Lost on the Road to Love

by Kay Harris

  Henry had essentially taken over as writer and director for his segments. He decided where we went, what we filmed, and what he said on camera. It made for great television. And, Steve, recognizing that, had sent Rodney and Gerry to work with Tyressa, having fired her director. So Tom, Henry, and I spent our days running around the cities, and as of a few nights ago, Henry joined Tom and me in the editing room as well.

  “How many times have you been to that museum?” Tom asked.

  “Every time I’m in DC. I always hit that one. And if I was with my mom, which was most of the time, we always had to go to the Natural History Museum. My sister, the artist, has to choose more carefully because there are so many art museums.”

  “So your entire family is full of museum geeks?” I asked.

  Henry smiled and nodded. “My immediate family, anyway.”

  “What about your dad?” I had to ask.

  Henry’s dad stood six foot six inches tall, as wide as a refrigerator, covered from head to toe in tattoos, and was a hard-rock star. But Henry always talked about him like he was the normal guy who lived next door on any average American suburban street. It fascinated me, and I wasn’t the only one who was curious about Sean Rush. Tom leaned forward perceptibly in his chair when I asked.

  Henry shrugged. “He likes museums. Mostly, though, he likes watching us enjoy museums.” For a second, I thought that was all he would say on the subject. But then he looked at me and Tom and seemed to grasp that we wanted more. And he gave it to us. “My dad enjoys exactly two things in life.” He held up a finger. “Music.” He held up a second finger. “And making the people he loves happy. And not necessarily in that order. He married a park ranger who loves museums, historic sites, and parks. They had a daughter who’s an artist and a son who’s a writer. And we’re all major museum geeks,” he said, looking at me as he used my words again. “So, if we are, he is.”

  Tom leaned back in his chair. “Rarely do you meet someone with such a vast chasm between his personal life and his public persona.”

  Henry shrugged. “Everyone who knows him is always so baffled by it. But I don’t think it’s so strange. And believe me, there are more like him out there.”

  “Families are kind of an envelope,” I said.

  “Envelope?” Henry asked me.

  “Yeah, if you look inside an envelope, without pulling out the contents, you can only see a portion of the items or maybe even a distorted view of them. But everything looks completely different if you take them out and unfold them.” Tom and Henry both stared at me. “Okay, so I’m not a writer like you; I’m a filmmaker, and it makes sense from my perspective. It’s all about viewpoint. Take my father for example.”

  “Yeah, see, now, I find him to be pretty fascinating,” Henry said.

  “Why? What does he look like when you peer into the envelope?”

  “Well, he’s this rich, successful businessman, right? And he made his way in the world by expanding his father’s company. And it was the kind of business where you had to be ruthless and cutthroat. I mean, your dad threw people out of their homes and built high-end condos on the property.” Henry almost looked apologetic after saying this, and he paused.

  “True,” I said, nodding. “Continue.”

  “So then, his oldest son, the one who is supposed to inherit the company, turns against him and starts a nonprofit to fight his own father. And after years of this fighting, the company does a one-eighty and starts to develop low income housing and specializes in historic renovations.”

  “Yep. So? What does that look like?”

  “No idea. That’s just it. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Because you weren’t in my house when my brother, Jack, left for five years. You didn’t see the toll that took on my father. You weren’t in my house when Jack came back. You didn’t see the relief on my dad’s face. You weren’t there when they sat down together, at least once a week, and had a meal and a conversation. You didn’t see the way Jack talked passionately about what the company could be if it changed. And you didn’t see the pride in my father’s eyes when he did it. So, you can’t have the same perspective as me. Just like I can’t have the same perspective on your father as you do. He just looks scary to me.”

  Henry laughed. “He is far from scary.”

  “Tell that to my fight or flight instinct,” Tom quipped. “Because I’m pretty sure I’d go way out of my way to never make this dude mad.” Tom pulled up a picture of Sean Rush on his phone, and he held it out to us.

