Before the garage door closes, I see a man leaning against the hood of the SUV, looking at his cell phone. It’s kind of creepy because it’s getting dark. I take out my phone and pull up the dial screen, ready to call 911 if I need to. I quietly step into the mudroom and put down my teacher bag.
I hear my dad laughing in the kitchen and I breathe a sigh of relief. For two reasons. One: the man outside is probably not a serial killer; and two: my dad has company, which never happens.
Then I hear the other voice and my heart flips over. Actually, my heart leaves my body, travels around the corner into the kitchen, does flips and then returns to me, although not in its proper place. It seems to be currently lodged somewhere in the vicinity of my throat.
What the hell is Chad Stone doing here?
I head toward the kitchen. Then I turn around and head toward the garage. Then I turn back around. I change my mind so many times, I make myself dizzy. Then I bump into the coat rack, dislodging my purse, sending it thumping onto the floor. Shit.
“Mallory, is that you?” my dad asks.
Shit, shit, shit.
I close my eyes and take a calming breath, trying to control the pace of my heartbeat which is pounding so hard I feel like I’m still on the treadmill at the gym. I hold my head high and walk around the corner.
When I see Chad, smiling and sitting with my dad, two beers on the table in front of them as if they are old friends themselves, it guts me. Here he is after nine years, back in my house, looking all gorgeous and not at all nervous. Looking like he didn’t rip out my heart when he left. Looking all regal like the rich bastard he’s become. Looking like he doesn’t even care about the shit he left in his wake to get there.
“Uh, okay,” I say, looking at them. I don’t know what to do or what to say. Did he come here to see my dad? They got along back then, and his folks were good friends with mine. Maybe he’s just here to see him. Should I join them? Walk past them and go to my room? Turn back around and go to Mel’s? I bite my lip pondering my choices.
Just then, my dad scoots his chair out, finishes his beer and puts the empty bottle in the trash. “I’m sure you two have a lot of catching up to do. I think I’ll turn in early.” He offers his hand to Chad. “Nice to see you again, son. Don’t be a stranger.”
“I don’t plan to be, sir,” Chad says, shaking my dad’s hand.
My dad walks out of the room with purpose, loudly climbing the stairs so there’s no mistaking where he’s going, and then he shuts his door heavy-handedly. I roll my eyes at his unnecessary performance.
I realize I’m still standing in the doorway to the kitchen, not having moved since seeing Chad in my house. I search for something to say. But what do you say to the boy who left you high and dry when he went on to make millions on a TV show before getting fired for drugs and gambling and fighting, who then went on to make movies, hobnobbing with mega-stars who only need one name like Zac, Liam or Brad?
He doesn’t seem to know what to say either. Maybe he’s nervous after all. He probably thinks I’m going to hit him or something. Maybe I should.
I clear my throat. “Um, so the guy outside. He’s with you? Your driver?”
He nods. “My bodyguard.”
“You have a bodyguard?” I ask, reeling over the fact that my one-time friend is so uber-famous that there is a huge man perched against a big black SUV outside my house to protect him.
He shrugs, seemingly embarrassed by my reaction. “Well, not all the time, but for premieres and stuff.”
All of a sudden, I find myself becoming protective of my old friend. “Has someone threatened you? Do you have a stalker?”
“No.” He huffs out a strained laugh. “Not this week anyway.”
My heart sinks. He’s had stalkers? It must be awful not to be able to go where you want to go and do what you want to do because some wacko is out there.
He nods to the chair my father vacated. “Are you just going to stand there all night, or do you want to sit?”
“Uh . . . ” I look at the bag of leftovers I’m still holding. I walk to the fridge and deposit it inside, grabbing myself a beer before I shut it. I may need a bit of liquid courage to get through this conversation. I sit across from him. He reaches over to open my beer for me. Our hands touch. I try to ignore the shooting sensation that travels through me, piercing my heart. “Thanks,” I say, pulling my beer away from his hand. I motion to his drink. “I thought you didn’t drink. Weren’t you in rehab?”
