The woman at the front desk directed me to the second floor. I walked through the hospital corridor, my stomach churning at the scent of disinfectant. I didn’t have good memories of hospitals. Not after I’d spent time in one after my ex had pushed me down the stairs.
Before I reached Michael Mills’ room, I spotted a couple lingering outside his doorway. I slowed my steps and quickly soaked in their features. The woman appeared to be in her fifties with blonde hair that looked plastered in place. The man had ruddy skin and was probably thirty pounds overweight.
A bag sat on the floor beside them, along with three discarded coffee cups.
As the woman looked over at me, her eyes lit with recognition, as if she’d run into an old friend or something. “You’re Joey Darling.”
I braced myself for what was to come. I never knew where that starting line might lead. Despite my hesitation, I took three more steps until I stopped in front of them. “I am.”
“I’m a huge fan,” she gushed. “I absolutely adored Family Secrets, and I can’t wait to buy it on DVD whenever it comes out.”
“Thank you. I always like to hear that.” I paused, examining the woman’s red-rimmed eyes.
This had to be Michael’s mother and father. That made sense. And—I glanced at the number on the door—this was definitely his room.
“Are you here to see . . . Michael?” The man examined my face. Was he looking for grief? For some type of signal as to why I’d shown up?
“Yes.”
“You know Michael?” the woman said. “You must have met him through Desiree.”
I wasn’t following her train of thought. “You think I met Michael through Desiree?”
She let out an uncertain, quick fading chuckle. “Well, yes, since Desiree got a role on your show and everything. She was so excited about it and talked like it might be her big break.”
Oh boy.
Change the subject. Detecting 101. Sometimes it was just best to avoid answering. “How is Michael?”
“There haven’t been any changes.” His dad frowned, and his voice turned solemn. “But the doctor expects a full recovery.”
“That’s good news. I wasn’t sure exactly what happened. Did I hear correctly that he was in a car accident?”
Michael’s mom shook her head, her eyes welling with moisture again. “That’s right. Apparently, he was turning onto the street when another car T-boned him. I just can’t believe it.”
“That’s awful,” I said. And it was. A friend of mine had been in a horrible car accident three years ago, and she now lived with chronic pain. “Did the police catch the person responsible?”
“No, not yet. That’s what they told us, at least. It was a hit-and-run.” His mom sniffled.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I hope the police find the person responsible for this . . . and make him pay.” Mr. Mills’ voice went from solemn to angry, and his expression matched.
I couldn’t blame him. “People should take responsibility for their actions.”
Mrs. Mills shifted and looked beyond me, as if she’d taken a mental shift. “Speaking of which, I can’t believe Desiree hasn’t come by yet.”
I sucked in a deep breath. They didn’t know about Desiree, I realized.
Did that mean I had to be the one to break it to them?
Dread pooled in my stomach. I should have never come here without Jackson.
Jackson still wasn’t answering his phone, and a less secure woman might have tried to track him down. Okay, I’d considered it. Maybe I’d even driven past the police station to see if his car was there. It wasn’t.
So I’d gone back to the house to process what I’d just learned.
When I walked inside, Sam was in the kitchen cooking something that smelled delicious. Fat particles floated in the air and teased like the Pied Piper leading me toward Fat Camp.
“Good morning.” He put another piece of bacon in a sizzling skillet. “I ran to the store and picked up some groceries. Decided to make a late breakfast. I fixed enough for you.”
“That’s really nice of you. Thank you.” I slid into a seat at the bar so I could watch. “How did you sleep last night?”
“Like a baby—thanks to my sleeping meds. Never leave home without them.”
My old life kept flashing back to me over and over again. Self-medicating instead of dealing with issues. Drinking instead of facing reality. Staying busy instead of admitting emptiness. I hadn’t realized I’d done any of those things until I’d come here and seen what my life could look like away from the limelight.
“I see,” I said.
Sam placed a plate in front of me. “Enjoy. Or bon appetit, as they say.”
“I never knew you liked to cook.” I picked up my fork.
“A lot has changed in my life over the past year or so.” He stood across from me to eat his eggs benedict.
“Is that right? Like what?” He hadn’t shared anything last night.
He offered a half shrug—a motion that appeared to take way too much effort. “You don’t want to hear all of my sad tales.”
“I’m always happy to listen, Sam.”
“Kelsey left me.” His voice cracked.
I sat up straight. “What? Last night you said she was great.”
“I lied. She dumped me for Colin Moore.”
My bottom lip dropped open. “Colin Moore? You’re way more handsome than he is.”
“Thanks. She doesn’t think so, however.”
My eyes widened. I hadn’t expected that. My bacon suddenly didn’t taste as good. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry, Sam.”
“Don’t be sorry. One day I woke up and realized I had to make the best of my life. I learned to cook. I took art classes. I started doing yoga on the beach . . . with goats.”
“Wow. On all counts—including the goats.”
“Yes, wow. I got myself back together. And then I got the call about Relentless. Perfect timing, huh?” He bit into a piece of crispy bacon and then pointed with it to emphasize his words.
“It sounds like it.”
