Trashed (Stripped #2)

by Jasinda Wilder

  I have nowhere to go. No money except for the check in my purse, which I can’t cash or deposit yet. Everything is closed.

  I stack my wet suitcases on the ground and sit on the pavement beside them. The rain batters down on my skull, soaking me to the bone in moments.

  I try not to remember the last time I was stuck out in rain like this.

  I’ve lost track of time. Eventually, I doze, despite the rain. Or maybe the term is ‘pass out’.

  I feel a hand shaking my shoulder. “Des?” It’s Ruth. I peer up at her, and realize my teeth are chattering so hard I can’t even speak. “Des, honey, what are you doing here? Jesus, how long have you been out here?”

  “No—nowhere else to—to go.”

  “Oh, sweetie. God. Come on, let’s get you inside.”

  A hot shower, a change of clothes, and some Campbell’s chicken noodle soup has me feeling slightly more human. I explain everything to Ruth, who is too good of a friend to say “I told you so,” but I can see it in her eyes, feel it sitting between us, unspoken. She doesn’t ask if I ever called Adam back; she knows better.

  She hasn’t rented out my old room.

  Because she knew I’d be back?

  Chapter 11

  “Train jump, take two. And…action!” Presley Miller’s voice booms through the megaphone, and I spring into action.

  I take off running along the roof of a warehouse, and four feet below me is a freight train moving about ten miles per hour faster than I can run. It’s all been carefully calculated and choreographed and tested using a stuntman, so they know it’s possible. Hell, I’ve completed the jump itself once already. It’s not the landing that’s the problem, it’s the moment after that’s tricky. Presley wants me to make the jump look effortless, so we practice with the train stopped. Full sprint, leap, drop ten feet, land on my feet onto the roof, keep my footing, keep running. I’ve almost got it. Almost.

  I’ve landed it in practice, and nearly had it the first real take, but I stumbled the first few steps before catching my footing and Presley just won’t have the stumble. Won’t have it. So I do it again.

  “You’re a goddamned superhero goddammit!” Presley screams through the microphone. It’s his version of a pep talk. “Stick the fucking landing, you big pussy! I’m not backing this fucking train up again, so get it right! Now…Go-go-go! Ready? JUMP!”

  I jump. My heart thuds. Air whistles. My feet throb from landing on the metal roof of a train car. My thighs ache from constant sprinting. The train barrels beneath me, and I know I’ve fucked this up. Or someone has. The train is supposed to get moving five minutes before I start my sprint, and everything is precisely timed so my jump lands me in the middle of a car.

  Instead of the reassuring rusted metal of a roof, all I see is a gap between cars. I’m going to miss. I’m going to smash between the cars and get turned into paste.

  My heart crashes in my ears. It feels like time is moving in sludge-slow increments, like treacle.

  The distance between me and the train congeals, and then my stomach and ribs are slamming into the edge of the train car. Motherfucker, it hurts. I’ve caught the edge, and I can see the ground whizzing beneath my feet. If I slip, I’m dead. There’s no safety backup, no wires. The train is moving too fast. I can sense the difference, feel it. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Someone is screaming, yelling, “CUT! CUT!” but Presley is rolling his arm, the signal to keep rolling.

  Yeah, don’t mind me, asshole, I’m only about to die here.

  I strain, claw, scrabble the toes of my combat boots against the side of the car, groaning between gritted teeth. My ribs are screaming, either bruised or cracked. My muscles are on fire.

  I get an elbow on the top of the train car, and then the other one. Now I can move myself forward and get my feet under me. The pace car is bouncing along beside the train, and the AD is waving his arm in circles. We’re still rolling.

  Ahead of me, Israel Price-Vickers runs across the top of the train, oblivious to what’s just happened. He’s got an AK-47 slung around his back, blanks loaded in the clip. He’s the villain, the one I’m supposed to catch. I’m supposed to be running behind him. I have to catch him. The fact that Presley hasn’t cut yet tells me he may just go with this take, if I can get moving. I suck in a breath and wince at the lance of pain in my chest, put a hand to my ribs, and force myself into a run. Each step hurts, but I’ve played with worse. I bury the pain, growl through it, push myself into a sprint. Israel glances back at me, and pours on the speed. I leap the space between train cars, and now there’s only one car-length between us. Israel doesn’t stand a fucking chance. Even with bruised ribs I can still run him down like a dog.

