by Stacey Kade
We can figure this out; we just need a chance. I know it. I feel it.
But Emily isn’t so easily soothed. “Were you drinking?” she demands, as the driver pulls out. “They warned me about that.”
Chase tenses, but I’m faster to anger.
“Hey,” I say sharply, even though it’s none of my business. But it’s none of hers, either. “He’s your job, but he’s a person, too.”
Color floods her face as she glares at me.
“It’s fine,” Chase says to me. “No. I’m not drinking.” He doesn’t even seem all that offended. But I’m seething on the inside that she dared to ask. She’s not the director, his agent, or his mother. It’s not right.
But then he’ll always be owned, partly by other people, by their expectations and public perception.
I was aware of these things before, but somehow now, it feels more personal, like the loss of something or someone I barely had a chance to know.
As soon as we’re on location, Emily rushes us toward the makeup trailer—no time for a stop at Chase’s this morning.
“Are you all right?” he asks me as she hurries ahead of us, talking into her walkie.
I smile. “Yeah, just a little overwhelmed.” In truth, I’m longing for the moment when we get to go back to our rooms, not because of the “naked stuff,” as Mia would say (well, not only because of that), but because that just feels more real.
Chase slides his arm around my waist and stops us both right there in the middle of the line of trailers, with people bustling all around us, and turns to face me.
He hooks his fingers in the open pockets of my fleece to tug me close. “Tomorrow we’re moving to shooting nights,” he says, his expression serious. “How do you feel about breakfast out? I did some research, and there’s a pancake place near here that boasts twenty-seven different syrups. It’s supposedly free if you try all of them at once.” He grins at me. “A challenge.”
In spite of myself, I laugh. “That sounds disgusting.” But I love that he found time, at some point, to look into random places that might be interesting. It makes me feel like no matter where we are or what’s going on, he’ll always find a way to show more of the world to me than I would have let myself experience otherwise.
“What, no blueberry-banana–cotton candy–pecan combo for you?” he asks with mock confusion.
I wrinkle my nose. “Some things are good in combination; some are not. It’s a fine art, knowing the difference.”
“Such a limited palate,” he says, tsking at me. “I bet you still like maple from the plastic bottle.”
I raise my eyebrows. “And you have, what, a special syrup collection, vintages gathered from all over the world?”
“Maybe.” He flashes me a smile that warms me down to my toes. “Want to see it sometime?”
I roll my eyes at him, but I can’t help laughing.
He lifts his hand to touch my cheek then, his smile turning into something more serious as he regards me with a strange expression. “Thank you for defending me. It was…” He drops his gaze to somewhere near my feet. “No one’s done that for me in a long time. I haven’t deserved it in longer than that.”
When he looks up at me again, his eyes are shining with an emotion that makes my chest tight. This is someone unused to being loved, the true kind of love where you want the best for the other person instead of what’s easiest for you.
“She was out of line,” I point out, uncomfortable with praise for something that was automatic when it came to him.
“And you cared,” he argues.
I frown at him. “Well, yeah.”
“Chase,” Emily calls, her voice huffy.
But he ignores her, leaning his forehead against mine before dropping down to brush my mouth softly with his. “Thank you.”
“Aww, adorable. Late but adorable.”
I look up to see Karen standing in the open door of the makeup trailer. She folds her arms across her chest, the mermaid scales on her forearm rippling with the movement, but she looks more amused than angry.
Emily is at the base of the stairs, shaking her head at us. She, on the other hand, looks angry.
As Chase climbs into the trailer, Karen steps back to make room and punches him lightly on the arm as he passes.
“What?” he asks, but the grin on his face says he knows exactly what’s going on.
“So I guess you’re listening to me this time,” she says to him, flipping one of her braids behind her shoulder. “That’s a pleasant change.”
“Told you—new version.”