We continued to chat as we ate breakfast. It was good to talk to Sam, to catch up with an old friend, even if all his news wasn’t good. At least I could be a listening ear for him.
After Sam and I cleaned up, we started to rehearse the lines for the premiere episode of the new season. We stood in the kitchen, scripts in hand, and read through the scenes together. I figured it was a good use of time until I could get up with Jackson. And this helped me not think about Desiree and her dead body upstairs and the total and complete lack of answers I had concerning my non-investigation into her death.
“I don’t feel like I’m connecting with this scene.” Sam pointed to the script. “I need to go deeper if I’m going to sell this. What do you think? Should it sound more certain or more like a surprise?”
The scene we were going over involved Raven and Grant—played by Sam—being stuck in an old underground room and trying to get out, to no avail. When they think they’re going to die down there, Grant decides to confess his love. True love this time because they’d already kissed before. Of course, things were never as simple as they seemed. Especially when Grant’s wife returns from the dead later in the season.
I stared at his lines of dialogue, trying to interpret them. “I definitely think you should sound certain. You’re declaring your love.”
“But I’m also scared because I could jeopardize the friendship.” He scrunched his face in uncertainty.
He had a point. And everyone thought acting was so easy. In reality, it was emotionally exhausting.
“Okay, so you have to add a little more depth to it.” I closed my eyes so I could picture the scene playing out.
Playing Raven Remington came back to me as easily as riding a bike.
“So I’ll step closer,” Sam said.
“Maybe brush my hair out of my eyes,” I suggested. “That’s always a sweet gesture.”
“Lik
e this?” He pushed my hair back.
“Yes, exactly like that. And then tell me how you feel.” I waited, listening for Sam to sell it.
“I love you. I always have. I always will.” His voice cracked with emotion.
That wasn’t too bad. I almost believed it.
And now it was my turn.
I stepped closer to him and raised my head.
“I love you too. I was wondering when you would tell me.” My voice sounded wispy with fake emotions.
“Joey?”
Startled, I jumped back. My real name was not supposed to be muttered in this scene.
I turned and saw Jackson standing at the door, staring at us.
I knew beyond a doubt that things weren’t going to get any easier between us today.
Chapter Thirteen
“What is going on here?” Jackson stood with his hands on his hips, his gaze burning into me.
I must have left the door cracked—at the most inconvenient of times, of course. Just like in those stupid movies.
I rushed toward him, realizing how that might have looked and sounded. I stopped just short of touching Jackson. Yet, even then, I could feel the steam coming from him.
“We’re just rehearsing,” I explained.
“That’s not what it looked like.” Jackson glowered at Sam, who raised his hands in the air in surrender.
“Totally just rehearsing,” Sam said, keeping his distance like any smart man would do right now. “You must be Joey’s fresh catch.”
I swerved my head toward Sam, horrified at his word choice. Fresh catch? Had he lost his mind? So much for thinking of him as a smart man.
I couldn’t deal with that right now. “Sam, this is Jackson Sullivan. My boyfriend.”
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? I had no idea. All that catching up we did last night, and you didn’t mention that, Joey? Congratulations.”
I was seriously going to kill Sam. But I’d save that for later. Instead, through clenched teeth, I said, “Jackson, this is Sam Butler, my Relentless costar.”
Jackson still looked steamed as he nodded at Sam. “Can I have a word with you, Joey? Privately?”
I felt like I was being called into the principal’s office, but I nodded and followed Jackson outside to my deck. Dread seized all my muscles until I felt stiff all over as we stood in front of each other.
“What is going on?” Jackson crossed his arms, keeping his distance from me.
“We were just rehearsing. I promise. I know it must have looked funny—”
“It looked like you were about to kiss.”
I opened my mouth and shut it again as I considered my words. “I wasn’t going to kiss Sam here.”
“What does that mean?” Jackson’s voice rose with frustration.
That hadn’t come out right, had it? “You do realize that I’ll have to kiss Sam when I’m on the set, right? But only there. And only as a part of playing my character.”
His jaw flexed. Jackson still wasn’t happy, and I wasn’t sure how to make things better. People in the real world didn’t have these conversations. People in real life didn’t get paid to pretend they loved someone else while the whole thing was being filmed.
Now that I said it that way, it did seem a little sordid, didn’t it?
“Jackson . . .” I reached for him, but he stiffened. Instead, I dropped my hand to the side. “Onscreen kisses aren’t like real kisses. They’re technical, and they make me self-conscious and . . . you’d be surprised how many actors have horrible breath.”
He didn’t even react to the breath comment. That wasn’t a good sign.
“I just need a minute.” He ran a hand over his face. Turned away. Let out a sigh.
Why did I feel like everything was slipping away? Why couldn’t just one thing in my life work like I wanted? Panic started to boil inside me.
“I know I’ve already said this, but I think it bears repeating,” Jackson finally said, his words slow and purposeful. “I don’t think your friend should stay here with you, Joey.”
“And, like I’ve already asked, where is Sam supposed to stay? Everything in town is booked. This is one of the most popular weeks of the summer, and there are no vacancies in town. We’ve talked about this.”