  We pass the marker; a telephone pole with a red ‘X’ spray-painted across the wood, telling us the next phase of the scene is coming. When we see the next X-marked pole, I’m going to tackle Israel and we’re going to fly through the air and onto a huge stunt pad.

  Except, if the train’s moving faster, we’re going to miss the landing. In the choreography, Israel spins at the last second and topples backward to absorb the impact of my tackle. That’s not going to work now. Israel doesn’t know the train is moving faster than it’s supposed to, or what that means for the scene.

  So I push myself harder. I see the marked pole, and the pad, and it’s a lot closer than it’s supposed to be.

  I dig deep, and force myself to the limits of my physical capability. Israel doesn’t see me coming, isn’t ready for the tackle.

  Six feet.

  Four.

  And then I’m flying through the air, diving at Israel, slamming into him. The butt of the AK-47 bites into my ribs, but I can’t do anything except absorb the pain. Israel is in my arms, twisting, thrashing, and then as we hit the stunt pad the rifle jabs me again, further damaging my ribs.

  “What the fuck, Adam?” Israel is rolling away from me, bouncing on the huge, inflated pad and onto the ground. He stumbles, tosses the rifle aside and grabs his side, leaning over and wincing like a pussy. “That’s not the fucking choreography, you asshole! What the hell were you doing?”

  “Saving your ass, and the scene,” I growl, sliding gingerly to the ground.

  Presley is here, hopping out of his golf cart and rushing for me. “Holy shit, holy shit! That was epic!”

  “You need to fire that fucking train engineer,” I bark. “He had that piece of shit train going way faster than it’s supposed to be.”

  “I know, I know,” Presley says, waving a hand dismissively. “But he’s union, nothing we can do except yell at him. You stuck it, though, and that scene works so much better this way! It makes your character seem that much more human and believable! I can’t believe it! That was absolutely wonderful! Take five, everyone!”

  I lift up my shirt, and see that a massive bruise is already purpling across my torso. “How about I take the day, Pres? Or the week, how about that? I almost died just now, or did you fucking miss that little fact?”

  Presley winces and looks away. “Don’t be so dramatic, Adam. But yes, yes, fine, take till Tuesday. We’ve got some work to do for Israel’s next few scenes anyway, so we don’t really need you.” He waves at me. “And get that looked at. Need you tip-top for your next scene.” He lowers himself heavily into the golf cart, which settles significantly under his bulk. Presley Miller is not a small man.

  I watch him go, and then the on-scene medical team is cutting my shirt away and probing my ribs. Bruised tissue and muscle, they say, but no breakage. They also tell me the thick layer of muscle kept me from sustaining any major injuries.

  Why couldn’t I be a romantic comedy actor? Crack jokes and kiss hot chicks all day. Sounds good to me right about now.

  They help me into another golf cart and drive me across the industrial landscape we’re using as a set. We’re somewhere in the wasteland of the industrial urban blight outside Detroit, filming a big-budget action movie, an all-original storyline and characters for once, which i
s pretty exciting in this age of remakes, reboots, and adaptations. We wrapped on Fulcrum 2 three months ago, and I’ve been working on this movie ever since. We’re filming the whole thing in and around Detroit, both for the post-apocalyptic feel of the abandoned warehouse districts and inner-city ghetto areas, and because the newly elected state governor instituted significant tax breaks for the film industry as a tactic to rejuvenate the struggling city.

  My driver and bodyguard Oliver is waiting for me beside a sleek black Range Rover, and he drives me downtown to my rented apartment. I shower, change, and toss back some Motrin for the aches and pains, and then have Oliver drop me off at a local bar. I settle into a booth with my script, a pint, and a burger. I spend a couple hours slowly sipping beer and refreshing my lines for the next few scenes, and ignoring the buzzing bar around me.

