Unit Base, the bitumen road ended, and the car bounced amongst potholes on the wide gravel track. The irregular movements did nothing to jolt that memory. How long ago had it been? Ten years? No, longer. Fourteen. He’d been nineteen, home late—really late—after a night out with his mates.

  He hadn’t been drunk, but alcohol had still buzzed through his bloodstream.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  His father stood at the very top of the staircase that rose majestically from the lobby of the Coopers’ sprawling Sydney upper-north-shore residence. His mum had left a lamp on for him, and the soft light threw shadows onto his dad’s pyjamas.

  ‘Out,’ he said. Grunted, really.

  ‘You have an exam tomorrow.’

  Dev shrugged. He’d had no intention of turning up. He dumped his keys on a sideboard, and began to head past the stairs to the hallway that led to his bedroom, tossing his reply over his shoulder. ‘I’m not going to be an accountant, Dad.’

  Patrick Cooper’s slippered feet were still heavy as they thumped down each carpeted step. Dev didn’t pause. He’d heard it all before.

  He’d gone to uni to please his mum, only. But three semesters in, and he’d had it. He knew where his life was leading, and it didn’t involve a calculator and a navy-blue suit.

  His father picked up his pace behind him, but Dev remained deliberately slow. Unworried. Casual.

  He was unsurprised to feel the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder. But when Dev kept walking, the way Patrick wrenched at his shoulder, spinning him around...yes, that shocked him.

  His arm came up, his fingers forming into a fist. It was automatic, the result of the crowd he’d been hanging with, the occasional push and shove at a pub. He wouldn’t have hit his dad—he knew that. Knew that.

  But his dad thought he would. He could see it in his eyes, that belief of what Dev was capable of. Or rather, the lack of belief.

  Dev saw the fist coming. Maybe he didn’t have enough time to move, maybe he did—either way he stood stock still.

  His father’s knuckles connected with his jaw with enough force to twist his body and push him back into the wall. And for it to hurt. A lot. He tasted blood, felt it coating his teeth.

  But he remained standing, half expecting more.

  But that wasn’t going to happen. Instead, his dad fell to his knees, holding his fist in his other hand.

  For long moments, it was perfectly silent. It was as if neither of them could breathe.

  Then a clatter on the stairs heralded his mum’s arrival. She gasped as she came into view, then ran to Patrick, kneeling beside him and wrapping her arm around his shoulder.

  She looked up at Dev, her gaze beseeching. ‘What happened here?’

  ‘I’m quitting uni, Mum,’ he said. ‘I’m an actor.’ His whole face ached as he spoke, but the words were strong and clear.

  ‘That’s a dream, not a career.’ His dad didn’t say the words, he spat them out.

  ‘It’s what I want.’ What he needed to do.

  ‘I won’t support you, Devlin. I won’t stand by and watch you fail—’

  ‘I know that,’ he interrupted. How well he knew that.

  That his family wouldn’t support him. That not one of them believed he’d succeed.

  ‘Good,’ his dad said. ‘Then leave. You’re not welcome here.’

  It didn’t surprise him. It had been coming for so long. His mum, the only reason he’d stayed, looked stricken.

  He nodded. Then walked back up the hall the way he’d come.

  He didn’t say a word. No dramatic farewell. No parting words.

  But he knew he’d never be back.

  Graeme slowed to a stop at a paddock gate before a security guard waved them through. A dirt track wound its way over the smallest of hills, and then they were amongst the trailers that sprawled across Unit Base. The set was vast—yesterday the producer had told him it was the corner of a working sheep and canola farm. It spread across the almost perfectly flat countryside, overlooked by an irregular ridge of mountains. Yesterday, Dev’s gaze had explored a landscape dotted with eucalyptus, rectangular fields of lurid yellow canola and paddocks desperately trying to hold onto winter hints of green. Today it was just a blur.

  But something caught his eye as Graeme parked beside his trailer. Through the car window he followed that splash of colour with his eyes.

