I edge through the crowd and walk outside. Easton’s making his way past the picnic tables, navigating around the attendants clearing up. He pauses at the staircase on the edge of the property, right where the bluff falls into thin air. Framed against the moon sinking low over the Pacific, he opens the gate and walks down the stairs.
“Hold up,” I say, but he doesn’t hear me over the music. A few wooden steps down I kick off my heels and dangle them from one hand. I head down the stairs, one flight, then the next, until I step onto the sand, a shock of gritty coldness traveling up my legs to my core. I shiver and follow Easton down the beach, skirting random piles of thick seaweed. “Hold up.”
He turns. “What are you doing?”
“Clearing my head. Where’s Amelia?”
“I told her to go home,” he says, and keeps walking.
“Why?” I catch up to him.
The moon’s hanging low, yellows, blues and purples shifting across its swollen roundness as it rises above the ocean. The thin beach stretching in front of us is studded with rocks and boulders, lined with jaw-dropping Conde Nast cover worthy homes probably cost tens of millions of dollars each.
“You were right,” he says. “Amelia wants the dream: the loyal besotted husband, the house in the suburbs, the kids.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” I say.
“I agree. But I’m not that guy. I could be selfish and keep her around for longer. Let her develop more feelings for me when I already know I’ll never have any for her.”
“Why not?” A psychotic push-pull of emotions courses through me. Relief that he let her go ping-pongs with loyalty for my friend.
“Because I just know. Look at you with the determined thrust to your jaw,” Easton says, leaning down, rolling his pants up his legs. “You’re a warrior, Evie. Do you know that?” He smiles at me for a second.
His smile cracks my heart. Have I ever seen Easton smile?
He resumes walking.
“You told me I was Liam Neeson in every action movie ever,” I say and follow.
“That too.” He treads the boundary between the surf and the sand, ocean water splashing his muscular calves. “You already pointed out why I shouldn’t lead Amelia on. Then the fates intervened, telling me in no uncertain terms that life’s too short for bullshit. I gave your pal a big tip, apologized, and sent her home.”
“Why’d you come out here?” I ask. “It looked like you were negotiating a business thing.”
“I was.” He bends down and picks up some small stones that the tide had deposited on the shore.
I wait for one of his mean come backs, but nothing awful pops out of his mouth and that confuses me. “Do you want to tell me what you’re thinking about?”
“Not really,” he says, tossing a few rocks into the ocean. He continues moving down the beach.
I know with one hundred percent certainty that Easton has hated me ever since I bumped into him at Wyatt’s wedding in Vegas a year and a half ago. He made it abundantly clear by ‘banning’ me from any club, hotel, business, any speck of dust on any street that he owns.
After I got back to Chicago I Googled him, and discovered that Easton Wolfe actually owns quite a lot of specks. “Why don’t you tell me anyhow?” I say, hustling to keep up with him.
“Do you know what happened to us after the accident?”
‘Buckle up,’ Queasy says.
“I heard your family moved to L.A.”
“El Segundo,” he says. “Right next to some oil fields, close enough to the airport to feel the rattle of the planes as they landed. Not very fancy.”
“Not everyone grows up with a silver spoon in their mouth.”
“My dad sobered up after the accident, and started dealing with his anger. My parents went to therapy. He and Mom concentrated on Wyatt and me. They turned their lives upside down for us.”
“That’s great,” I say. At least someone’s parents got their shit together after the accident. Gossipy sorts speculated something twisted in Easton’s brain during the accident. Trauma turned him into a money-making genius. He became a multi-millionaire at the ripe old age of twenty-five. Now, at thirty, he’s a billionaire. You’d never know it from looking at him, though.
We walk in silence. He picks up stones, rolls them over in his hands, pitching the ones he doesn’t want back into the surf. “Sometimes when I’m confused, I come out to the beach. I pick up stones. I put my fears and my anger into one, or two, or ten,” he says. “And then I throw them into the ocean.” He flings one into the water. “I don’t know why but it makes me feel little bit better.”
“You okay?” I ask.
“Not really.” He hands me a stone. “Go ahead. Try it.”
I concentrate and then hurl the rock into the ocean.
“Good one,” he says and hurls another. We walk in silence, the sounds of the party dimming in the background against the rumble of the waves.
Something inside me aches to make things right with Easton. Maybe it’s because I can’t bring myself to reach out to Wyatt. He’s been happily married going on two years now. We haven’t talked since the accident thirteen years ago, and I’m not about to risk breaking our silence. I’m not about to risk breaking Wyatt Wolfe again. Yet when it comes to Easton, this feeling follows me around, nipping at my heels.
‘Maybe if you can get Easton to forgive you?’ Hope says. ‘Maybe you can forgive yourself.’
I’ve always wanted the Wolfe brothers’ forgiveness. I’ve prayed about it. I’ve shed tears over it. I count three, two, one and sink into that meditative level within myself. On the outside I look dressed for a party but on the inside I’m frantically stripping.