I have no idea what they’re talking about, but he looks happy and even she seems slightly less grumpy, which I’m beginning to think, for Karen, is the equivalent of someone else laughing hysterically. The two of them are an odd pair as friends, but they make sense in that way, too, because they’re opposites. If this is the first step in repairing that friendship—one that obviously meant enough to both of them that he felt horribly guilty and she was seriously pissed—then good.
As Chase sits in Karen’s chair, I take my place in the extra one on the opposite side of the still-open doorway. Despite the fresh cool air from outside, the trailer reeks of chemical cleaner and acrid smoke. The walls are covered in dark smudges and attempts at fresh paint.
“Yeah, sorry,” Karen says, catching my expression in the mirror as she starts her work on Chase. “It’s getting better, but they were pretty thorough. Thanks a lot, assholes.”
Oh. The vandalism. “That happened here?” I ask.
“Unfortunately,” Karen says. Then she frowns at Chase. “What is going on with your hair?”
I smother a laugh, but apparently not well enough as he gives me a sharp look.
“I didn’t have time to shower this morning,” he says.
Karen just sighs and pulls out a spray bottle and starts squirting him with it. And Chase looks about as happy as a soaked cat about that.
“Something came for you,” she says as she works. I think she’s talking to Chase until she jerks her head at me. “I put it on the other counter.”
I glance to my right to find a large gold box I hadn’t noticed before, pushed against the mirror. It’s one of those pre-wrapped jobs, where the lid just lifts off. My name, in fancy calligraphy-like letters, is written on a matching tag.
I look at Chase questioningly.
“Not me,” he says with a frown.
A faint quiver of trepidation ripples through me. I’ve had enough experience with unannounced packages and letters—the FBI was, for a short time, monitoring our mail—not to reach for it without more information.
“Where did it come from?” I ask Karen.
“One of the runners brought it over an hour ago, maybe,” she says with an odd look at me.
“You saw her drop it off?” Chase asks, his gaze meeting mine in the mirror. He’s not sure about this, either. He told me yesterday that Security said there was nothing verifiable about the threats the reporter mentioned. But this confirmation that I’m not being paranoid sends a warm rush of relief through me.
“Yes. What’s wrong with you?” Karen asks him, frowning.
He shakes his head. “Nothing.” Then he says to me, “If a runner, a PA like Emily, brought it, then it’s from someone on set. They wouldn’t bring you anything just left outside.”
As soon as he says that, it clicks. Adam.
I roll my eyes. Probably phase two of whatever stupid jealousy/revenge scheme he’s working on to cause trouble for Chase.
I scoot it closer and lift the lid cautiously, just in case, and find …
Nothing but mounds of gorgeous, individual red rose petals, reaching almost to the top of the box.
My shoulders relax, and the tightness in my stomach vanishes.
Plucking out a petal, I hold it up to show Chase. “Adam,” I say by way of explanation. To fill a box this size, it must have taken dozens of flowers. An expensive and showy gesture, exactly something he would do to p
iss off Chase.
Karen snorts.
“Such a dick,” Chase grumbles.
“He’s just trying to provoke you.” I stick my hand in deeper, seeking the note that will no doubt contain either overwrought—and likely stolen—poetry with rose metaphors or some kind of suggestive proposal, whichever he thinks will bug Chase more.
“He wants you to break. It’s like a little kid poking at…” I stop, the words dying in my throat. My fingers, now an inch below the velvety surface, touch cool metal. But it’s not the substance beneath my fingertips that makes me go still as much as the all-too-familiar shape.
My heart seizes. Acting instinctively against the terror barreling through me, I yank my hand away. But my wrist catches the edge of the box, and it tips in slow motion toward me.
Hundreds of dark red petals spill over the edge of the counter and float to the floor, like a slow-motion rendering of blood droplets falling.
And then the chain, metal links bright and blindingly shiny in the overhead lights, clatters out, tipping over the counter and piling onto the floor with a rapid chink-chink-chinking sound that I still hear in my nightmares.
28
Chase
Behind me, Karen gasps. “Oh my God.”
