by Nancy Bush
“You’re not gonna leave me,” he sneered. “You’re too fateful. You need a man like me.”
Weary-faced, she stood in the corner of the room, studying her lover. He was a real man. Top of the heap, all right. But as good as she was ever going to get.
When she pulled out a prop gun and shot him dead center in the chest, it was a relief. The loud blam of the gun made the nearest production assistants jump in surprise.
The actress jumped too, but it worked in the context of the script.
Unfortunately, “fateful” for “faithful” didn’t. The film’s character was rough and low, but his mouth wasn’t full of marbles.
John Callahan glanced at Frankie Carello, Borrowed Time’s director. Frankie was nodding, signaling “go, go, go!” frantically with one arm. Apparently, he liked what he saw.
John didn’t. Borrowed Time had gotten away from him somehow and it wasn’t even recognizable anymore. They should have never cast Justin Devers as Tom. The guy was a no-talent. But he was Frankie’s choice, some shirttail relative whose success on the television show, Plenty of Trouble, had somehow turned him from teen TV heartthrob to film leading man.
Not hardly.
But they were in too deep, he and Frankie. Way too deep. John’s initial suggestions to recast had fallen on deaf ears. Frankie wanted Justin Devers and he was going to scream loudly and incessantly if he didn’t get his way. Frankie could be as lovable as a teddy bear, and as fierce as a grizzly if his word were doubted. John should have fought harder, but at the time he’d been so mired in his own personal problems that he’d simply let Frankie have his own, bullheaded way.
Now it was too late. Too many scenes were shot to start over. They had to make this work and the sweat that stood out on Frankie’s forehead and dampened the back of his white T-shirt was foreboding in itself.
The scene disintegrated. Justin kept blowing his lines.
And Frankie blew his top.
“You gotta have John direct you, is that it?” he screamed, waving his arms. “You only work for John? Who do you think the director is, huh? You think it’s John Callahan? He’s the producer, you dick-brain. I’m the director.” He jerked his thumb at his chest in rapid succession, thunking his breast bone.
John stayed silent. He’d only directed a few scenes, more by accident than design since Frankie tended to stay up too late, drink too much wine, eat too much food, talk too much. Those early-morning shots were killers for someone of Frankie’s temperament and habits, and a few times John had taken over the afternoon shift as well.
Not that Justin Devers acted much better for him, no matter what Frankie thought. Nope, the guy was hopeless, and John would be lucky to get the scene down in five takes. Part of Frankie’s problem was that he was a perfectionist (and a maniac) and though Justin was his choice, he’d made the poor kid’s life a living hell.
Borrowed Time had been a debacle from the start—and now it was going down in flames.
“I know you’re the director, Frank,” Justin muttered, his face flushing angrily. “I’m not messing up on purpose.”
“Really? You’re doing a damn good imitation!”
“That’s it.” Justin stalked off the set, slamming out the nearest stage door.
“Little bastard,” Frankie snorted. “Acts like he’s a goddamn star.”
“Do you want me to stay?” the brunette actress whined. When she wasn’t acting, everything she said sounded like a whine.
“Go, go!” He waved her away.
“When are we going to get this?” one of the production assistants asked. “We’re running out of time.”
John sucked air between his teeth. Bad idea, telling Frankie what he already knew.
Frankie turned purple. He was in full grizzly bear mode today. “You’re fired. Get outta my sight!” He swept past her, flailing his arms and muttering obscenities.
The production assistant, Tonja Terkell, blinked rapidly several times. John sighed. He felt a little sorry for her. He felt sorry for anyone who ran afoul of Frankie’s unbearable temper.
“Not a good day,” John commiserated, watching Frankie slam from the set with even more affront than Justin Devers.
“Am I really fired?” she asked in a small voice.
“You work for me, not Carello, but Frankie’s stubborn and unforgiving. This thing’s about to wrap anyway. There’s no need to come back.”
