by Alison Ryan
HAYES
The Montana Brothers
Alison Ryan
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
11. EPILOGUE
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2017 by Alison Ryan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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For my brother… who was one of the men who came back. Thank you for your service. You will always be my hero.
1
“‘There is no bad whiskey. There are only some whiskeys that aren’t as good as others’,” the bartender said as he wiped down the counter in front of me. I looked at him, confused.
“I don’t know about that,” I said, taking a sip of my third cocktail in the last hour. “I’ve had my share of bad whiskey.”
“It’s a Raymond Chandler quote,” he replied. “I’m a screenwriter. When I’m not serving fifteen-dollar Manhattans.”
I smiled thinly. Of course. This was L.A., where every bartender was a screenwriter and every waiter was an actor. I should have been used to it now, after living here for almost ten years, but it still caught me off guard at times.
“Ah,” I said. “Good quote.”
He stared at me for a beat, I guess expecting me to ask about his latest script. No way. I wasn’t falling into that trap.
“I know this is forward,” he continued, leaning toward me, his voice just above a conspiratorial whisper, and I groaned inwardly. This is how it always began. “I couldn’t help but notice you’re Sarah Acres. As in the agent, right? You work for IATM?”
I sighed. I was indeed an agent, one of the top 30 under 30 according to last week’s Hollywood Reporter. And I did indeed work for International Artist Talent Management, the largest talent agency in the world. I had some of the world’s biggest stars on my roster of clientele.
But right now, I just wanted to be Sarah Acres, the over-paying customer. I wasn’t in the mood to be schmoozed or to even talk about business at all. I wasn’t even in the mood to be nice about not wanting to talk about business.
Where the hell was Aspen?
That was why I was there, after all. To meet one of my biggest stars of the moment, Aspen Rivers. She was a young starlet, fresh off a blockbuster movie with one of the Hemsworth brothers. She’d insisted on meeting at this hipster-ass restaurant to discuss her latest vanity project.
The name of the place was KALE, and it wasn’t my scene at all- I didn’t do the macrobiotic thing- but Aspen had insisted. I agreed only because it had a fully stocked bar.
But now I was regretting the whole thing. She was almost an hour late at this point.
I looked at the bartender. His name tag said he was “Slade.” Sure he was. I would have bet my next residual check that his real name was probably Josh or Mike and that he’d been in L.A. for a year or two after moving here from either Ohio or Indiana. He had that Midwestern handsomeness about him. And naivety. I predicted “Slade” would be gone in a year or so, once the glamour of Hollywood had worn off.
Los Angeles might be the city of dreams, but it rarely allows them to come true for most of the people who show up here every day.
“I’m her,” I confirmed. “But I don’t rep writers.”
He looked crestfallen for a moment, but then (because of the desperation or just the optimism that hadn’t been kicked out of him yet) he said, “Would you take my script anyway? Show it to one of your clients? Don’t you represent Ryan Gosling or something? I bet he’d be great for this project; I just need to…”
I held up a freshly manicured hand, “Let me stop you there, Slade. This isn’t how it works. I know you think this is how it works, that Hollywood has ingrained us with this clichéd story of being discovered while working at a mundane job at a hip place like this one. But most agents, when they’re at a bar? They just want to drink. And to forget about their jobs for a while. Not unlike anyone else. I wish you the best with this project and whatever future endeavors and dreams you may have. But this isn’t an episode of Vanderpump Rules, Slade. This is just another day for me. So, let’s keep it professional, yes? And I’m honestly no help to you anyway. Most of my clients don’t even read their own text messages, much less a script.”
I felt bad for a moment, crushing his hopes. But it’s what I did, every single day. I’d learned long ago it was better to be blunt with people in this town. It was actually the kinder act; even if it never felt like it to the Slades of the world.
“I’m sorry,” he said as I handed him my empty glass. “It’s just hard to get anywhere in this town without knowing the right people.”
I nodded, sympathetic. But I said nothing. I didn’t have time to give pep talks.
My iPhone buzzed in my Birkin purse. I pulled it out, expecting it to be a text from Aspen, either cancelling on me or telling me she was almost here.
But no. It wasn’t Aspen. It was someone else that I didn’t want to talk to right now. Even more than I didn’t want to talk to Slade.
I stuffed the phone back into the fine leather of my ten-thousand-dollar purse and looked at my watch. This was bullshit. I wasn’t used to waiting on anyone, not even my clients. I worked hard for them and made us all a lot of money. I made it clear that my time was something to be respected.
But, Aspen Rivers was the thorn in my side. She still didn’t grasp the possibility that there were other people in the world besides her.
Aspen was a typical new star. Insufferable.
I was throwing my purse over my shoulder and about to leave, when I heard a pair of heels click-clacking across the pebble mosaic tiles of KALE’s floors.
