Starlight Nights

by Stacey Kade

  “Thank you,” I say against her skin.

  “For what?” she murmurs.

  I don’t know how to respond because there are too many answers. For helping me. For not seeing me as a total fuck up. For believing in me even when I don’t deserve it. For forgiving me when I’ve made unforgivable mistakes. “For being you.”

  She leans back to meet my gaze, and the smile breaking across her face is something to behold. All light and joy. “You’re welcome,” she says.

  And I wonder if it’s the first time anyone has expressed that to her, gratefulness for who she is. Not what she looks like or what she can do, but the complete package of her intelligence, her caring, her willingness to love the unlovable.

  Judging by her reaction, I think it might be.

  That makes me want to spend the rest of my life showing her that gratitude, for how much better my life is with her in it.

  “I love you,” I say gruffly, but the words are hopelessly inadequate for the moment, for the feelings surging inside me.

  “I love you, too,” she says, her eyes growing damp. She reaches up and skims my mouth and then the dimple in my chin with her fingertip. “But you have to stop looking at me that way,” she says, her voice dropping into husky notes. “Or we’re really going to be late.”

  “Fuck it,” I say, sliding my hand inside her towel to touch the soft smooth skin of her waist. “The perks of being the boss. Besides, I can be quick.” I duck my head to bite gently at the soft skin beneath her jaw.

  She laughs shakily, sliding her hands into my hair. “Not sure that’s something you want to brag about.”

  Pulling back, I grin at her and tug her towel free, letting it drop to the floor. “No worries, sweetheart. I can make you quick, too.”

  27

  CALISTA

  Never let it be said that Eric doesn’t keep a promise.

  “Okay over there?” he asks with a wink as we hurry out of the elevator and down the hall toward the condo where we’re shooting. Rather, as we try to hurry. I’m floating in a languid fog that is, well, kind of awesome.

  “I am great.” I sound triumphant. Which, quite frankly, isn’t far from the truth.

  He snorts. “Keep saying it that way and everyone is going to know exactly why we’re late.”

  I shove his arm. “Yeah. I don’t care.”

  Reaching out, he wraps his arm around my shoulders and tucks me against his side.

  I know he’s still worried about the money, what his accountant has been up to. But we’re together, and in this moment, I’m confident that we can figure out anything that comes at us.

  I am the happiest I’ve ever been.

  That sentiment lasts all the way until we round the corner and the condo is within sight. The door is open, and the crew is moving in and out with lights and equipment. And my mother is standing off to the side, waiting, with a tense, worried expression.

  The warm glow of my mood snaps, shatters, like glass turned brittle with the cold.

  Eric slows, his arm tightening around me.

  “She’s here. Maybe that means she’s willing to let it go,” he says to me.

  Maybe. But as soon as she catches sight of us, the concern vanishes, replaced by a murderous glare that, if it had physical form, would skewer Eric, pinning him to the wall. “I don’t think so.”

  She starts toward us.

  “Do you want me to stay?” Eric asks quietly before she reaches us.

  “No,” I say, even though my stomach aches at the coming confrontation. “I need to talk to her.”

  “Okay,” he says, rubbing his thumb lightly over my shoulder before releasing me.

  “Eric,” my mom says in greeting once she reaches us. But her frosty tone would ice over a heated swimming pool.

  “Lori,” he says in a bland neutral that still somehow manages to convey his complete and utter disdain.

  I hold my breath for a second, afraid they’re both going to just throw down.

  But instead, Eric turns to me. “I’ll see you in a few minutes,” he says, and it’s exactly the promise I need to hear to ease some of my tension.

  He touches my cheek, and then, with a devil-may-care smile, he leans down to kiss me. Gentle, soft, and over quickly, but an act of rebellion all the same.

  When he pulls away, he nods at my mom. “Lori.” And then he strolls past, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, behaving for all the world like the playboy asshole he is rumored to be.