Her eyes filled with tears. More kindly, John added, “Hey, I’ll call you again when I need someone.”
“Will you?”
He suspected she’d taken some scripts of Blackbird and either sold them or handed them to her friends. He was a stickler about keeping secrets, and he’d been tempted to fire her then. But she knew how to take orders and—generally—how to keep her mouth shut. Maybe she just needed a bit of polishing.
Or maybe he was a sucker for lost causes.
“Yes,” he answered seriously. “I will.”
He left before another production headache could surface, intending to go back to his nearby apartment, the one he kept near Titan Studios. But instead he headed north to Malibu, his thoughts, as they did more and more frequently these days, turning to his ex-wife.
Why? Why? What was it about her that had gotten under his skin like an unbearable itch?
He’d first met Denise during production of Willful, Denise’s first real hit, John’s third. Denise was a costar but she stole the show. Sorta sweet, sorta sexy, and infinitely vulnerable, she possessed that mysterious essence known as star quality. It emanated from the screen and took over the film.
John had been involved with the leading lady, a screeching egomaniac whose unbearably diva personality disappeared when they were alone in bed. Undercover, she was funny and cuddly and almost shy. The startling contrast intrigued John for months until her temperamental fits slowed production so much that he grew embarrassed and angry. Her last day of filming was the last day of their relationship. She accused him of using her just for the role, forgetting entirely that he’d been against her for the lead and had only been reluctantly talked into it. She’d then sued him for breach of contract. Breach of contract? She insisted they’d had a verbal understanding that said she would be given a three-picture deal with Titan Pictures, his father’s studio.
Titan Pictures . . . the bane of John’s existence. He was intrinsically tied to the studio but loathed being any part of it. He hated the studio because he hated his father, and Sampson Callahan’s death hadn’t mellowed John in any way.
A dark cloud settled over him as soon as his memory touched on his self-centered, charismatic, overbearing father. Because John was the son of “Sampson Callahan, Head of Titan Studios,” he’d twice been slapped with paternity suits. The claims were as ridiculous as he’d never slept with either woman.
But Sampson had. Along with a slew of others. Maybe he’d fathered their unborn children. Maybe they’d made it all up. All he knew was that he’d been chosen as the fall guy because Sampson Callahan was an uncaring, untouchable bastard.
And John was heir to everything.
The lawsuits came to nothing. If there was a positive paternity test, John knew nothing about it. Meanwhile, his turbulent relationship with his father continued, and Sampson’s womanizing increased.
Sampson Callahan had a history of sleeping with starlets, coercing some production company into giving them a bit part, then forgetting their existence. John’s mother had stoically ignored the rumors even while she drank away her unhappiness. When John got old enough, those same rumors fell on his shoulders. He was accused of womanizing so often it was a miracle he had time to eat, sleep, and work.
At first he had vigorously denied the charges, but the press ate it up. Like father, like son, only the son screams about the injustice of it all. Big laughs and guffaws and sniggers all around.
John learned to keep his mouth shut.
Half of the rumors that surrounded him had something to do with Sampson, and John’s repu
tation grew though he spent most nights alone.
His mother knew the truth. They never discussed it, but just before her death she pressed a palm to his cheek and said “Thank you,” in a way that said everything.
Sampson died not long afterward. The robust studio head barked his last order—a firing of one of his most trusted yes-men—went home to dinner, complained of pain in his chest, and died of a massive coronary minutes later.
The funeral was attended by several thousand. John fortified himself with a shot of whiskey to make himself attend. His mother was on his mind. Her funeral had been small and intimate with only a few distant relatives from the East Coast in attendance. This circus was all Sampson. Comparing it to his mother’s simple ceremony made him sick. He couldn’t stomach the hypocrisy.
And then John learned that a percentage of Titan Pictures was his, willed to him by his father.
That had really pissed him off.