“Sarah!” Aspen Rivers’ raspy voice called to me across the bar. “I’m late! I know! I’m such an ass, I completely had a moment. My psychic called and she’s impossible to get off the phone. And she had some new reading for me to hear, she said it couldn’t wait, and all of a sudden I realized I was supposed to have already left. And you know how traffic is. My driver tried to take an alternate route but…”
I shook my head. “Enough, Aspen. I don’t have time for the convoluted excuses. So, let’s just get down to business, shall we?”
She nodded, her freshly blown out tresses swishing around a pair of frail shoulders. Aspen couldn’t have weighed more than 105 pounds. She’d lost a ton of weight in the last 6 months after the paparazzi had caught her in Greece last year in a less than flattering bikini shot. I’d always thought her curvy body was beautiful and enviable, but this was Hollywood. Thin was never thin enough. And curvy was downright obese.
It was so fucked up. I was so glad to be on this side of the business, where it wasn’t quite as important to be pin thin. I did still have to watch myself, but people cared more about the money I brought to the table than the size of my waist. (Which just so happened to be a size 8 at the moment. Plus-size in Hollywood.)
“Yes!” Aspen said, sliding onto an upholstered stool next to me. “Business! Aurora told me this was a great time for me to make some business decisions. Mercury retrograd
e just ended, so it’s perfect timing.”
“Who is Aurora?” I asked, as I took another sip of my watered-down Manhattan. Mercury retrograde. Aspen and her astrology bullshit. If she wasn’t commanding 5 million dollars a picture now, it would be almost unbearable.
“My psychic,” Aspen said. “Well, one of them.”
I rolled my eyes. “As long as you’re taking advice from someone who knows what she’s talking about.”
Aspen laughed. “I know, I know. You’re not a fan of my New Age ways. But seriously, Aurora changed my life. Everything she’s said would happen, has. Including meeting you. So anyway, there’s a project Darron Aronofsky is working on…”
I gave her a side-eyed glance. “You mean Black Swan Darren Aronofsky?”
She nodded enthusiastically, like a puppy. “Yes! I love that movie. Natalie Portman is so hot. Anyway, he’s got this movie coming out based on the life of some sufferer…”
I sighed. “Sufferer?” I was aware of the project, even if Aspen wasn’t, completely. “Do you mean suffragette?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Susan-something,” she replied, taking a sip of her sugar-free Red Bull and vodka. Oh, Aspen.
“Susan B. Anthony?” I inquired. God, please tell me she wasn’t asking me to submit her to casting for this.
“Yeah!” Aspen looked at me, clearly impressed I knew something. “You’ve heard of her! Great! Because I want that part. And I know for a fact Jennifer Lawrence just passed on it because one of my friends is sleeping with her stylist who is like her best friend, the one she tells everything to, so now I figured… this is my chance. To take it to the next level. Serious. Actress.”
I took a long gulp of my Manhattan, drinking it until the ice cubes hit my lips, as I tried to think of how to diplomatically (but bluntly) reply to Aspen Rivers’ dreams of being a serious actress.
It wasn’t that Aspen didn’t have some talent. She did. She glowed on screen and had the presence of someone who could be a serious contender for the next big named movie star. She reminded me of Natalie Wood in many ways, not that Aspen even probably knew who that was. There was a vulnerability to Aspen, an openness that you didn’t see in a lot of the actresses here who could sometimes come off as cold and contrived.
But Aspen was not even close to ready to take on this kind of movie. She didn’t have the depth or ability to climb into a complex character, especially a biopic. Not yet. It didn’t mean it couldn’t happen someday, I supposed. Though in my experience, actors and actresses became more shallow and out of touch with reality the longer they were famous.
But how did I tell her that? As her agent, I was supposed to be one of the largest and sturdiest pillars in her support system. But I was also the one person in her entourage that could tell her no. Sometimes.
And this had to be a hard no.
Aspen was newly famous, after all. She’d just played a sexy alien in the blockbuster with the Hemsworth brother. Maxim had her on their annual 100 hot women list. The highest-ranked newcomer to the list, in fact. This wasn’t the time to confuse her fan base with something dramatic and serious. Especially a period piece. Aspen appealed to a demographic who didn’t give a damn about any suffragette. It was sad, but true.
Aspen Rivers at the moment was Cameron Diaz after The Mask, not Cameron Diaz after Being John Malkovich.
“It’s not the best move for you,” I said slowly, placing my drink on the bar. Slade was drying glasses a few feet away, clearly eavesdropping.
“What do you mean?” Aspen asked, looking at me like a little girl who’d just been told there was no Santa Claus. “You don’t think I could do it?”
“Could you do it? Yes,” I lied. “Should you do it? That’s the more important question.”
Aspen pouted, “Of course I should. Its Darren Aronofsky. He wins like Oscars and stuff.”
“Actually, he’s been nominated once,” I replied. “No wins. Tom Hooper won that year for The King’s Speech.”