He laughs awkwardly. “Direct much?” he says.
I take a drink of my beer. “I never censored myself with you when we were kids, why start now?”
“I know. It was one of the things I loved about you. You always said it like it was. And, yes, I was in rehab. Not for alcohol though.”
“Isn’t it all the same?” I ask. “Can’t you just replace one addiction with another?”
“Yes, some people can become cross-addicted. I don’t seem to have a problem with alcohol. My issue was with cocaine. But it’s an unforgiving drug, so I don’t ever drink enough to lower my inhibitions and make bad decisions. I find that as long as I limit myself to just a drink or two, I’m good. I still like to have fun. Just not crazy doped-up fun.”
“Oh.” I’d read countless articles about Chad’s partying early on. I’ve seen too many pictures of him and half-naked women looking gorked out. Eventually, I stopped looking. I stopped reading. I even tried to pretend I had stopped caring.
He nods in the direction of the stairs. “So, you still live here with your dad?”
I look around the kitchen that is the only one I’ve ever known. My parents bought this house when my mom was pregnant with me. “Yes. It’d be such a big place just for him, you know?”
He looks down at the table, nodding reluctantly. “I’m really sorry about your mom. I should have called.”
“You were a little busy back then,” I say, trying to keep bitterness from lacing my words.
“That’s no excuse. I should have come back for her funeral. She was like a second mom to me. And you . . . ” Guilt washes over his finely-chiseled features as he traces a bead of condensation on his bottle. “I just should have done something. I was in a bad way back then. It’s no excuse, I know. But it’s all I have.”
“It was a long time ago,” I say.
“You were only seventeen. You needed your friends. I fucked up. Will you ever forgive me?”
I study him for a minute. He wants my forgiveness? Is that why he’s here, to exonerate himself of guilt? But he looks sincere. Sad even, like he feels he lost a piece of himself when he cut off those he loved. Maybe Mel was right. Maybe he has changed. Still, if it’s my friendship he wants, it may be too little too late. “Why are you here, Chad? Uh, can I even call you that anymore?”
“Yes, please call me Chad. Thad isn’t who I really am. Not anymore. My family calls me Chad; I want you to as well.”
I think back to when he had just gotten discovered and his agent told him there was already an actor by the name of Chad Stoner, so he had to pick a new name because his was too similar. I was so excited that he chose Thad. The name that had so much meaning, but only to the two of us. It was a name that connected us in a way nobody else would ever understand. I somehow thought it would tie us together forever. Instead, it eventually ripped us apart, and now—well I’m glad he’s okay with me calling him Chad, because that other name is nothing more than a dirty word in my book.
“I’m sure you know I saw you at the premiere the other night,” he says. He sighs deeply. “My life has been a little bit crazy lately, to say the least. What is happening now is ten times worse than when I was on Malibu. Sometimes it feels like my life is not my own anymore. And I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but when I saw you, it was like seeing a lifeline to normal again. There were hundreds of screaming fans on that sidewalk, and then there was you. And you were the only one who wasn’t trying to get close enough to get a piece of me. It was
like a breath of fresh air in the chaos.”
“I didn’t know it was you at the club. Well, not until I saw you,” I tell him. “My friend, Melissa, and I were on our way back from dinner when we stumbled upon the crowd. We hung around to see what all the fuss was about.”
For a second, Chad’s face falls. He looks dejected. This gorgeous, mega-rich, up-and-coming superstar looks like a kid who just had his candy swiped from him. “You didn’t know I was going to be there?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“I guess that makes sense,” he says. “It looked like you were trying to get away.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. Sorry, Chad, I don’t follow your career because I think you are a self-centered prick who drops friends at the first hint of something better? I take a sip of beer instead of speaking.