I peel away boundaries, drop armor, abandon the tools in my arsenal that make me feel safe. I set aside my humor that works like a charm when I need to deflect uncomfortable questions. I leave my quick wit propped up like a sturdy umbrella at the door.
At this very moment my soul is bare, my heart is unguarded and I do what I’ve longed to do for thirteen years – I supplicate. Easton Wolfe doesn’t know it yet but if I had to? If he asked me? I would get down on my knees and beg for his forgiveness. And even though I’ve wanted to do this for years, I am completely, thoroughly, freaked out.
‘Don’t do this,’ Queasy says. ‘Think about the job. Think about Jake Keller.’
But it’s too late. I am too far gone. I don’t have a choice.
The gift of forgiveness stands in front of me in the flesh, not wearing a different man’s face, not wearing a different man’s skin. For the first time I am granted the opportunity to request absolution from someone who can genuinely bequeath it.
And so, I humble myself because forgiveness is more important than looking right. Forgiveness is more important than being right. “Easton,” I say. “Do you think we can ever get past the accident? Do you think you can ever forgive me?”
He paces on that hard strip of sand, the ocean waters splashing across his feet. “Why, after all these years, are you concerned about my forgiveness?” he says.
“I’ve always wanted to ask for forgiveness. Yours. Wyatt’s. Your parents.”
“Cross my parents off your list,” he says.
The wind off the ocean kicks up and rustles his thick hair. A few errant strands blow about as he picks up more rocks and tosses them. It’s all I can do to stop my hand from reaching to smooth them off his face. “Why?”
“They figured the time your mom served was the only resolution they’d ever get. It took them about five years, but when Wyatt graduated high school and made his way down that aisle with a cane instead of a walker, they found acceptance. They moved on.”
“Good,” I say swallowing hard. “Wyatt?”
“Moved on,” he says, walking away from me. “He underwent dozens of surgeries, Evie. Shattered bones. Ripped cartilage. Torn organs. Skin grafts. Brain surgeries. He had to choose between holding onto needing to talk to you, needing to make sense of his feelings
, and just dealing with his physical pain. Wyatt was in a lot of pain, you know.”
“Right,” I say. Hot tears hit the back of my eyes and I struggle to blink them back.
“He was thirteen,” Easton says. “His hormones were kicking in, things were starting to change. He had to learn how to talk in full sentences again, learn how to walk again. He got the best surgery, the best physical and occupational therapy. Considering everything, he did great, but there was one lingering problem.”
“What?”
“You. He couldn’t let go of you.”
“Oh,” I say, because I left my smart words at the door. I wouldn’t know what to say, even if my smart words were gathered as arrows resting in a quiver, itching to be shot in my defense.
“A shrink told Wyatt that sometimes we have to choose between people we love and ourselves. Picking himself meant choosing healing. It took almost a year of counseling, but Wyatt finally separated from you. He chose healing.”
“Good,” I say, tears welling. I turn, blinking them back, and stumble away from Easton because I do not want him to know. I don’t want him to see. Supplication is one issue. Humiliation is another.
It feels weird for all of five seconds to hear that Wyatt let me go. Then it feels like the biggest weight in the world lifts off my shoulders. Heat rises in waves off my skin. The veil of sorrow I have worn for years evaporates. And I finally know, in the marrow of my thin bones, that Wyatt Wolfe has healed from the accident.
I take a breath and almost pass out from the oxygen flooding my brain. This is the first deep, first true breath I have taken in thirteen years. I am intoxicated. I inhale more deeply because this feels like no drug I’ve ever taken. It’s oxygen mixed with freedom and the absence of guilt.
The salt from the ocean air is pungent and my nose crinkles as if I am smelling salt for the first time. I open my eyes and I see clearly for the first time in years because the fucking crown of thorns that was smashed into my head when the Wolfe brothers bounced off our car has been lifted. I stare up at that haunted moon as the ocean waves crash on the beach, and I shiver at the beauty of it all. Either that, or I’m shivering because of the gorgeous man standing in front of me.
The brother of the first boy I fell in love with.
The man who hates me.
Easton Wolfe.
I long to pull him to me. I long to run my hand through his wild boy hair, feel the thick strands slipping through my fingers. I want to run my thumb over his high cheekbones. I’m consumed with this desperate need to bite his full, wild-boy lips. I need to kiss him. To feel his lips on mine. Feel his tongue slip inside my mouth. Wrap a muscular hand around my waist and pull me to him.
I want to feel his erection growing fast and thick and hard and pressing insistently against my pelvis. I grow wet just thinking about him undoing the buttons on my blouse one by one and running a hand over my lace bra, my nipple pebbling under his touch.
‘Easton,’ I say.
‘Evie,’ he says. ‘I’ve wanted you since I saw you in Vegas.’
He slips his fingers inside my bra and palms my breast. He lowers his head and takes it in his mouth. He slides his tongue over my nipple, licking, exploring. He sucks and bites. He flicks my bra open with his other hand and palms my other breast, then plays with the nipple with his thumb and forefinger.
I inhale sharply, my breath leaving my body.