“Tom-who?” Aspen asked. She waved the question away with her hand and shook her head. “Anyway, I want to be a Natalie Portman. Or a Jennifer Lawrence. That’s the direction Aurora thinks I should go.”
“Of course,” I replied. “I mean, I want you to be a career actress, Aspen. No one is on your side more than I am. You’re incredibly talented, young, and beautiful. Right now, you’re just off one of the biggest movies of the decade. Your name is everywhere.”
Aspen smiled. Girls like her needed to be reassured of their own greatness. It helped to hear it out loud from someone else’s mouth.
My mother used to always remind me that women fell in love through their ears.
It was so true.
“So, my point is,” I said. “Let’s not oversaturate the market. I don’t want you to try to be too many things at once. Audiences get confused, and they don’t respond to it well. I mean, you don’t want to be Lindsay Lohan. She’s talented and beautiful. And she tried to do so much at once, all while being all over the tabloids for her personal life. People became tired of her. That’s not what you want, is it?”
Aspen’s eyes were wide now. She suddenly looked terrified.
“That is the last thing I want,” she said, almost in a whisper. “That would be horrible. Lindsay is, like, the biggest tragedy story.”
I gave her a knowing nod. “You’re too talented to be a cautionary tale, Aspen. You’ll get there. In your own time. With a larger filmography behind you and more money in the bank. When it’s no longer about the money, that’s when you’ll be ready.”
Aspen nodded. “Yeah. That makes sense. Oh my God, Sarah! What would I do without you! My dream agent!” She squealed and wrapped her bony arms around my shoulders. I patted her back, uncomfortable as always with Aspen’s demonstrative affection.
I was relieved. The younger actresses were usually easier to convince of these things. If this had been Aspen a couple of years from now, it would have been much more difficult. The older they got, the more convinced they were of their importance.
Fucking Hollywood.
2
Aspen left soon after that, two bulky bodyguards flanking her petite form as she exited KALE. The paparazzi were all over her as she walked down the street to her waiting SUV.
She’d parked farther down on purpose, so photographers could get plenty of pictures, front and back. Aspen wasn’t stupid, despite her lack of basic historical knowledge. She knew how to play the game in this town. It was one of the reasons I’d been more than happy to represent her. She had a hunger that I recognized in myself. We both came from almost nothing. I was from a small town in Montana and she’d grown up in a trailer park outside of Little Rock, Arkansas, and had been plucked from obscurity when she was discovered at a mall by some casting director who happened to be in town for a wedding.
That’s how fast these things could happen. One week you were a scrappy girl living in a trailer park and the next you were on location for the biggest movie in years, getting your SAG card, and living a life most people only fantasize about.
It didn’t happen for many people, but just knowing it was possible is what drove people from all over the world to come here every single day. I’d sometimes go to LAX with a Venti macchiato and watch them in baggage claim, looking overwhelmed and terrified.
Not too long ago, I’d been one of them.
But I’d made it. The city hadn’t eaten me up and spit me out like it did for so many others. I’d overcome a lot to get where I was. I was proud of that, more proud than I’d ever been of anything else in my life.
I’d like to say that it fulfilled me.
I’d be lying.
All during my conversation with Aspen, I’d felt my iPhone buzzing in my purse. I’d ignored it, partially to give Aspen the undivided attention that was her drug of choice and partially because I had a good idea who it was.
After the 8th missed call, I knew it was time to call her back and see what was going on. As I sat inside the soft leather int
erior of my Range Rover, I dialed her number, begrudgingly.
“Momma,” I said into the phone after she answered on the second ring. “I was in a meeting. What’s going on?”
My mother’s voice was exasperated on the other end. “What if I was dying? You would have missed my call for a damn meeting?”
I rolled my eyes. This is why I never answered my phone when she called.
“If you were dying, you wouldn’t be calling me at all,” I replied. “And you’ve become the boy that cried wolf. You call and call and call and it’s always to tell me something that could have easily been conveyed in an email. Or text. You know, you should really get into the texting game, Momma. It’s so much easier and concise. And I answer texts. You know I hate the phone.”
Well. That was a lie. Often the phone calls I got meant lots of money coming my way.
But calls from my mother? Almost never good news.
“I know you make your assistant answer all your email,” she said. “I’m not interested in emailing with your assistant. And you know my phone doesn’t text.”
I sighed. “Momma, join the 21st century and please get a smart phone. Your flip phone from 1998 is really ridiculous at this point.”
“You know how your father feels about smart phones,” she said. “The government uses them to follow us. The pictures you take on it are put in a database! They have all your info and can do with it what they please.”
“Momma,” I interrupted, before she went down one of her conspiracy-theory rabbit holes. We’d had this conversation a million times. “What are they going to do with your info? You’re a retired teacher who lives in the middle of nowhere. You only Google things about knitting and horses. You don’t shop online because you’re convinced your identity will be stolen and sold to ISIS.”
“That’s how they get their funding!” Momma exclaimed. “It’s not funny, Sarah Beth! It happens!”
