Below Unforgiven

by Stedronsky, Kimberly

  V

  What am I doing?

  I tossed and turned on my pop-up trundle bed, finally growling and staring at the ceiling of the finished-basement-dash-my-apartment.

  When Keaton told me that he was going to wait for me, I was completely expecting him to ask me out. During the entire pizza delivery, I practiced lines in the car. “No, I can’t date a married man.” Then I thought about his dimple, and changed my line to, “It wouldn’t be right to date a married man.” (Because it wouldn’t be right, but it wasn’t completely off the table.) And then I resolutely remembered that I was trying to be a better version of Vivian Hale, and he would just be a (sexy) distraction from my focus: make enough money to move out, get a place of my own…

  And pay Matthew back.

  My grandmother had already been in bed when I pulled into the driveway. Spreading the quilt over her shoulders, I gently took the book from her hands and set it on her night stand.

  When she’d invited me to live with her in June, I’d shown up at her door in tears. She picked me up in pieces, slowly helping me put myself back together.

  I pushed my thoughts of home away, focusing on the present.

  On Keaton, not Matthew.

  When Keaton asked to pay me to be his escort for the weekend, I had never been more insulted in my entire life.

  Of course. Why would Robin’s sexy, mysterious brother happen into town and sweep me off my feet? This was real life. I slapped him, hard, and though it wasn’t the first time I’d slapped a guy, it was the first time he really deserved it. Vivien Leigh would have been proud.

  But, Vivian Hale wasn’t that proud. In fact, it only took me minutes of listening to his woe-as-me, I’m a poor privileged pussy spiel before I realized that he was talking about three grand.

  Three thousand dollars, in one weekend.

  Okay, Vivian, you’ve dealt with stranger things, right? Right. You agreed to this. This is a job. An acting job. Experience.

  And an assload of money.

  Groaning, I reached for my phone, touching my Google app. Why did I feel so… icky… about this? He said no sex. NO SEX.

  Typing ‘Keaton Thorne,’ I hit search and waited.

  Nothing. I scrolled until the word ‘director’ caught my eye, and touched the article, waiting for the 3G network to catch up with my impatience.

  Widening my eyes, I sat up, covering my mouth with my free hand as I scanned the article.

  Director Keaton Thane arrested in domestic dispute involving a deadly weapon early this morning in the Pacific Palisades. Updates to follow.

  What the…?

  Keaton Thane. Keaton Thane…

  Why does that name sound familiar? I jumped back to the search box and Googled ‘Keaton Thane.’

  Holy shit.

  Keaton. My Keaton. Well, not my Keaton, but the Keaton that I’d met five hours ago, and the Keaton I’d just agreed to spend my entire weekend with for three thousand dollars.

  He wasn’t just a director; he was the director Keaton Thane. A year ago, he’d become the youngest director in history to win an Academy Award for some documentary, and now was rumored to direct the blockbuster Tonic, starring Will Smith, next summer.

  I scanned another article.

  Dubbed “The Kid” behind the silver screen, Keaton Thane becomes the youngest director in history to win an Oscar.

  And then, according to the article from February, he turned a gun on his wife and had to be dragged in handcuffs out of their Palisades mansion.

  Shivering, I switched to Google images, dropping back to my pillow. Various photos of his face filled my iPhone.

  Him, grinning in a tuxedo.

  Directing on a movie set.

  Posing at premiers with a tall, blonde, stunning woman.

  His wife.

  I sighed involuntarily. God, he was cute. Overly cute.

  Uncomfortably cute.

  What in the hell happened?

  Why would he threaten his wife… at gunpoint?

  When I moved to New Florence in June, I met Robin on my first day in town. I’d wandered into Valley Video looking for a movie to disappear into, and she was trying to clean the shelves and check out a handful of customers (probably the most I’d ever seen in the store since.) I’d asked if I could help, and she shoved the Windex and paper towels my way, hurrying to the register without a word.

  “You’re Mrs. Hale’s granddaughter. All grown up,” she finally said after the last customer left the trailer.

  “I just moved here… I’m looking for a job,” I countered awkwardly, unsure of how to take her. Her short, black pixie cut and multiple piercings and tattoos gave me a fuck-off vibe, but her smile was instantly friendly.

