I take the thin paper from her grip and shove it in the back pocket of my faded cut-off shorts. Hooking my grocery bags around my forearms, I look from the hopeful girl to the blurry picture of Grayson and feel my eyebrows pull into a scowl.
“My advice?” I laugh bitterly. “Find a new dream. Hollywood will break your damn heart, kid.”
Her crestfallen expression chases me out the sliding automatic doors, all the way through the parking lot. It’s a long walk back to my place, but I barely care. My feet move on autopilot as I flip through the tabloid with numb fingers, looking for the story about Grayson and Helena. I’m so focused on the magazine in my hands, I don’t see them staked out between the row of cars until it’s too late.
Camera flashes explode from all directions.
“KAT!”
“KATHARINE!”
“MISS FIRESTONE!”
“CAN WE GET A SMILE?”
“LOOK THIS WAY!”
“HAVE YOU SPOKEN TO GRAYSON SINCE THE SPLIT?”
The magazine tumbles to the ground. I throw my hands up to cover my face as they press closer, coming at me from all sides. I try to push my way through the crowd, but there’s no way out. I’m completely surrounded.
“KAT!”
“TELL US ABOUT GRAYSON!”
I hunch into a protective crouch, curling in on myself like a wounded rabbit surrounded by wolves.
“HAVE YOU SEEN HIM SINCE HAWAII?”
“DO YOU HAVE A PLAN TO GET HIM BACK?”
My eyes are watering and my ears are ringing — I’m practically blind from the constant flashes. Their shouts and questions never cease. I’m starting to feel claustrophobic.
“HAVE YOU SPOKEN TO HELENA?”
“DO YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THE BABY?”
I search desperately for my keys in the depths of my purse, fingers colliding fruitlessly with lipsticks and gum wrappers and a million old receipts. Someone jostles me from behind, hard , and I topple forward against the pavement. When I hit the unforgiving asphalt, my grocery bags fly from my grip, sending apples and canned goods rolling in every direction.
My palms and kneecaps shred like cheese against a grater. I cry out — more in disbelief than actual pain. I’ve dealt with the paparazzi before, that night at Balthazar, but they weren’t nearly this frenzied.
No one helps me to my feet. They don’t even stop shooting. If anything, their fingers press down faster on their shutters.
Click, click, click.
They don’t see me as human at all. To them, I am a zoo animal. A SeaWorld orca. A spectacle to be photographed and exploited.
I’m attempting to scramble back to my feet, knees trickling blood down my bare shins into the tops of my favorite boots, when the sound of a scuffle cuts through the din. A giant man in a suit I’ve never seen before shoves two paps out of his path like they’re made of paper. He’s huge , probably six-foot-five, and handsome in a tough, body-builder kind of way with his icy blue eyes and close-cropped hair.
I open my mouth to ask who the hell he is, but the words never make it past my lips as he swoops in, scoops me into his arms, and carries me through the crowd toward a waiting black SUV.
“What— hey !” I struggle against his hold, relatively certain that I’m being kidnapped.
His low voice rumbles overhead. “Mr. Hastings sent me as security, ma’am.”
Wyatt .
My thrashing stops abruptly. Before I know it, I’m settled safely behind tinted glass in the passenger seat of a massive black SUV, the kind you see in motorcades and secret service details. The paparazzi are shooting pictures of the car, but their fervor seems to have cooled a bit, now that I have backup in the form of my massive, suited protector.
He rounds the hood and climbs behind the wheel. He doesn’t even look over at me — he just starts up the engine and peels out of the lot. After a moment of silence, I clear my throat.
“So… thanks for that.”
“Just doing my job. If you want to thank someone, thank Mr. Hastings. He’s the one who hired me.”
“When?”
“My retainer started the moment your plane landed last night.”