  I could see his point. In the image, which was probably about twenty years old, Sean wore a black tank top that showcased a set of massive biceps covered in ink. His black hair hung loose and wild around his shoulders. His dark brown eyes looked feral beneath mashed-together eyebrows that spoke of anger and vengeance.

  Henry laughed harder and wiped at his eyes, then he turned to me, still looking amused. “What about me? Do you think I’m scary?”

  “No,” I said automatically.

  “No?” He frowned a big fake frown. “But I look a lot like my dad. Everyone says so. And I’m not that much smaller.”

  “Hmmm. No tattoos,” I said.

  “Not true.” Henry pulled his feet off the table and jumped up. He took two steps until he stood right in front of me. My breath hitched in my throat as he took his shirt off in one clean motion. “See?”

  Chapter 6

  I could not breathe. I could not think. I was pretty sure my heart was beating, but I couldn’t spare a moment to check. Henry Rushton stood in front of me, bare-chested, and he was perhaps the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

  His chest was only slightly paler than his deeply tanned arms. His muscles were sculpted and hard, but not so big as to be intimidating. He had this tiny little patch of dark black hair right in the center of his chest, between two perfect, round nipples. I wanted to lick them.

  “Two here.” He pointed to the tattoos just below his collarbone on either side of his chest. I blinked my eyes and tried to focus on them. One was a pen and paper, while the other appeared to be sheet of music. “And one here.” He turned around to reveal a smooth and perfectly massage-able back with one long tattoo stretching across his shoulder blades. I didn’t recognize the design. I might have categorized it as tribal, but it looked more ancient than any I’d ever seen.

  My fingers twitched to reach up and touch him, but I managed to keep my hands to myself long enough for Henry to put his shirt back on and sit down on the couch again. “Does that count?” he asked with a grin, his eyes locked on me.

  I shrugged and pulled my gaze away from him to glance over at Tom, whose mouth flopped open like a fish as he stared at Henry. “I don’t know. It’s only three. Your dad has like a million. What do you think, Tom?” I asked as I reached up with my forefinger and pushed on the bridge of my glasses.

  Tom managed to close his mouth and he cleared his throat. “Not scary, no.”

  “Damn. Well, I tried.” Henry took a sip of his wine and then laughed like he’d thought of a joke.

  “What?” I asked.

  “My dad’s tattoos. They’re not skulls and shit, you know. They’re like archaeological finds, animals, and names. He has my mom’s and mine and my sister’s names. It’s all stuff like that. Pretty tame, really.”

  “Okay, I get it. He’s a teddy bear.”

  He laughed and nodded. “That’s about right.”

  “And so are you,” I told him.

  Henry looked at me for a long moment, a smile curving his lips. “I suppose you have my number, Chels.” He paused and a crease formed between his eyebrows. “Sorry, Chelsea.”

  “Okay,” Tom said, standing up. “It’s past this old man’s bedtime. We have to get up early and follow you all over the city with cameras. So, I’m going to hit the hay.”

  An internal war ensued inside my brain at that moment. I wanted to stay right where I was. But I’d seen enough of the forbidden fruit for one ni
ght. And if Henry and I were left alone, things might only get awkward. I didn’t need that. So I pulled myself up and followed Tom out of the room, wishing Henry a good night on my way.

  ****

  Six months, one week, and two days ago—New York, New York

  “You would think you could at least pretend to like me, Henry! I mean, Jesus, I’m trying here! I’m being a professional!” Tyressa screamed.

  Henry did what he’d been doing for the last five minutes, sitting across from her at an elaborately set table, arms folded over his chest, eyes staring off into the distance, exasperated expression just barely suppressed on his face. He hadn’t said a single word since she’d started yelling at him.

  Neither had anyone else for that matter. In fact, the entire restaurant was quiet. Luckily, we’d rented the place out for the day and there were no patrons in there, just staff, with mouths held open and camera phones pointed discreetly in their direction.