  Patrons come and go, a few recognizing me, but Oliver keeps them at bay.

  And then I happen to glance up as I’m reciting a particularly tongue-twisty line under my breath, and happen to see a girl at a table adjacent to mine. She’s sipping a martini and flipping through a catalogue of some sort while she chats on the phone. There’s a place set across from her, so I’m guessing she’s waiting for someone. The girl herself doesn’t interest me, though, but the catalogue does. It’s for a clothing line, and what catches my eye are the models. Like the girl looking through the catalogue, all the models are curvier. Plus size, I guess the term would be. Although after knowing Des, I’ve stopped using that term; women are women, and are beautiful regardless of their shape or size or weight.

  My heart clenches as I think of Des. She never called. Six months and not a word from her.

  The girl flips the page and there she is. Des. In the catalogue. Tall, ink-black hair, beautiful, so beautiful, wearing a long, flowing blue dress and simple white sandals.

  Without thinking, I leave my booth and slip into the empty seat across from the girl. She stares at me in irritation, and then she recognizes me. “Beth? I’ll—I’ll call you back.” She ends the call and sets the phone down. “Hi. Um. Hi?”

  I point at the magazine. “Sorry to bother you, but could I see your catalogue for a second?” She blinks in confusion. “I know that’s a weird thing to ask, I just—I know her, that girl.” I tap the image of Des.

  The girl slides the magazine toward me and I spin it so it’s right-side up.

  God, Des.

  She really is a model, now. She’s a bit slimmer in this image than when I knew her, although that could be Photoshop. She’s got a mysterious half-smile on her lips, and she’s wearing a lot more makeup than she needs. But she’s Des, and so lovely it makes my chest ache. I find myself touching the glossy image of her face and wondering where she is, and why she never called me. I wonder if she’s found a boyfriend.

  I blink hard, push it all down, force a polite smile on my face and slide the catalogue back to the mystified girl. “Thanks,” I tell her. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “No—it was not a bother.” She smiles at me finally, and then her fingers clench around the bar napkin near her martini glass. “Could you…I mean—”

  “Sure thing, sweetheart.” I take my Sharpie from my pocket and sign my name on the napkin. “Here ya go.”

  “Can I help you?” a deep male voice says from behind me. “You bothering my girlfriend?”

  I wink at the girl, and then unfold to my full height. The guy is big, but still a third my size. I pat him on the shoulder. “Nope. I just saw someone I know in her catalogue.”

  He furrows his brow and glances at the table, at the girl, and at the catalogue. “In the fat chick magazine?”

  The girl’s face falls apart, hurt spreading across her features. She’s a girl with curves, sure enough, but she’s pretty, with bright blue eyes and wavy brown hair and high cheekbones. The way she buries the hurt so quickly tells me this isn’t the first time this asshole has said something like that.

  I don’t even think, I just react. Before he can finish his next sentence, I’ve got him across the bar, pinned against the wall with my forearm against his throat. “What…the fuck…did you say?”

  “I—I—” he gurgles.

  “Listen to me, you ugly, sloppy, piece of shit.” I get in his face, and I see real terror. “How about you get the fuck out of here, and you leave that girl alone, huh? You don’t get to talk to her or anyone else that way. Not ever. I should break you in fucking half for talking like that, you pathetic little cocksucker.” I drop him, spin, and shove him toward the exit. “Get the fuck out of here, douche-canoe.”

  He stumbles, lands on his ass, scrambles to his feet and runs out the door. People clap, a few whistle. Oliver is standing guard, keeping the bouncer at bay. I flex my hands into fists, shake and release them, and then sit down across from the girl. She’s quivering, fighting back the tears.

  I touch her chin, and she looks at me. “Hey. What’s your name?”

  “Quinn.”

  “You listen to me, Quinn.” I pin her with my eyes, let her see my sincerity. “You don’t need a piece of shit like him. If he doesn’t appreciate how pretty you are, just the way you are, then he doesn’t deserve you.”

  She searches me. “You think I’m—pretty?”

  “Yeah, Quinn, I do. And anyone with eyes can see that, too, as long as they’re not shallow, spineless assholes like that guy.”