“But… I didn’t ask him to… It’s not his responsibility…” I shake my head to clear it. I’m stunned that Wyatt set this up. I can’t imagine hiring a full security detail is standard practice for every actor who works on one of his movies…
“If I can speak freely…” My new bodyguard’s voice drops lower. “When he hired me, Mr. Hastings mentioned you might not have had adequate time to enlist your own security yet. I think he was worried something like this might happen if you went out on your own in the meantime.”
“And if I didn’t go out?”
“I’ve been watching your building, making sure no one bothers you.”
“I can’t believe Wyatt didn’t tell me about this.”
“Mr. Hastings wanted me to be discreet. I wasn’t to announce my presence unless something happened.” He pauses, hands tightening on the wheel. “If I’d done a better job, nothing would’ve happened.”
“It wasn’t your fault. I’m totally fine.”
His eyes dart to mine. I see them drop pointedly to my hands, which are crusty with blood and dirt from my fall. He reaches into the center console, pulls out a package of pre-moistened tissues, and hands it to me.
“Thanks,” I murmur absently, wincing as I extract a pebble embedded in my aching palm.
“No problem, Miss Firestone.”
“It’s Kat.”
He nods, but I get the sense he’s still going to use my surname whenever addressing me. The air of professionalism and formality surrounding him is irrefutable. He’s probably only in his mid-twenties but his deadly serious demeanor lends him an intimidating sense of maturity.
He takes a left. It’s not lost on me that we’re heading toward my condo… despite the fact that I never told him my address. Apparently, my anonymity has expired. It was only a matter of time before the paparazzi found out where I spend my nights, where I do my shopping…
I sigh heavily.
He looks over at me, browsed raised in question.
“I suppose this means they know where I live,” I mutter, jerking my thumb back in the general direction we came from.
He nods. “It would probably be best to stay somewhere else, for a few days. And also to think about moving permanently to somewhere with security. A gated entrance. Closed-circuit cameras.”
“Seriously?”
“Permission to speak frankly?”
“Always.”
“Right now, anyone off the street can walk up to your front door and bother you. I did a quick sweep of your townhouse exterior, earlier — it has cheap, crappy clasps on the windows and your doors wouldn’t withstand even the most amateur of lock-pickers. Basically, it’s a nightmare for anyone who needs basic security measures.”
I swallow hard. “I didn’t realize.”
“Of course not. This is new to you.” He turns the SUV into my condo parking lot and pulls up to the curb, eyes scanning for hidden paparazzi members in the bushes by my door. “If someone jumps out at us with a camera, I’ll handle it. You just focus on getting inside. Pull your curtains closed and make sure all the windows are locked. Even your balcony — it’s not so high off the ground that someone couldn’t scale the drainpipe and try to gain entry that way.”
I nod as if his words aren’t giving me heart palpitations. As if the idea that someone would go to such lengths to invade my privacy isn’t totally foreign to me.
“Would you say that’s likely?” I ask in a bland voice. “Someone trying to break in?”
“Hey.” His serious gaze meets mine. “Don’t worry. It’s my job to keep you safe. What happened earlier aside… I’m quite good at my job, Miss Firestone.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Here.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a sleek black business card. It’s blank except for a smal
l row of letters that spell out MASTERS and a phone number.
“Ready?” He reaches for his door handle.
“Wait!”
He pauses.
I haul in a breath. “You never told me your name.”
“Kent Masters. Most people call me Masters.”
“Masters,” I echo, sliding his card into my purse. “Nice to meet you.”
His lips twitch in the merest hint of a smile as he steps onto the curb and comes around to let me out. Masters hovers behind me like a shield as I approach my front door and slide my key into the lock. Once inside, I collapse on my couch and stare at my bleeding kneecaps, attempting to take stock of my new reality.
I was just recognized in public by a teenage fangirl.
My face is on the cover of every supermarket tabloid.
A mob of paparazzi attacked me for photographs.
My groceries are lying abandoned in a parking lot.
I have a badass bodyguard to protect me from harm.
I guess those things prove I’m not a Hollywood nobody, anymore. That I’ve finally “made it.” But I must say… life as a somebody is officially weird.