“Can’t he go back to wherever he came from?” The words sounded harsh, though I wasn’t sure if Jackson intended them that way. Maybe he had.
“He came here so we could rehearse.”
Jackson’s gaze darkened, and he still looked both uneasy and unhappy. “I’m not loving these rehearsals.”
“And his girlfriend left him. When Eric and I had problems, Sam was there for me.”
“That’s nice of him, but this . . . this is different.”
“Different or not, you trust me, right?” The question hung in the air. I needed Jackson to say yes. I needed him to be on my side. I needed him to be the Harry to my Sally.
I waited for his answer, hardly able to breathe. I felt like my future hung in the balance, and the scale wasn’t tilting in my favor.
“This isn’t about me trusting you or not.” Jackson’s words sounded stiff with self-control. “I’m just asking that you respect me enough to not let him stay here.”
“And I’m just asking that you trust me.” Was I being stubborn? I didn’t know. But I didn’t think it was fair that Jackson was asking me to rearrange things because he was feeling territorial.
We stared at each other, and I felt something beginning to shift between us.
I hated it. I wanted to make things right. I wanted to rewind this conversation.
Yet I couldn’t bring myself to apologize.
My heart pounded as I waited for whatever would happen next.
“I guess I know where I stand then.” Jackson shook his head and turned to walk away. “I need to get back to work.”
“Why’d you stop by?”
“It’s not important,” he muttered.
I knew I should call after him. But calling after him would mean I’d be the one compromising.
Maybe that was what I should do. Maybe it was the right thing. The mature thing.
But thoughts of my first marriage pummeled me. I remembered the mess it had been. How it had started with so much warmth and fun and turned into a total disaster when I’d realized that Eric was insecure and possessive.
Was that what was happening with Jackson also?
The thought of it broke my heart.
I didn’t go back inside after Jackson left. I stood on my deck, despite the heat and humidity. There wasn’t even a breeze today to offer me any relief. No, instead a fly annoyed me and a lifeguard in the distance repeatedly blew his whistle.
I didn’t want to face Sam and explain myself or act as if nothing had happened—although he had stuck his head out the door and told me he was going to shower and lay down for a few minutes. The man could be so clueless sometimes, but that worked to my advantage right now. I didn’t want to talk.
As I stood outside, I felt a little dead inside. Like I’d been named prom queen only to have pig’s blood poured over me.
Okay, maybe not quite that Stephen King dramatic.
This wasn’t like Jackson and me. We didn’t fight like this. He understood my idiosyncrasies, and they amused him. I understood his toughness, and I reveled in it. Our opposing personalities actually brought us closer—until now.
Now . . . I didn’t know what I was feeling, except for confused. All the fears that I buried deep inside wanted to boil to the surface.
“Hey, Joey.” Zane stepped onto the deck.
I hadn’t even heard him pull up or climb the stairs. I was totally and completely wrapped up in my own thoughts, wasn’t I?
I wiped my tears away and straightened, unwilling to show him how upset I was. I was smart enough to know that crying on Zane’s shoulder would be a bad, bad idea.
“Hey, Zane.” I pulled myself together. “What brings you by here?”
“I was hopi
ng I might catch Jackson—or you. You’ll do also.”
“Okay . . .” I was Zane’s second choice, which was kind of weird considering Zane and Jackson’s history. “What’s going on?”
He stood beside me at the railing. “First, are you okay?”
He’d noticed I was upset. Of course. The problem with Zane and me was that we were too much alike. He was intuitive and could sense when to move in. Wait, did I say move in? I meant he could sense when I was having a bad day.
“Just a little argument with Jackson,” I finally said.
He offered a half-frown as he glanced at me. “I’m sorry. You want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” What I wanted to do was erase it. Was that possible?
Zane shifted toward me. “I’ll get to the point of why I’m here. Wesley called me again. It was about that painting he thought he left under the bed.”
I glanced at Zane, wondering where he was going with this. “Okay.”
“Apparently, it was valuable. Hashtag: worthafortune!”
“Then why did he leave it?” People generally grabbed the expensive stuff first—not as an afterthought. I waited to hear his explanation.
“I don’t know. I think Wesley forgot he put it under the bed. He said he didn’t usually use that room except for overflow storage. It wasn’t until later that he realized it was missing.”
“Why did he put the painting under the bed?” I mean, I could understand if it was several paintings he’d placed there. But just one? It seemed weird.
Zane shrugged, his curly hair bouncing in the breeze. “Again—for storage. His closets were full. His walls were lined. He was running out of room. Someone at an online gallery that carries his work just contacted him about it, offering to pay one hundred thousand for this particular piece.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Not a bad paycheck.”
“Not bad at all. Except Wesley can’t find it.” Zane’s eyes scrunched together, like he was preparing himself for my reaction.
“You mean that, after all of that, the painting wasn’t under the bed?” I couldn’t even remember what had happened after I’d found the dead body. I’d completely forgotten about the artwork we’d originally gone to fetch, and it hadn’t seemed important enough to ask about then.
Gaffe Out Loud Page 7