  “Well, you’re hired. And you’re my new best friend.” She declared, thrusting a stack of DVDs my way. “May as well jump right in. I like your grandma. She and my mom are good friends.”

  And just like that, I was employed (from way under the table) and had made a friend. The small town was actually a valley, and Robin lived in a big, Victorian house at the top of the hill with her mom and brother. Within the first hour of meeting her she was already telling me about her brother Luke’s wedding. She was older than me, twenty-three, and Luke was twenty-one.

  “I have an older brother, Keaton, but he took off years ago. After my grandpa died.”

  I didn’t ask about their father; I had no idea if he was still living, but I knew he was not part of their family now. Robin had described her older brother as hot-headed with a bad temper, but she loved him and understood his reasons (whatever they were, she didn’t tell me.) She also said he was the best looking of them all, with the conceitedness to show for it.

  When I finally met Luke, I couldn’t imagine that this mystery-older-brother could be any better looking. Luke Thorne had their mother’s brown hair and hazel eyes, and kind of reminded me of a younger Tatum Channing.

  Madeline, his fiancé, was nice enough, but couldn’t wait to get out of the tiny video store where Luke had dragged her in to meet me. I had the feeling that she had no interest in sticking around New Florence for any longer than necessary. They planned to move to Chicago after the wedding, where Madeline could open her own restaurant (with Luke’s inheritance, Robin added with a grunt.)

  Tempted to text Robin, I glanced at the time. 1 AM. She’s sleeping, stop obsessing, go to sleep!

  Shoving my phone under my pillow, I spread my hair away from my neck and forced my eyes to close.

  My phone chimed beneath my ear. Reaching for it, I squinted at the unfamiliar number.

  My heart hollowed in my chest.

  Hey, Mary Poppins, do you think I’m an asshole?

  It was him.

  How did he get my number?

  You gave it to him, you idiot!

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek, trying to decide how to respond.

  Finally, I defaulted to honest.

  Undecided. I’m reading about you on the internet.

  His text slid through immediately.

  Are you considering submitting your resignation?

  I smirked at his choice of words.

  Undecided. Why didn’t you tell me you are Keaton Thane? OR that you were arrested?

  Waiting, I shook my leg back and forth until the blanket slid to the floor. With no air conditioning in the house, the dehumidifier did little to curb the moisture in the air. My skin was damp, and my nerves were eating my stomach in half.

  Finally, his text came through as I was on the second ‘L’ of my HELLO?? text.

  I’ll elaborate tomorrow. Goodnight, Vivian.

  So formal.

  Goodnight.

  I hit ‘send,’ and then added another quick See you tomorrow.

  His text popped up right away.

  Go to sleep. Stop texting.

  I narrowed my eyes, exasperated.

  Then stop texting me!

  When he did, I sighed, flipping back to Google to search for more. Landing on a
picture of him smiling at an awards ceremony, I squinted, trying to see what he was holding. Finally, I pulled my thumb and forefinger apart on the screen to zoom.

  It was an Oscar.

  Somehow I managed to sleep. A little. I dreamed that Keaton was there, in my gram’s basement, directing a porn starring Magic Mike Gross-out Grady. Not Tatum Channing. Of course not, why would I get to dream about Tatum Channing? Pffff.

  Keaton’s smooth, baritone voice coaxed a reluctant smile to my lips.

  “So she does have another facial expression other than scowl.”

  My eyes popped open, and I shrieked.

  Jerking away from him, I nearly toppled off of the trundle bed. His face was inches from mine. He was kneeling at my side, his Cheshire smile spread from ear to ear.

  “What are you doing?” I slapped for the blankets, sheets, anything to cover myself, but I knew I was decent enough in a cami and boxers.

  “You know, the sad thing is, this whole fairy tale craze is going to be dead and buried by the time anyone important sees this face. Snow White and the Huntsman, Once Upon a Time, all that shit will fizzle and burn. Then back to superheroes, or natural disasters, or epic historical biographies. And all along, here was the perfect Snow White, sleeping in her grandma’s basement.”