  Tyressa must have finally gotten tired of the silent treatment, because she asked him, “Well, don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

  Henry leaned forward, placing his forearms on the table. “Look, Tyressa,” he said in a low, calm voice. “We just got here. It’s only our second night in New York. I know both you and I would probably like some time to explore the city a little, shoot our individual scenes, before we do this joint scene. That would be easier, wouldn’t it?”

  She seemed to be stunned into silence, so she just nodded.

  “So, why don’t you let me talk to Steve for a minute and maybe we can do this in a few days. It would make the scene so much better, don’t you think?”

  “But, Henry,” she said, her voice much softer. “The issue is you are supposed to look like you want me. And Henry, everyone wants me.” Her voice started to rise. “Everyone but you!”

  “Tyressa,” Henry said quietly, reaching out to catch her hand in his. “That’s not the issue. The issue is we’re just not ready to do this scene yet. We should do this on Thursday instead.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

  “Steve,” Henry said, leaning back in his chair and letting go of Tyressa’s hand. “Can we rebook?”

  “Aww fuck,” Steve said. “We already paid for this place, Henry.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” the restaurant’s owner said, stepping forward. “We can make it happen.” She’d been watching the entire scene with the same rapt attention as the rest of us, and she had a mixture of shock and admiration on her face.

  “Fine. Then let’s get out of here and let them open up,” Steve grumbled.

  I packed up my equipment quickly. Everyone else was much faster at packing up than me. So I wasn’t surprised when Henry ended up beside me, hefting one of my bags. “Now that I got us out of that, where would you like to go tonight, Chelsea?”

  I wasn’t looking at him at that moment. And maybe that helped. Because I answered as if Tom had asked me. “I want ice cream.”

  “Ice cream,” Henry repeated.

  I stood and shoved the last bag over my shoulder. “Yep.”

  He flashed a killer smile. “I happen to know a place.”

  “I bet you do.”

  Henry moved to the door and held it open for me. “My aunt used to live here, you know. And she showed me all the best local spots.”

  “Lead the way.”

  ****

  Henry and I were alone at the café. Well, we weren’t really alone. There were at least a dozen other patrons in there, but none of the other crew from the show. Tom, who was the only one who shared our rental car with us these days, had chosen to get a cab back to the hotel where Tim waited for him. And we hadn’t bothered to invite anyone else.

  “All right, Rushton. It’s time to spill,” I said, pulling a massive scoop of fudgy ice cream out of the bottom of my glass dish. “Why are you doing this show?”

  Henry settled back in the booth and looked at me with amusement. “It’s been killing you, hasn’t it?”

  “More and more every day. I could tell from the beginning you weren’t into this assignment. But it’s become increasingly clear you were probably dragged into it kicking and screaming.”

  Henry smiled at me, and as it always did, my stomach quivered. “Well, I don’t know. It’s better than I expected it to be now that I get to do whatever I want and go wherever I want.”

  “But there’s still Tyressa,” I said with a wink.

  “Ugh. Yes. You know, when I found out she was involved, I almost backed out again.”

  “Tell the story, Henry,” I urged.

  He ignored my plea and continued to talk about Tyressa. “I called my aunt last night to ask her how to pull this off.”

  “Pull it off?”

  “Yeah. I’m supposed to look at her like she’s—”

  “Interesting, engaging, and sexy.” I repeated Steve’s words.

  “Exactly. I’m a writer, not an academy-award-winning actor.”

  I laughed. “What did your aunt say?”

  “She wished me luck. She’s known Tyressa since she was a baby.”

  “I bet it was a blast working with her dad all those years,” I said with a touch of sarcasm.

  “Actually, Roger wasn’t too bad. Aunt Stacey told me they were like a family. It’s pretty great when you have a work family.” He looked up at me. “Like me, you, and Tom.”

  An intense feeling of warmth spread through my entire being just then. And I couldn’t speak, so I just nodded.