He didn’t want a nickel of Sampson’s money. The old man had bullied him all his life, damn near cutting his only child out of his will when John refused to work at Titan. In petty retaliation, Sampson refused to fund John’s pictures. And when John received an Oscar nomination, his father publicly proclaimed how proud he was of his “gifted, talented son,” and privately snarled rebukes whenever his and John’s paths managed to cross.
John had feared him when he was young. No kind words. No advice. Just belittling comments and criticism. But he’d grown tough. If that had been Sampson’s plan, it had worked beautifully. John believed—though it was impossible to guess how Sampson’s mind actually worked—that his father had really wanted to break him, ruin him, keep him under his thumb. It was fear that ruled Sampson Callahan. Fear that his upstart son would somehow surpass him. A fiercely, unnaturally keen competitive nature buried any and all fatherly feelings, thereby killing any love and respect John might have felt for the man who helped create him.
The irony was, if Sampson had been just a bit different, he could have experienced the joy of watching his son take to the business that he, too, enjoyed. How many men would give anything to have a son join them in their field? Maybe even work together to create a dynasty. To witness their own child realize incredible dreams and become wildly successful in the same field, different area of expertise?
So many children of successful Hollywood moguls lost their moorings along the way. Confused, aimless, they were cast adrift on a sea of their own self-doubt and fear, trying to live up to impossible standards. They died young or bobbed along a slow current leading nowhere.
John Callahan steered his own ship, but his father was an archetypal Captain Bligh whose inflated self-importance left no room for other crew members. They waged a cold war of silent stares and locked jaws and neither budged a millimeter.
When Sampson Callahan died, John had been surprised at his sense of loss. He’d lost his enemy. The reason he fought so hard and so long. He’d lost an important person in his life—the man responsible for killing his trust in others.
And then the studio named Rodney Walburn III as Sampson’s replacement. Perversely, that appointment hurt. Though John wanted nothing to do with his father’s empire, being summarily passed over by the board of directors even as a contender—and for someone as repugnant as Walburn—it had jarred way, way down deep.
Enter Denise Callahan: talented, irreverent, seemingly fragile, and full of love. The tabloids blared he’d married her to staunch his playboy image. The better papers declared the couple was deeply in love and dedicated to their craft and their new film endeavor: Cosmos.
John’s belief in his love for Denise Scott lasted twenty-three days. Their marriage survived another ten months. On that twenty-third day, he walked into the deluxe trailer they shared at the New Mexico location and found Denise and a cameraman going at it as if sex were about to be outlawed forever.
To make matters worse, Denise didn’t seem to even realize she’d done anything wrong. She accused him of cheating on her with Gillian Gentry, and then listed every ex-girlfriend he’d ever had—real or imagined—and said it was time she got some of her own back.
He couldn’t believe it. This was not the Denise Scott he’d married. But, oh, yes, it was. More affairs followed, some with disastrous results. An ugly, purple and black eye halted production for two weeks. John fired the lowlife grip responsible, though the man, and Denise, swore “it wasn’t like that.”
Cosmos limped through its final stages with John scarcely conscious of anything but his amoral, alley-cat wife and her string of lovers. Incredibly, she still looked great on screen, a surreal illusion that made the back of his throat hurt.
Messy divorce. Screaming headlines. A final push out of his life and out of their—his—home. He’d hurt and he wanted to hurt back. He wanted to destroy.
He took everything. She had no weapons to fight him, but it was a hollow victory, especially when he understood that she had real, deep psychological problems that were just beginning to manifest themselves. Guilt gnawed at his soul. He wanted to hate and hurt, but a self-destructive part of himself also wanted to forgive.
He’d thrown himself into Borrowed Time and laid the groundwork for Blackbird. No thoughts of Denise. No thoughts of anything but work. Work. His lifeblood.
But then she’d shown up at his house.
Their house.
Now he parked in the driveway, cutting the engine and relaxing against the leather seat. He closed his eyes and inhaled air through his teeth.