  A woman in a bright blue dress, more like an oversized jumper, really, was barrelling rapidly along the path towards him. She was unmistakeable, her mop of choppy blonde hair shining like pale gold in the sun.

  Ruby Bell.

  She’d slipped his mind as soon as his nightly battle for sleep had begun, but now she’d sprung right back to the front, in full Technicolor.

  He knew what she was: a distraction. A temporary focus.

  But one he needed.

  He was here. And thanks to Graeme—via Veronica—he’d be here on set each day, right on time. But right now he couldn’t make himself care about the film, about his role.

  Oh, he’d perform, right on cue, and to the best of his ability—as much as he was capable of, anyway.

  But he wouldn’t care. Couldn’t care. Any more.

  How was that for irony?

  With his death, his father had—finally—got his way.

  He was on time—just.

  Ruby watched as he got out of the car, all loose-limbed and casual.

  In contrast, she felt as stiff as a board. She kept making herself take deep, supposedly calming breaths as she gripped the papers in her hand, and reminding herself that she could do this—that this was her job.

  It was just incredibly unfortunate it was her job. She shouldn’t have been surprised, really, when Paul had taken her aside this morning and made her task clear: keep Dev on time and on schedule.

  All the Dev-related rumours—a new one this morning hinting at a lot more than tardiness—should’ve made Paul’s request a no-brainer.

  Yet, she’d actually gasped when Paul had told her, and then had to make up some unfortunate lie about swallowing a fly, accompanied with much poorly acted faux coughing.

  Once again Dev had managed to short-circuit her brain.

  Because the task of babysitting talent was a perfectly typical request for the production co-ordinator, who, amongst other things, was responsible for organising actors’ lives while on location.

  Actors were notoriously unreliable. Putting together the call sheet was one thing—having anyone actually stick to it was something else entirely.

  As she watched Dev watch her, a hip propped against his car, it was suddenly clear that getting him to do anything—at all—that she wanted could prove difficult.

  This was not the man who’d smiled at her in the Lucyville pub last night, or who’d teased her on the street. Neither was he the man with the smug expression and the coffee stains on his shirt.

  This man was completely unreadable.

  ‘Good morning!’ she managed, quite well, she thought.

  He nodded sharply.

  She thrust the
portion of the script he’d be rehearsing today in his direction. ‘Here are today’s sides,’ she said.

  He took them from her with barely a glance. It was as if he was waiting for something—to figure something out.

  ‘And?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll be taking you to be fitted by Costume, first,’ she said. ‘Then Hair and Make-up would like to see you prior to your rehearsal.’

  ‘And you’ll be escorting me?’

  Ruby swallowed. ‘Yes. I’ll be looking after you today.’

  It was immediately obvious that was the wrong thing to say. Something flickered in his gaze.

  ‘I have my call sheet. I know where I need to be. I don’t require hand-holding.’

  ‘Paul asked that I...’

  His glare told her that was another mistake, so she let the words drift off.

  Then tried again. ‘Mr Cooper, I’m here to help you.’

  Somehow, those words changed everything, as if she’d flicked a switch. From defensive, and shuttered, his expression was suddenly...considering?

  But Ruby didn’t think for a moment that he’d simply accepted she was just doing her job. This was different—more calculating.

  ‘Here to help,’ he said to himself, as if he was turning the words over in his head.

  Then he smiled, a blinding, movie-star smile.

  And Ruby had absolutely no idea what had just happened.

  It was dumb—really dumb—that he was surprised.

  Heck—if he were the producer on this film, he’d have done the same thing.

  It didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.

  He’d never been this kind of actor before; he’d never needed to be led around on some imaginary leash. Lord—he’d thought Graeme was bad enough.

  And, of course, it had to be Ruby in charge of him.

  It was a total waste of her time, of course. On set, he was fine, and not the fine he told himself he was whenever he was convincing himself to fall asleep.

  He followed just slightly behind her. She was talking, quite rapidly, but he really wasn’t paying much attention.

  She was nervous, for sure. He did like that.

  And he did like how the tables had turned. Last night she’d called the shots. Today—it was him.