  I half listened to his semi-passionate, semi-fanatical rant, wondering if he was clinically insane. “Did Gram let you come down here?” I demanded.

  “Keaton! Sweetheart, I need those apricots!”

  His eyebrows bounced on his forehead again at my grandmother’s call, and I glared at him. “Sweetheart?”

  “I’m making waffles!” His animated answer made me think of Donkey on Shrek.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I slept like shit. Been up since dawn.”

  “You’re overly caffeinated. Or on crack.” I yawned, and he pinched my nose.

  Actually leaned forward, reached for my face, and pinched my nose.

  I batted at his hand like I was shooing away an irritating fly, and he chuckled.

  “Come eat. I made us an appointment at a bridal store in Johnstown at ten.”

  “What?” I sat up, unable to shake my irritated glare. “Keaton, this is an invasion of privacy. I barely know you. And I can get a dress at Sears.”

  He snorted, glancing around the sunlit basement. Multiple windows at ground level streamed bursts of morning light into the finished room, and his eyes followed the shelves along the wall that housed several knick-knacks, keepsakes, and memories of my grandmother’s. “You have a part to play, V, and nowhere on my script do I see the word Sears.”

  V? “Hmn. Listen, snob,” I began, rubbing my eyes with my palms. “My money. If I can find a suitable gown at the mall, I keep the balance allotted for my ‘costumes’, right?” I made sure to air-quote the hell out of the word ‘costumes.’

  He stared at me, and I finally cleared the sleep out of my eyes enough to really look at him. Khaki cargo shorts, black Van Halen tee-shirt, and bare feet.

  “Where are your shoes?”

  He gave me a look of mock horror. “I can’t wear my Chucks on your Grandmother’s carpet. Do you think I was raised in a barn?”

  My mind wandered to the photos of him on the internet. He was classier than hell in a black tuxedo, cleanly shaven and manicured. I was sure he was the featured image on the Wikipedia entry for ‘debonair.’

  Arms… biceps. Sculpted and tanned, stretching the sleeves of his tee shirt. Unshaven, his stubbly face made the tips of my fingers prickle as I thought about the texture.

  This close, I could see him in the bright light more clearly. Rough. Bags under his lower lids, and tiny, red veins in his eyes, like he hadn’t slept in days. Younger up close than in those Google images.

  I guessed this was his ‘nosedive’ look. I imagined what it would be like if he really did get me an audition, and I actually got the part.

  Maybe we’d pose together on the red carpet, and he’d brag about discovering the brilliant Vivian Hale-

  “Yes, you can keep your leftover costume money, but I have the final say on the gown. Agreed?”

  His words snapped me back to the basement, and I nodded without thinking.

  My grandmother’s voice carried down the steps. “Don’t make me drag my hip down those stairs, kids!”

  He grinned, knowing and amused. “She would have said ass if it wasn’t for me, right?”

  I exhaled a puff of laughter, reluctantly nodding. “Right.”

  “Did I tell you that your grandma was my Sunday school teacher?” He winked, reaching for my hair and tugging. The action took me by surprise. Intimate, friendly. Unnerving. “Your hair is long.”

  “Observant,” I said with a sarcastic eye roll, and started to stretch, but stopped when I realized that my top would ride up my stomach. Quickly dropping my arms, I scrambled to my feet. “Gram, we’re coming,” I called, reaching for my thin hair band. “Go on, I’ll be up in a minute.”

  He climbed to his feet, his hands resting on my shoulders. I lifted my face to his, confused.

  “I’ll need you in heels,” he said, his voice husky and low. As his hand slid down my arm and around to my back, my breath caught in my throat.

  He tugged me against his chest.

  Very conscious that I was completely braless as my breasts pressed against the AN in Van Halen, I braced my hands on his arms. My fingers wrapped around taut skin and muscle, and his palm pushed against the small of my back. When his thumb brushed the sensitive skin above the waistband of my shorts, I shivered, looking up at him quickly.

  He was grinning like a madman. “Yes, definitely one inch. When we’re dancing, I want you to be able to lift your face and kiss me without me having to bend down to you.”

  All of the blood rushed from my face, and he released me. “Kiss you?”