  I swallow a sigh. Of course he couldn’t resist.

  My mother watches him go, grimacing like she’s trying to swallow back bile.

  “Are you okay?” she asks as soon as he’s out of earshot.

  I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “For now, I suppose.”

  And in spite of myself, in spite of the happy glow I just had, her dire tone sends a foreboding chill through me.

  I shake my head, dismissing her words and the idea. Lori is just being Lori. Sulking because she’s not getting her way.

  “Come on, let’s go,” she says, linking an arm through my elbow and pulling me toward the condo.

  “I tried to call yesterday,” I say. “No one picked up.” Eric wasn’t thrilled, but I had to do it. I just kept picturing Zinn picking at her food and Poppy desperately trying to keep up a conversation at the table. (While Dahlia sang quietly to herself, of course.) The guilt was eating me alive and would have ruined the rest of our day together. But evidently my family didn’t feel the same way as no one picked up the house phone and my mom’s cell went straight to voicemail.

  “Mmm-hmm,” is all she says as we cross the threshold and head to the bedroom, where the dressing room is set up for today since we’re shooting in the living room.

  Josie is already waiting for me, her brush in hand and her makeup case open, in front of a mirror leaning against the wall. But it’s Zinn who catches my attention.

  My sister is folded up in the corner of the room on a metal stool, studying pages in her hand. Sides, if I had to guess, for her callback. The goose egg on the side of her head looks even larger today, but that might be just because of the shocking shades of purple and green all around it.

  “Oh, my God, Zinn.” I pull away from my mom to hurry over to her. “This looks way worse.”

  “It’s fine.” She squints up at me. “Just hurts when I touch it. And I have a headache.”

  I turn to my mother. “Did you take her back to the doctor?”

  Lori waves my words away. “He just said to keep an eye on her and let her rest.”

  “So why is she here?” I demand.

  “Calista,” Lori says sharply. “She’s here, I’m watching her. I’m her mother, not you.”

  Maybe if you acted like it …

  But I swallow the words for the sake of keeping our tentative peace.

  “Besides,” Lori says. “It’s not like I could leave her at home alone.”

  I want to suggest that Wade could have stayed home with her instead of chauffeuring my mom everywhere, but thinking through that scenario—Wade parked in front of ESPN downstairs—it’s probably better that Zinnia is here.

  “And this is a good learning opportunity for Zinnia,” my mother says. “A chance to see what happens when you don’t listen to your manager.” She looks around the dressing room with a sniff of disdain. Mainly, I suspect, because it’s not actually a full-on dressing room, just a corner of the room shielded with screens for privacy. At the moment, one of the screens is tilting at a drunken angle, possibly damaged in the move from one location to another.

  “Mom,” I say in warning. But at least it sounds like she’s a step closer to accepting my rejection of Rawley’s offer. I want to feel relieved, but I can’t shake the sensation that I’m still tiptoeing across a minefield.

  “Sorry, Josie. I’ll be ready in a second.” I touch Zinn’s shoulder reassuringly, though she doesn’t look up,
and then I hurry behind the screens to change into Evie’s wardrobe for the day. Just jeans and a scoop neck T-shirt, both hanging over the top of the drunken screen.

  I pull them down, and the screen topples over, clattering as it hits the floor.

  “Shit.” I stick my head out. “Everyone okay?”

  Josie, who has stepped back and pulled her makeup case out of the way, nods.

  Lori shakes her head in disgust. “If you were a regular on Triple Threat, this wouldn’t be an issue.”

  “I told you, I’m not agreeing to that,” I say quietly, disappearing behind the remaining screens to get dressed. She’s probably only here to try and talk me into changing my mind.

  “And why not? You have something against steady work?” she asks, louder than she should, as if she’s expecting anyone within hearing range to weigh in. But beneath her words, I sense the challenge. If I object, I look like the spoiled child she’s making me out to be. If I mention Eric’s name, I’m a pathetic, lovestruck teenager all over again. She wants me to cave.