  “All right.” He completely abandoned his ice cream and folded his arms across his chest. “I’ll tell you why I took this gig. I was dead broke.”

  “Dead broke with a trust fund?” I raised my eyebrow.

  “A trust fund I didn’t want to touch. Just like you, my friend, I tried to make it on my own. Only it was damn hard to do as a freelance writer.”

  “Using a pen name,” I pointed out.

  He sighed. “Yes. Because if I sent in a story with my real name on it, I would never know if it got published because it was good or because of my name. So, just like you won’t take a better job that you acquired because of your family name, neither will I.”

  “Yeah, I get it. So you were broke and in San Francisco?”

  “Yes. I moved up there after college. I wanted to have some distance between my family and me so I could make it on my own. But…” He ran his hand over his ponytailed hair.

  “Not too much distance,” I prompted.

  “It’s embarrassing as hell to admit, but, no. I didn’t want to go too far away. But I needed a new town at least, you know?”

  I nodded, encouraging him to continue.

  “But I wasn’t making it.”

  “SF is stupid expensive,” I said knowingly.

  “Tell me about it. I ended up having to move in with my mom’s brother, Uncle Brad.”

  “Desperate for a day job?”

  “Yes. But I planned to take a job at a library or something. Then I got the call from Ken.”

  “How did he talk you into doing the show?” I asked eagerly.

  “He didn’t. I laughed at him when he told me about it. He pleaded with me. He’s a huge fan of my dad’s, and apparently, I was his first choice when he dreamed up the show. So I told him to call Danny.”

  “Your cousin?”

  “Yeah, he’s the son of a rock star, too. And this whole thing is way more his speed. But Danny just opened his own studio, and he didn’t have the time to spend eight months gallivanting around the world. So he told Ken he’d talk me into it.”

  “And he did,” I guessed.

  “Not without a lot of help. My sister and my Uncle Hank both ganged up on me, too. Then my Aunt Bell, who’s a writer herself, thought it was a great way for me to get inspired. And she figured I could write some articles about my travels. Combined with constant calls from Ken, they were wearing me down.”

  “What did your parents think?” I asked, more than a little c
urious about the two people who most shaped Henry.

  “I don’t really know. I mean, they didn’t actually tell me. They said I should make my own decision. But I’m pretty sure neither of them thought it was a good idea. In the end, it didn’t matter. I needed the money.”

  “Okay. So I hate to point this out. But you definitely got this job because of your name and your family connections.”

  “Yeah, I know. But this job isn’t even remotely connected to what I actually want to do with my life. And maybe I’m earning the paycheck based on my name, but I am still earning it, rather than spending the money my dad earned. So…” He shrugged. “I figured, what the hell. Then I immediately regretted it.”

  I laughed. “Well, you’re stuck now, especially since it appears that we’ve saved the show.”

  “I know. Who’d have thought that showing off my nerdiness would help?”

  “You, Henry Rushton, are no nerd.”

  “Oh, yes, I am,” he argued.

  “I call bullshit. I know what a nerd is. I am one. But not you. No way.”

  “In the morning, the first place I am taking us is to the American Museum of Natural History. And I’ve been there at least a dozen times before, and most of those times I’ve been with my mother. If that’s not nerdy, I don’t know what is,” he said, leaning toward me, his elbows propped on the table between us.

  “Henry,” I said, throwing myself into the argument. “A person cannot look like you and be a nerd.”

  “That is so unfair!” he cried, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

  “Look, I admit there are many facets of being a nerd. But one very important one is ‘the look,’ Henry. A nerd cannot look like”—I waved my hand toward him wildly—“you!”

  He pressed his lips together for a moment. “I unequivocally disagree. And that was a two-dollar word, which is worth some major geekdom right there!”

  Henry’s enthusiasm for our conversation seemed to drain right in front of my eyes as he looked at something across the room. I followed his gaze to see that a news reporter was standing with a photographer in the doorway of the café, scrutinizing us.