“Your dad tells me you’re a teacher,” he says, filling the uncomfortable silence.
“I am.”
He stares at me with a smirk.
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, the irony is not lost on me.”
Chad used to say he wanted to teach high school history. And I was the one who was going to be an actor. I starred in every middle and high school theater production. I even got Chad to audition for one of the particularly time-consuming plays so we would be able to spend more time together. The play that should have resulted in our first kiss. And our second and third. It ran three nights. But we never rehearsed the kiss, and we ended up chickening out, hugging each other instead. Our lips never even touched. Not then; not ever.
“Why didn’t you pursue acting?” he asks. “You were so good at it.”
“I did. But not everyone can walk into a shopping mall and get discovered,” I say.
“Are you still interested? I could pull some strings if you want to try it out. I think you’d be amazing.”
I vehemently shake my head. “Oh, no. I love my job. Plus, I wouldn’t want that career anymore, not after seeing what it did . . . uh . . .” I try to remove my very large foot from my very big mouth.
He nods knowingly. “After seeing what it did to me.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful. I know you’ve worked hard to get where you are.”
He takes the last sip of his beer and puts the empty bottle on the table between us before standing up. “Please thank your dad for the beer. It’s been great seeing you again.”
And just like that, Chad Stone walks out of my life as quickly as he walked back into it.
Chapter Five
Chad
Mallory stays seated at her kitchen table as I walk through the house and out the front door. She doesn’t need to show me the way. I practically lived here when I was younger. I guess there isn’t much else to say. She wasn’t at the premiere party because of me. She’s obviously still pissed at me. And she has every right to be.
God, she’s beautiful. She was always pretty. But now, she’s fucking gorgeous. Those green eyes of hers are even darker than I remember, her fair skin even creamier. And Jesus, she’s a school teacher. Is there anything sexier than that? What the hell was I thinking not keeping in touch with her? That you didn’t want her to see what you’d become, you damn fool.
Shit. I didn’t think to look at her left ring finger. I assume she’s not married since she still lives with her dad. But who’s to say she’s not spoken for? A woman who looks like that must have men beating her door down. Richard didn’t say anything about a fiancé or a boyfriend. But then again, other than him telling me where she worked, we didn’t talk about her, we only talked about me. I think Richard wanted it that way. I’m sure he knows how Mal feels about me and he didn’t think it was appropriate to give me any personal details about her life.
I descend the four porch steps to the front walk where, tucked under a corner shrub, a ceramic frog still keeps watch over the front yard. I lean down and pick it up, looking underneath it. The house key is still taped to the bottom where it always was. The strong tape is weathered and torn and I wonder if they even remember the key is here. I put him back in his spot and walk to the driveway, glancing at Cole who has been waiting patiently for me.
Then I notice the old, rusty basketball hoop that is attached to the house over the garage door. Most of the netting is torn, as it was back then. It had seen hundreds of games of HORSE. Thousands maybe. I smile thinking of the times Mal and Julian and I spent out here. Immediately, my eyes go to the driveway hedge on the left side of the garage, lighting up when they spot an orange ball. It’s almost as if I were meant to find it.
I hold up a finger to Cole, alerting him I’ll be a bit longer. Then I pick the ball up out of the concave indentation that had become its home over the years. I press it firmly between my hands. It feels decently inflated. I dribble it a few times, happy to see it come back up to meet my hand each time.
I take a few steps back and take a free-throw shot. I miss of course. After all, it’s been nine years since I played. I dribble the ball around and take several more shots, making some now that the familiarity is coming back. I start to get into it, announcing my own fantasy game as if I were playing in the NBA finals. “And, Lebron fakes to the outside, but cuts in, spinning away from his defender and, wait, he’s going for three” —I jump up and make a sloppy-yet-effective three-pointer— “aaaaaaand, it’s nothing but net as the crowd goes wild.” I kiss my fingers and wave them to the pretend crowd as I take my victory lap around the driveway all but knocking over Mallory when I run up near the sidewalk. “Uh, sorry,” I say, shocked to see her watching me.