  I square my shoulders. Boundaries. Gotta have them, Bonnie’s voice sounds in my head.

  “First, it was a recurring role he offered, not a series regular, which you already know,” I say calmly. Once again, my mother’s vision of the future is outpacing reality. “And second, because I am not doing it.” End of story.

  My mom is quiet just long enough to give me the hope that maybe, just maybe, this conversation is over.

  “Did I ever tell you that I auditioned for Rawley back in the day?” my mom asks, her voice taking on that wistful, dreamy tone that’s threaded through every one of her early-nineties-Hollywood memories.

  “Yes.” It’s one of her favorite stories. “During his teen-soap-opera phase.” I step out from behind the screens, and Josie sets to work on my hair in front of the mirror. “You made it to the second-to-last round for Shannon, the new-girl-from-Iowa lead, but then you ended up as Skateboarder’s Girlfriend #3.”

  “And Drunk Girl #1,” Lori adds swiftly. “Later that same season without even having to audition. Then I was up for the part of Layla, the new girl in school. Right before I learned I was pregnant with you. I never got another role on one of his shows again.”

  The words hang in the air like an accusation, and I grit my teeth.

  Josie makes an uncomfortable noise and fusses with her brushes.

  Leave it to my mother to air our dirty laundry in public when it suits her. She would have been mortified if I did it. “Mom, can we talk about this later? Please?”

  “All I’m saying, Calista,” she says with exasperation, “is that you need to think about what you’re doing. One wrong decision can ruin your life.”

  It’s hard not to flinch at that.

  She steps closer. “Don’t let a man who pretends to care about you take everything from you,” she says in a hard voice. “It happened to me, I don’t want to see it happen to you. Eric Stone doesn’t give a shit about you except what you can do for him. He’ll use you, and then he’ll throw you away, just like before.”

  I should never have told my mother what happened the night of the accident. Heat crawls in a slow burn up my neck and into my face. “Josie, I’m sorry, can you give us a second?”

  Josie nods hastily, her ornate earrings jangling. In our shared reflection in the mirror, her cheeks are almost as pink as mine. “Sure. I’ll be … out there.” She gestures awkwardly toward the hall. “Just yell for me.”

  But before she vanishes from the mirror, she gives me a sympathetic look and squeezes my shoulder. My mother’s abrasive moments on set are legend, but this one is a new low.

  I take a deep breath and turn to face my mother, who simply raises her eyebrow, as if daring me to challenge what she’s said. “I’ve made a decision. I’m not working for Rawley Stone.”

  She opens her mouth.

  “I’m not,” I say before she can interrupt. “And that’s my choice, not Eric’s. And not yours.”

  “Of course you say that now,” she says gently. “He’s muddled your thinking with sex.”

  “Mom,” I say sharply, with a glance toward Zinn, my fourteen-year-old sister, who is listening avidly.

  “My baby, listen to me.” Lori steps in front of me, cupping my face in her cool hands. “I know you probably think you love him. You’ve thought that since you were sixteen. But he’s trouble. Believe me. He wants you right now because you’re new, you’re different, and he needs you to capitalize on your reputation.” She smooths my partially-styled hair away from my face, which will surely piss off Josie when she returns. “You were Skye Danvers,” she says with awe in her voice that seems weirdly detached, like she’s talking about someone else besides me.

  “But in six months, once the novelty has worn off, once this project has bottomed out and he’s bored, he’ll be moving on to something else, to someone else. He had a fiancée just a few days ago, didn’t he?”

  Those words strike my lingering concerns with unerring accuracy, blowing them up and sending slivers of fear in every direction. “He loves me,” I snap.

  She cocks her head to one side with a pitying look. “I’m sure that’s what he says now. But Eric Stone doesn’t need the money or this crappy project.” Her mouth purses in distaste. “He’s playing. That’s all.”