Amanda is frozen for a moment, her hand in midair, the chain and petals in a heap at her feet, then she scrambles out of the chair. She presses her back against the trailer wall, as far away as she can get from the chain, but her eyes are showing edges of white from terror and her chest is heaving like she’s run for miles.
I throw myself out of my chair, putting my body between her and the “gift” on the floor, like that will help, as if it’s a snake that might strike.
But Amanda doesn’t see me; her gaze is fixed on the chain and the rose petals, which, now that I’m looking at them from over here, resemble blood. And I’m sure that was intentional.
Goddamnit.
Amanda slides down the wall, curling into a tight protective ball but staying balanced on the balls of her feet. As if she might have to run.
My heart feels shredded, like someone is actually stripping away pieces of it, at the sight of her this way. She’s so scared she’s trembling; so pale and gray that she looks ghostlike. Was this what she was like right after she got back? No wonder her family is so fiercely protective and angry at the idea of her leaving with me.
I’m ready to tear someone apart for this.
But Amanda has to be my first focus.
“Amanda?” I kneel down cautiously in front of her, my hands out in an I-mean-no-harm posture. Touching her right now would be a bad idea, no matter how comforting I mean it to be.
“I’m fine. It’s fine,” she says, but she’s rocking herself. Her right hand is locked around her left wrist, her fingers tracing the scar.
I’m caught between the sting of tears in my eyes and the incontrovertible and unstoppable rage welling up in me. Someone is going to pay.
“Shit,” Karen whispers from somewhere over my shoulder. “Amanda, I’m so sorry; I didn’t know.”
She didn’t, but I should have. My back stiffens. This is Elise. It has to be. Which means it’s my fault. “Motherfucker, I’m going to kill her,” I say.
“Kill who?” Karen asks, moving closer. “Adam? Chase, I don’t think he—”
“Emily,” I shout over my shoulder.
“Chase,” Karen says.
“Emily!” I bellow.
She appears in the doorway with a disgruntled look. When she sees the flower petals, the chain, and Amanda, her eyes widen. “What—”
“Get Leon on your walkie. Get him over here,” I say. This has gone too far. He needs to know everything. No matter what.
Emily hesitates. “I’m not sure if he—”
“Fucking get him now,” I snarl at her. Once Leon tracks Elise down, I’m sure she’ll tell him everything and Amanda will never forgive me. But I can’t let this go. This has to stop. Now.
Emily blanches but nods rapidly and backs away, her walkie already raised to her mouth.
“Chase,” Karen says again, her voice holding an odd and trembling note.
I glance over my shoulder to see her holding a slip of paper, the edges charred faintly, like a decorative effect.
“I found it on the floor. It must have been inside,” she says. Then she turns it around so I can see the printed words on the other side.
GO BACK WHERE YOU BELONG, BITCH.
I reach up and punch the wall as hard as I can. The cheap plastic surface gives easily under my fist, denting from the impact but raising surface shards that slice into my skin.
“Chase!” Karen shouts.
But the pain feels good; it reminds me I’m not helpless.
“Dumbass, you’re making it worse,” Karen hisses at me as I shake out my hand, blood on my knuckles. She jerks her head toward Amanda, who is cowering to the side, away from me, away from the noise.
Fuck.
Automatically, I reach for her but stop before I touch. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I’m sorry,” I repeat, babbling in my panic.
“Let’s maybe just get this cleaned up,” Karen says, stepping around us, heading for the broom in the far corner.
“Don’t,” Amanda says tonelessly.
“No,” I snap. “You don’t have to look at—”
“They’ll want to see it all as is. For evidence.” She sounds so hollow that it makes me want to hold her or carry her away or both.
“Then how about if we go outside while we wait?” Karen offers, returning to her station. “Chase is going to need ice for his stupid hand anyway.” She glares at me and hands me a wad of tissues from the box on the counter. “Dumbass.”