After checking all the doors, windows, closets, and shadowy corners, Masters leaves me to go sit in his SUV, keeping watch and doing whatever it is that security details do.
Scanning surroundings. Cleaning weapons. Brooding in a smoldering, sinister manner.
I look around, feeling strangely exposed. Maybe I was away in Hawaii too long — my home doesn’t feel much like home anymore. Granted, it was always more shit-hole than sanctuary… but whatever relative peace or security I used to feel between these four walls has evaporated. Each time a car rumbles by outside my windows, I have to fight the urge to take cover behind a wall or under a table.
It’s definitely time to start looking for a new place.
I pull open a real-estate app on my phone and begin browsing for listings in my neighborhood, automatically ruling out several places with rents I can’t afford. I click on a nearby studio, grimacing at the pictures of the water-spotted ceiling and old-fashioned radiator, and scroll down, wondering if it wouldn’t just be better to stay where I am. The nicer neighborhoods are out of my bartending-tip budget.
But… I’m not living on a bartender’s budget anymore.
The realization shouldn’t be surprising. I knew, when I signed on to the Uncharted project, I’d be making more in one paycheck than most people make in their entire lifetime. But knowing and believing are different creatures. It still doesn’t feel real.
I wander over to the stack of mail that accumulated in my time away. There’s no check from AXC amidst the junk pamphlets and card-stock coupons. A pang of foreboding shoots through me as I realize exactly where my check must be…
In the clutches of an acrylic-nailed monster.
I pull Masters’ card from my back pocket and dial his number. He answers on the first ring.
“Miss Firestone? Is everything all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” I assure him. “I was just wondering if you could drive me somewhere…”
* * *
C ynthia’s home in Manhattan Beach is just as I remember it — immaculately cleaned, impeccably decorated, incredibly cold. There is no feeling of home here. No warmth. Despite the sunshine pouring through the many skylights overhead, walking through the front door is like stepping into an ice box. Even the amazing water views off the large deck cannot make up for the chill of my mother’s presence.
She sits perched across from me, back stiffer than an ironing board. Avoiding her gaze, I stare at the glass coffee table between us. There is not a single speck of dust on its surface.
The room is entirely silent except for the rhythmic patter of her acrylic nails against the wooden arm of her chair. I wish, suddenly, that I’d forced Masters to come in with me instead of encouraging him to wait in the car. It’s clear Cynthia is enjoying this — wielding power over me again. Forcing me to come to her, a stray begging for scraps.
My eyes move to the writing desk against the wall. There’s a familiar photograph sitting in a frame on the surface. I flinch when I recognize Grayson and me on the set of Busy Bees — the same photograph featured on the front of the magazines in the supermarket earlier…
My gaze flies to her as realization boils through me.
“It was you,” I whisper in a stunned tone, fracturing the silence.
Her eyebrows arch. “Excuse me?”
“You were the exclusive insider who gave the tabloids details about me. About my life. My history with Grayson.”
“Of course,” she admits with a scoff. “Don’t look so outraged, Katharine, you’ll give yourself wrinkles with that scowl.”
“You gave them quotes about me. Photos…” I shake my head. “That’s private! How could you do that to me? You’re supposed to protect me!”
“I’m supposed to promote you,” she corrects.
A horrified expression contorts my features. Of all the things she’s done, this may be the worst. Betraying my secrets to the press… ruining my privacy… Hell, she’s probably the one who told them where I shop for groceries.
“Don’t look at me like that.” Her eyes narrow. “It was good publicity.”
“I don’t give a shit. It wasn’t your place to talk to them about anything!”
“I wouldn’t have to spin sweet stories about your childhood if you’d been able to keep control of things. You should thank me — without the stories I gave them, the only thing they’d be saying about you is that you’ve been dumped. That you’re a loser . Two weeks in the spotlight and already old news.”
My hands curl into fists. “I haven’t been dumped.”