She’s laughing at me and I think it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard. “I heard the thumping of the basketball and came out to see what it was,” she says, putting her arms through her coat sleeves.
I back away from her, dribbling the ball. I nod to the net. “How about a game of HORSE? You know, for old times’ sake?”
She looks at the net and then at me, her eyes turning sad. She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. It’s pretty late.”
I look at my wrist as if there is a watch on it. “Oh, come on, Mal. It’s barely dark outside. I’m sure your dad will let you play a little longer, even if it is a school night,” I tease.
She looks back up at the house, just as the outside lights magically turn on, illuminating the entire driveway. I catch a glimpse of a curtain closing in the living room. I smile. Richard may think she hates me, but it appears he’s rooting for me anyway.
I bounce the ball on the ground, passing it to her. “Come on,” I goad as she catches the ball. “You know you want to. I’m a little rusty so you will probably kick my ass.”
She snickers. “That’s nothing new, Chad. I always kicked your ass.”
“Ouch!” I cover my heart with my hand. “That hurt, Mal. My ego is very fragile.”
“Ha!” she cries. “Somehow I doubt that.” She throws the ball at me. Hard.
I pass it right back to her. “Think fast!”
She catches it and dribbles it expertly behind her back. I raise an eyebrow. “You’ve been practicing,” I say.
“My dad and I play sometimes.”
“Shit,” I say. “You really are gonna kick my ass. Come on, you go first.”
She rolls her gorgeous green eyes at me. “Fine.” She walks to the middle of the driveway, about three feet away from the basket and she lobs a shot up and over the rim.
“Going easy on me, Schaffer?”
She shrugs.
Even though it’s been a few years, I still make the shot easily from this distance. I throw the ball back to her. “You’re going to have to come up with something better than that.”
“Okay.” She walks back a few steps. “Eyes closed this time.” She shoots and misses.
“Yes!” I say, with the enthusiasm of an adolescent boy. I scoop up the ball and position myself where the free-throw line would be and I take a shot. She follows my lead, easily making the basket.
Next, I try to trip her up with
a left-handed shot, but I miss it myself. “Back to you,” I say, handing her the ball.
She walks beyond the driveway crack that was our unofficial three-point mark. She throws the ball in the air, swooshing it into the basket. I walk up the driveway to retrieve the ball and then plant myself in her spot and attempt the shot. I miss. “Shit. That’s an ‘H’ for me.”
I give her back the ball and she bites her lip in thought. Then she moves up four steps and says, “Bank swish.” And just as she intended, the ball hits the backboard and falls through the basket touching nothing but net.
I’m mildly impressed. She smirks as she hands over the ball. I shoot and miss. Well, I don’t miss, but it touches the rim so it doesn’t count. “Crap!” I shout. “There’s my ‘O.’ Where the hell is Julian when I need someone to look like more of a loser than me?”
She laughs. “Julian used to kick your ass, too,” she says. “I think all the fame has gone to your head and you’re having delusions of childhood grandeur.”
“Julian used to beat me, too?” That I don’t remember. Maybe because I was always so focused on her.
She raises her eyebrows, nodding.
“Oh, hell. I really was a loser, wasn’t I?”
“You weren’t a loser, Chad,” she says, right before shooting an easy jump shot, probably to take pity on me.
“So, do you still keep in touch with him?” I ask, taking and making the jump shot.
“Who?” she asks.
“Julian. Do you still talk to him at all?”
I see something flicker across her face. Guilt? She quickly turns away from me and walks over to retrieve the ball.
“What is it, Mal?”
“Yeah, we still talk,” she says, running up to the garage from the other side of the driveway to do a lay-up. “He’s one of my best friends, in fact.”
Stone Promises (A Stone Brothers Novel) Page 4