It was once her favorite word for me; it is again, apparently.
And she’s right. I stand and press the tissues against the cuts, sucking in a breath at the pain. Bruised knuckles, for sure; that’s going to fuck up continuity. Max is going to kill me.
Amanda shakes her head. “No, I’m okay.” She takes a deep breath and straightens her shoulders. But when she stands, she folds her arms over her middle, as if she’s preparing for or recovering from a blow.
“It’s not even the right kind of chain,” she says after a moment.
I go still.
“The links in mine were much heavier,” she continues. “I could have maybe eventually broken through these.” She kicks the toe of her shoe in the direction of the chain.
“Amanda…” I don’t even know how to finish that sentence.
“But mine, he knew better than to take that chance.”
But she’s not crying. Her eyes are dry and dull, and she gives a mirthless smile. “You know, the doctors told me that the muscles on that side were more developed, just from dragging the extra weight.”
“Jesus Christ,” I say in a croaking voice.
“Knock, knock.” Leon’s voice comes from behind me as he climbs the steps into the trailer.
I whirl around on him, fury and panic finally finding a suitable outlet. “What the fuck is this?” I demand, jerking my hand toward the mess on the floor. “How did this happen? Elise shouldn’t have had credentials to be on set.” When I’d “fired” her on Sunday, she told me she turned them in, all to sell the story in case someone “from Amanda’s camp” checked.
Leon frowns at me, his bald scalp wrinkling with the expression. “Who is Elise?”
Raking my uninjured hand through my hair, to Karen’s audible cluck of dismay, I step to the side so I can see him and Amanda. “Elise Prescott, my fucking crazy ex.”
“And former publicist,” Amanda adds with a hiccuping laugh that holds an edge of hysteria.
Leon’s frown deepens. “You think she did this?”
“Who else?” I shake my head. “She’s probably the one who scratched up my trailer door, too.”
“Someone damaged your door?” Amanda asks.
“Scratched some bullshit words into it, yeah.” Warning me away
from Amanda, which fits with this whole narrative Elise has going now.
“You didn’t tell me,” Amanda says with a frown.
I hesitate. “I didn’t think it was anything serious.” Yeah, but more like you didn’t want to tell her the whole truth. That you thought it was just Elise taking her stupid plan up a notch.
Emily pops her head back in the trailer, her face tight with worry. “Chase, they’re going to need you in, like, ten minutes.”
“We’ll check into the publicist,” Leon says. “But I want you to look at something first.” He pulls a manila folder I hadn’t even noticed from under his arm.
“I’ve got some contacts with the local PD here, and they gave me these. Images from a security camera one of the warehouse owners still has active, trying to keep kids from trashing the place or turning it into a damn rave.”
He flips the folder open, revealing a stack of photo printouts, camera stills, and turns it toward me. “Do you know her?”
The black-and-white image is slightly blurred, the subject caught in motion, but it’s clear enough for me to recognize her. I will never, ever forget that face. It’s narrow, her chin pointed, giving her a furtive, shady appearance. Her hair is thick and frizzed, sticking out of a dark, possibly black baseball cap.
The blood drains from my head, and I feel dizzy. “She’s here?” I manage.
Karen pivots to look on Leon’s other side and freezes. “Is that who I think it is?” Karen asks, her voice low.
“Yes,” I say. Unbelievable. I should have known. The kind of media attention Amanda and I’ve been catching the last few days would be irresistible to her. Though she sure as hell didn’t seem to care as much when I was hitting the pages for drinking and getting arrested.
“Son of a bitch.” Karen sounds stunned, and I’m right there with her.
Amanda inches closer to me to look, and I want to put my arm around her, pull her close, as much for me as her, but she still has that bruised, don’t-touch air about her. “That’s not Elise,” she says.
“No,” I say flatly. “That’s Sera Drummond. The girl who went fucking apeshit and tried to burn down my condo building when my assistant called the police on her. She was stalking me back in the Starlight days.”