  “Well, yeah,” he shrugged. “Strategically placed kisses. No tongue, calm down. Look, this is going to be harder for me than it is for you. I’m a director, not an actor. But… I’ll do my best.”

  “I’ve known you for-twelve hours!” I couldn’t help but protest, and he glanced at the watch on his wrist.

  Nice watch. Expensive.

  “Okay, when exactly have we known each other long enough for our first kiss? Let me know, I want to plan accordingly. I need one in front of my mom, a few friends from high school, and maybe some groping in the hotel room elevator right before-…,”

  “Jesus, this is crazy,” I shook my head, stalking to the bathroom. “Listen, I’m going to need a list of your ‘expectations.’”

  “You are kind of an air-quote whore, did you know that?” He moved to the shelves by the laundry room, dragging his fingers along the canned goods. “Apricots, apricots… these are alphabetized. Gram did this?”

  Gram? “She’s my gram, not your gram, and no, I did that. I organize things. When I’m nervous. Or bored. Now, go upstairs,” I ordered.

  He took two steps at a time to the kitchen, and I couldn’t help but watch his calves flex up to his perfect ass the entire way to the door. He glanced back, catching me gawking. “Of course she’s looking. And the lady likes what she sees.”

  “Go!” I shouted.

  God, did he think this was a movie?

  I used the bathroom and brushed my teeth, finally deciding to take a quick shower. He can wait and hang out with ‘Gram’, I thought smugly. Then I cursed myself for mental air-quotes. By the time I reached the kitchen, Gram was already done with her breakfast, and Keaton was standing at the sink, washing dishes.

  “There she is! Good morning sunshine,” she greeted. I smiled, lowering to kiss her cheek at the kitchen table. Her perfect coif of silver hair was always in place, and her clear blue eyes mirrored my own. “Sleep well?”

  “Yes. I hope I didn’t wake you up when I came home.” I lowered to the kitchen chair, my eyes still on Keaton as he soaped the dishes.

  He turned to half face me, grinning, wearing Gram’s pink, rub
ber gloves, and I couldn’t resist smiling back at him. The V-shape of his shoulders and back were obvious as he leaned over the sink, and I decided that I liked Nosedive Keaton better than Red Carpet Keaton. Less intimidating.

  More real.

  “Not at all. Thanks for covering me up. Got a little breezy last night,” she gestured to the waffles. “Eat, sweetheart, you’re too skinny.”

  I flushed. At least now I was sweetheart. “Thanks for making breakfast,” I answered.

  “Oh, no, this was all Keaton,” she wrapped her fingers around her coffee cup. “Who would have guessed the little trouble maker in my Sunday school class would be making me waffles, sixteen years later?” She chuckled.

  “Trouble maker, huh?” I poured a glass of orange juice, and she winked at Keaton as though they were old friends.

  “When the nine-year-old star of the Christmas pageant stops in the middle of the play to argue that there was no way Mary could be a virgin-and pregnant-I knew he was something else,” she quipped, shaking her head. “Little shit.”

  “Gram!” I widened my eyes, turning to Keaton. He shrugged, finishing the last of the dishes.

  “A great production is all about the details.” He sauntered to the table with a cup of coffee, taking the seat next to me.

  “And now he’s a star! He can introduce me to Liam Neeson. He knows him.”

  “I met him, once,” Keaton corrected gently, his eyes still on me. “Cute dress.”

  The sundress I grabbed from my makeshift closet (clothesline) was the same color blue as my eyes. “Thanks. Gram made this for me,” I smiled at her, and she blushed proudly.

  “We spent hours at Jo-Ann Fabrics finding just the right color material to match those peepers. Too much black and brown in Vivie’s wardrobe. She needed something to make those eyes pop.”

  “Well, I’ll keep this color in mind while we look for Vivie’s gown,” Keaton said, a smile playing over his lips before he took a sip of coffee.

  I gave him a look that said don’t call me that. “She has the longest legs, so maybe something with a slit up the side-…,”

  “Gram,” I protested again, feeling the entire morning tornadoing out of my control. “Are you sure you’ll be okay without me here? Please don’t climb up on that step ladder again.”