  “He’s not so bad. He’s nice enough most of the time. He just…he wants me to be healthy.”

  “That’s bullshit. He just says that because he thinks it’s an easy way to manipulate you. He thinks he can make you believe he’s got your best interests in mind, when all he really wants is an easy target.” I grab her hands. “But you’re not an easy target, are you, Quinn? You’re the type of girl who stands up for herself, right? You want a guy to like you for you, who finds you attractive exactly the way you are. Isn’t that right? You wouldn’t date a pathetic loser just because you think it’s all you can get, would you? You aren’t that girl, are you, Quinn?”

  I can see her processing my words, my challenge. She lifts her chin, and determination hardens her features. “No. I’m not that girl.”

  I smile at her. “Good.”

  She tosses back her martini, and stands up. “Thanks, Mr. Trenton.”

  I stand up too and shake her hand, and then pull her in for a quick hug. “When that loser tries to get you back, you tell him to fuck off. Okay?”

  “I will.”

  I gather my things and stop by the bar, hand a few large bills to the bartender. “Pay her tab and mine, keep what’s left.”

  The bartender’s eyes bug out and he nods.

  I leave the bar, hand my script to Oliver and tell him to find somewhere to park. I need to walk. Need to clear my head. Seeing Des, even in a magazine, has me flipped out all over again. I’d buried it all, moved on. Or so I’d thought. But obviously, I hadn’t.

  I walk aimlessly, my thoughts whirling. Every once in awhile I see Oliver pass by me in the Rover, circling me to make sure I’m not getting mugged or anything.

  Eventually I realize I’m outside Wayne State University. Students are filing out in singles, twos, and threes. A late class must have just let out. I watch them go, scanning the faces, not sure what I’m looking for, or why I’m here. Des isn’t here, I know she isn’t. She’s in New York, modeling. But I don’t walk away; I lean against the pole of a streetlight and watch the students from across the street.

  They’re gone now. The thirty or thirty-five students have quickly dispersed, and the street is empty again.

  I turn away, and then I hear the building door swing open. I glance back, out of instinct, I guess.

  And there she is.

  Des.

  Hands in her jeans pockets, backpack slung across her shoulders, hair in a sleek ponytail.

  I’m running across the street without thinking, ignoring the honk and the squeal of brakes. She turns at the noise, sees me, and then I’m in front of her.


  She’s in my arms, chest to chest, and her warm brown eyes are staring into mine, wondering, amazed, fearful, hesitant. “Adam?”

  There are too many things to say, and I don’t even know where to start. I feel as if I’m in a dream.

  “I’m sorry I never called—” she starts.

  A million thoughts skirl in my brain, and I can’t even begin sorting them out. All I know is this is Des, here, in my arms, and her lips are wet, like she’s just licked them, and I need to kiss her.

  So I cut her off with a kiss, my lips slanting across hers, my heart thumping in my chest. She’s frozen at first, shocked, and then she’s pressing up on her toes and her tongue finds mine, and I know whatever her reasoning was, it’s irrelevant now.

  She wants this as much as I do.

  She moans into the kiss, leans against me as if her legs won’t hold up her weight.

  I break the kiss enough to whisper to her. “You’re coming with me.”

  She just nods.

  Chapter 12

  Is this real? Is this happening? How did he find me?

  His hand in mine is big and rough and familiar, and his presence beside me is huge and warm. His eyes on mine are the pale pastel green that has my heart flipping and my stomach knotting, because he sees me, sees into me.

  He wants me.

  I still don’t entirely know why.

  The question is becoming: do I care why, or only that he does?

  I’m walking beside him, and then a black Range Rover slides to a graceful stop beside us and Adam slides in, pulls me in after him. He reaches across me, pulls the seatbelt over my chest and clicks it into place. It’s a sweet but bizarre gesture, buckling me in. Is he that worried for my safety? Or is he worried I’ll bolt? I don’t know. But his fingers are twining in mine and the driver seems to know where we’re going without being told.

  I open my mouth to speak, and Adam shakes his head. “Not yet.”