“Oh, really?” Her lip curls. “When was the last time you saw Grayson Dunn? Has he called you, since you got back here? Come by your apartment? No .”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stay silent.
“You haven’t been spotted together since Hawaii. And I heard he flew back early.” Her voice is smug. “If I had to guess, I’d say he’s already forgotten you. That he’s gone right back to the man he’s always been — drinking and drugging and whoring around with other women.”
“That’s not true!”
“Isn’t it, though? I know all about him and Helena Putnam.”
“You don’t know anything,” I snap, wishing her words didn’t have such power to wound me. “You don’t know him.”
“But I know men,” she says coldly. “And men — especially rich, famous men like Grayson Dunn — are good for two things: orgasms and alimony.”
“You’re sick.”
“No, Katharine, I’m honest.” She tilts her head. “Did you truly believe he’d ever be loyal to you? That he could love you?”
Her questions are an indisputable echo of my deepest fears. They tear at me like knives, slicing me straight to the heart. Because, in truth, I had believed it — that he could love me back. That he could be loyal.
It isn’t just another fling.
I am more than a notch in his belt.
And yet… he hasn’t called. Hasn’t once reached out. I feel the absence of him in my life like a physical weight. A wound that will not heal, torn open a little wider with each hour that passes without hearing from him.
He is hurting me without lifting a finger. He must know it.
He just doesn’t give a shit.
“What a pity… you love him. I can see in your face that you do,” Cynthia says, lips pursing in disapproval. “Reckless, Katharine. Very reckless. You never listen to me. How many times have I told you, always pick someone who loves you more than you love them? How many ways did I explain that caring more means you have less power?”
My eyes prick with tears I’ll never allow to fall in front of her. “Love isn’t about power! That’s what you don’t understand — what you’ve never understood.”
“How perfectly naive,” she murmurs. “Darling, I’ll let you in on a little secret — e
verything in the world is about power. Sex, fame, lust, success, money… and love. Especially love . When you love someone, you give them all the ammunition they’ll ever need to destroy you.”
She’s right, a horribly familiar voice whispers from the back of my mind. You just don’t want to believe it. You just don’t want to admit you’ve already lost him. You lost him the moment the movie wrapped.
I pull in a deep breath and attempt to compose myself so I don’t cross the room and strangle her with my bare hands. When I speak, my voice is shaking with the effort to remain in control.
“I’m leaving. I want my check. Now .”
“I suppose you do.” Her smile is calculating. “But I think I’ll hold onto it for a bit longer.”
“You can’t do that.” I grit my teeth. “It’s my money.”
“And I’m your agent. I negotiated your contract. I can do whatever I want.”
“Cynthia, I’m not playing this game anymore.” I rise to my feet, cross my arms over my chest, and stare down at her. “You’ve got two choices — you can give me my money and step away from my career of your own accord, or you can refuse to give me my money and I’ll fire you, slap you with a massive lawsuit, and take this house and every penny in your bank account.”
I see a flash of anger in her dark blue eyes. Her voice is suffused with faux maternal indignation.
“Oh, that’s so nice. You ignore me for weeks, shut me out of every aspect of your life, then come over here and make heartless demands.” She gets dramatically to her feet, like a soap opera star — all breathy outrage and flashing eyes. “Is this any way to treat your mother?”
“You’re playing the mother card? Really?” I snort. “That’s funny, since you’ve spent the past two decades telling everyone you were nothing more than my agent.”
“So, this is the thanks I get for nearly twenty-three years of supporting your career?”
“I’m pretty sure the massive chunk of money you got from this movie deal should be thanks enough, actually. What’s the going rate for your services, these days — fifteen percent? Twenty?”
She acts as though I haven’t spoken. “And now you’re going to fire me. After all I’ve done. All the years I’ve put in. The countless hours I’ve spent getting your career off the ground, the sacrifices I’ve made…” Her voice quivers with barely-leashed anger. “I’ve been the best agent you could ever ask for.”
The Monday Girl (The Girl Duet #1) Page 26