He’d never thought he would be able to speak to Denise again without feeling deep, burning anger and a certain amount of humiliation at having the whole world know he was cuckolded.
Show me a man who says it doesn’t hurt, I’ll show you a filthy liar.
But over the past several weeks, and the few encounters he’d had with her, John had suffered a change of heart. He wasn’t angry anymore. Not in the same way. And he didn’t feel as personally injured. Was it time and distance that had soothed the pain? Or was it the realization that Denise’s problems were so deeply rooted that she truly was incapable of distinguishing right from wrong?
Or maybe it was the change in her? A change so evident that John found himself staring fixedly at her, as if she were some strange, fascinating creature with which he’d never made contact before.
She looked different; she talked different; hell, she even walked different. She wouldn’t sleep in her old bedroom. She wore a minimal amount of makeup. Her hair was dark blond and thick with health. No bleach and touch ups.
It was as if she were consciously becoming a new person. A phoenix rising from the ashes of the life she’d burned down herself.
And he liked this person more than he should.
Stretching, he climbed out of the Land Rover and strode slowly to the front door. Twisting the lock, he stepped inside, listening to the quiet. Vaguely, he heard a hollow tapping—the depressing of computer keys.
John shook his head. She was at his desk again. Anticipation mounting, he walked in the direction of the sound.
The tapping noises stopped. When John reached his office doorway, she was sitting poised at the keyboard, her head turned his way.
Suspicion swam in her aquamarine eyes. Her mouth tightened into a line. No lipstick. No visible makeup. The faintest dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Pinkish glow to her skin, as if she’d gotten a bit too much sun. White tank top, frayed denim shorts, Birkenstocks.
Birkenstocks? What role was she bucking for?
“Home again?” she asked, sounding irked.
John felt irked right back. “What’s for dinner?”
The mouth grew tighter. “I bought some cat food.”
“I don’t have a cat.”
“I do.”
She pointed to a calico kitten sleeping in the den chair.
He stared. “You’re allergic to cats.”
“No, I’m not. I just never liked them much. I’ve changed my mind.”
Thi
s last was mumbled into her hand as she began a fit of coughing John was sure was faked. “Maybe that cough’s your allergies flaring up.”
“I’ve got a cold,” she said shortly. “I’m not allergic.”
“Okay, okay.” Who was he to argue? He believed she never meant half the things she’d told him in the past, why should she start now? Though she seemed to be making perfect sense.
“What’s the cat’s name?”
“Bobo.”
“Bobo the cat?”
“Did you want something? Something specific, I mean?” she demanded. “I’ve got things to do.”
He glanced at the screen, but she’d exited the program as soon as she’d heard him approach. She lifted one fine, blond brow, waiting.
Raising his hands in surrender, John backed away. Who was he to argue when she was in this kind of mood?
And when had Denise ever had this kind of mood before?
“By the way, your wireless router is a piece of shit,” she called after him.
“Who are you sending to?” he threw over his shoulder as he strode up the stairs to the gallery.
“NONE OF YOUR GODDAMNED BUSINESS!” she hollered back.
In the sanctuary of his bedroom, John threw himself down on the immaculate chocolate-colored comforter and stared up at the ceiling. Was she acting? Some kind of guru-induced method acting disguised as psychotherapy?
“Screw it,” he muttered, turning facedown, infuriated that his senses were raw and even the slightest scrape of material against flesh developed a gnawing ache inside him.
Bad news. He was horny for his ex-wife.
Denise awoke with grit in her eyes, a sour taste in her mouth, and an overall numbness she usually associated with too much alcohol consumption.
“Oh, God, I feel like crap,” she muttered.
The bed was huge. Acres of comforters and pillows and some kind of foam pad beneath the silk sheets guaranteed to give you a good night’s sleep.
She buried her head beneath a pillow and sought refuge. It was too early. Her brain hurt. She wanted to whimper but was afraid to make a sound.