  Except he’s not. I’ve heard the excitement and the passion in his voice when he talks about Fly Girl. It’s the same way I feel about the project. Hell, he just emptied out his own personal bank account to make payroll. Which, okay, is maybe not a great sign in terms of money management, but it’s not his fault his accountant is (possibly) cheating him.

  “You don’t know him,” I say, pulling away from her.

  “Oh, sweetie. I’ve known plenty like him,” she says.

  “Like my dad?” I demand. “Just because he took off doesn’t mean that Eric will do the same thing. The situations aren’t even remotely—”

  “It doesn’t mean that he won’t, either,” she points out. “What I’m saying is that work, taking care of yourself, that’s what will keep you safe.”

  The irony of her saying this to me makes me want to scream. “Until I’m too old or too fat or ‘not what they’re looking for’ too many times,” I say, my ire rising. “I told you, I don’t want to do this anymore, the relentless auditioning and dieting and rejection. Always feeling like I’m running on a wheel and I have to keep up or be thrown off. I have a plan.” The time away with Eric allowed me to think, to come up with a solution that will work for all of us. Well, not Lori, not entirely. But she’ll have to live with it. “I’m going to finish this project, and I’ll share the money, whatever you need to keep the house, but I want to get my degree and—”

  Her laugh has a desperate quality to it.

  “What?” I ask.

  “My darling girl,” she says. “Do you think they foreclose on houses for missing a payment or two? The money from this,” she waves her hand around to indicate Fly Girl, “adventure isn’t going to save us. At best, it holds everyone off for another month or two. That’s all. And if you want your degree, how exactly do you think you’re going to pay for it?”

  I lift my chin. “There are student loans, and I can take small acting jobs if I transfer back to California—”

  “Um, Calista?” It’s Josie at the door, fidgeting anxiously with a hairbrush in her hands.

  “I’m so sorry, Josie, I just need one more minute with my mother.”

  “Okay, but it’s just there’s a delivery for you, and the guy needs you to sign…”

  I watch, flummoxed, as she steps back and a flushed and sweaty guy in a delivery uniform rushes past her into the room and presents me with an enormous vase of pale pink roses mixed with baby’s breath.

  I have no idea what this is about. Eric is not exactly the send-roses type of guy. Which is a good thing because I hate roses as a romantic gesture. They’re so easy, no forethought or knowledge required. If there’s a woman involved, send
roses. (The guy from rehab sent me roses once.)

  The delivery guy holds out a clipboard and a pen for me. My mom steps up and takes the vase so I can sign.

  I scrawl my signature across the bottom, but before I have a chance to look at the sender’s information, assuming there is any on the form, he pulls the clipboard away and hustles out the door.

  “Oh, look, a card,” my mom crows, pulling it free from the pink buds without hesitation. “‘Congratulations, Calista! Looking forward to a most-productive future together. Rawley.’”

  She holds it up so I can see, and even from here, Rawley’s name—in big, block letters—is plainly visible.

  Sickness spirals through me until I feel like I might actually throw up. “What did you do?”

  “Exactly what I’m supposed to do, as your mother and your manager,” she says briskly. “I’m protecting you from yourself.”

  28

  ERIC

  The problem with working low budget is that you don’t have money for the niceties that normally come along, unquestioned, with higher-end productions.

  Like security. To keep random people from just walking in.

  I’m talking with Dave, one of our lighting techs, when I see the delivery guy come in with flowers—a disgusting shade of pink—and assume at first that it’s something our set decorator, Kelly, has approved for a scene. But when the guy disappears down the hall and reappears a few seconds later without them, it triggers an alarm in the back of my head.

  The only thing down that hall is the dressing room, where Calista is.

  “Can I help you?” I ask, stepping in front of him.

  “Just dropping off some flowers, man,” he says with a grin. “Are you the director?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then this is for you.” He pulls a shoebox-sized package, wrapped in a bright silvery paper, from his messenger bag and holds it out to me.