He skims his hand down my chest, down my stomach until he reaches for the zipper on my dress and pulls it open.
But I do not kiss him.
I do not kiss him because that would be a horrible, shitty thing to do to Jake because he is my client, and I like him a lot, and he trusts me and right now — I am his and his alone. Going behind his back would be a betrayal and I don’t like to live in betrayal.
I’ve felt my share of betrayal. I’ve felt its consequences, and so I do my very best not to do that kind of shit to people. And it dawns on me I’m not really sure who I’d be betraying if I kissed Easton.
Jake Keller who’s in that gorgeous winery on the cliff overlooking this beach?
Wyatt Wolfe, the dark floppy haired boy I tried to save thirteen years ago?
Or Dylan McAlister, the man I fell in love with who can’t seem to put a ring on my finger?
Suddenly, I am confused as fuck.
I need to buy time.
I need to get the hell out of here.
I pull my phone from my purse and turn it back on. “Easton,” I say. “I’m so sorry but I need to go back inside. Can we talk about this more later?”
“Sure,” he says. “Sure.” He continues walking down the beach, walking away from me.
19
72 Hour Hold
72 HOUR HOLD
By the time I get back to the house I finally get reception and ping-ping-ping I am inundated with texts.
Ruby: Mom had an episode. Call me.
Ruby: I’m driving up to the Institute.
I scroll down, my hands trembling.
Ruby: Where are you?
I break out into a sweat.
Ruby: I know you’re working.
Ruby: You’re always working. Just text me.
Ruby: Jesus Christ, Evie. WTF is wrong with you? This is the emergency we’ve been worried about. This is the one we’ve been prepping Plan B for all these years.
Ruby: Did you turn off your fucking phone?
I click Ruby’s number and she picks up. “How’s Mom?”
“Alive. Breathing. Conscious. Still here, thank God.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“You first,” she says. “Where are you?”
“L.A. Tell me what happened?”
“She had another split. The Institute kicked her up to lock down ward for a 72 hour hold.”
“She’s all right?”
“What do you define as ‘all right?’”
“What do you mean?”
“Where do I begin?” Ruby says. “Mom’s not sure where she is. She’s asking the nurse if we’re still living in that dilapidated house we grew up in with Kyle, her loser boyfriend from before the accident. Something about a bad man coming for her kids if she falls asleep? Is that what you define as ‘All right?”
“No,” I say.
“Me either.”
There’s a long pause.
“Come home, Evie. Come home now.” She clicks off.
My world is spinning out of control. I need to get the hell out of here. Now. I need to go home. I look but I can’t find Jake.
‘Get the hell out of Dodge,’ Queasy says.
‘Just move,’ Hope says.
I squeeze past pockets of Hollywood power players chatting each other up. I dodge a waiter holding a tray of appetizers, and bump into another passing in the opposite direction. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“No worries,” the waiter says.
I keep walking as fast as I can, blow through the front doors and hustle down the sloped driveway, shoving tears away with the heels of my hands. I tell the valet guys I don’t have a car, thank you, and exit the estate through the front gates.
I walk down Pacific Coast Highway tapping my phone repeatedly to order a ride but I’m in one of those weird, wonky, internet -free spots in Malibu. I can’t seem to pull up a ride let alone anything to preserve my sanity. I’m so wound up, that I will walk back to Jake’s home if I have to.
Cars zip by me and the rush of the air off them buffets me as I march down the narrow, curvy road that hugs the ocean on one side and cliffs that rise precipitously on the other. I punch the app on my phone repeatedly like a madwoman until – voilà – I get reception.
I order a ride and pace back and forth because I need to burn energy before my hair catches fire. I text Jake and apologize for leaving him high and dry. I tell him something has come up. It’s unexpected, important and it’s something I have to deal with.
I feel like the world’s biggest asshole.
Evie: I’m sorry, Jake.
<
br /> Evie: So sorry.
Evie: I’ll get a hold of you in a few days.
Evie: I know this is contractual but you are important to me.
Evie: I will make this right by you.
Evie: I promise.
Evie: I’m so sorry.
A white sedan pulls over with its rideshare light glowing in the dashboard.
I open the back door.
“How’s your night?” the driver asks.
“Let’s talk about yours,” I say.
Half an hour later the driver drops me off at Jake’s place. Queen music blares as I walk through the laundry room, then the kitchen, choking on my anxiety. I make my way to the guys and Nikki shooting pool in the adjoining family room. Beer and pizza is scattered around like it’s a normal person’s house – not Jake Keller’s.
“Back so early?” one of the guys asks.
“Yes,” I say and keep walking, my head down.
“Evie?” Nikki asks. “Everything okay? Why are you and Jake home so early?”
“Just me,” I say. “Don’t let me interrupt your game.”
Once in my room I burst into tears and sink to my knees, one hand clamped over my heart, the other against my mouth hoping that if I press hard enough maybe I won’t scream out loud because Mom broke down again and I am scared out of my mind.
All the money I spent.
All the time I invested.
Every guy I slept with to heal.
MOVIE STAR Page 11
