by Emily Bishop
A knock rattled my door again. “Miss Bell!? Please, open the door, we just want to talk to you.”
I stood frozen. What could I do? I had to wait for them to leave before I started the van. But staying still meant thinking about Jarryd and the ache spreading through my chest. No, I had to move, and I had to move now.
After all, wouldn’t it be pretty hilarious? The looks on their faces as the “gypsy whore” RV rolled through town?
It should’ve been. The old Aurora might even have laughed it off, but this one couldn’t get past the loss.
Chapter 25
Jarryd
I paced back and forth in my hotel room, the TV silent now, because I couldn’t stand the sight of our romance splashed across the news for public consumption. They’d taken something special, wrapped it up in glitter and bullshit, and pushed it out to the public. They’d cheapened it.
And now, Aurora wanted out.
“I won’t let it happen,” I said and halted in front of the desk. On it lay a copy of Pride’s Death. I lifted the script and flipped through the pages, words scrawled across the pages, blank space, and nothing. Nothing, no emotion.
I hadn’t put enough into this. Or the kernel, the seed that had started it, hadn’t been sufficient to create something that mattered.
The irony of this all? I’d stayed in Moondance for Pride’s Death even though I’d wanted to get away from this town and my own heartbreak. Now, I had the chance to drop the movie—possibly ruin my reputation but drop it, still—and I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Aurora lived here.
And she’d changed my god damn life.
I tossed the script onto the table and balled up my fists. “I won’t let it happen,” I said and stormed to the door. I wrenched it open and let myself into the hall.
No reporters out here, no flashes from cameras or desperate questions in voices raised to be heard above all the other queries thrown heedlessly. Just a warm carpeted hall and closed doors.
But out there, oh, damn, that was a different story. Out there, the wolves waited.
Well, those wolves were about to get a taste of what it was like to come head to head with a lion.
I marched down the hall, iron bumping through my veins, now, steel stiffening my spine. I had to get to Aurora, and if anyone got in my damn way, they’d pay the price. If I ever got my hands on who’d taken those photos of us…
I entered the lobby and, for once, ignored the receptionist. Outside, the photographers and fuckwits had gathered. One of them spotted me, pointed, and the cameras rose in unison. Photos flashed, people jostled to get a better view.
I was a lion in a glass cage, now, but what would they do when I ran wild?
“Let’s find out,” I grunted and walked to the door.
The paps worked themselves into a veritable froth, a snapping frenzy. Guys and gals with microphones raised them, checked their hair, and beckoned to cameramen.
I opened the door, and a burst of sound deafened me. Light flashes redoubled. I stood there, waiting for deluge of questions.
A moment of silence, and then—
“Mr. Tombs, is your girlfriend in there, too?”
“What do you have to say about the allegation that you cheated on your fiancée with Aurora Bell?”
“Do you plan on asking Aurora to marry you?”
“Mr. Tombs, are you in love?” That one from a woman, high-pitched and squeaking the words out.
I held up a palm, and finally, the questions simmered down. A few more called out but were soon shushed by the others near the front of the pile.
“I have never and will never cheat on a partner,” I said, loud and clear.
They paid rapt attention, microphones aimed directly at me.
“Any insinuation other than that is a bald-faced lie. I didn’t cheat on Felicity Swan, but yes, I am currently involved with someone else. I ask that you respect her privacy.” I paused, cleared my throat. “That’s all I have to say.”
The questions exploded into the afternoon, immediately. “Mr. Tombs, if you didn’t cheat on Felicity Swan, why would she claim that you did?”
“Are you going to confront Felicity over what’s happened?”
“What are your plans for Pride’s Death? Will you still go ahead with the movie? Will Felicity be the star?”
Question after question, lobbed at me like hot fucking potatoes. I didn’t answer any of them but pushed forward through the throng. They parted around me, I held out my elbows to thwack ones who got in too close, and I walked to the side of the road.
Luke’s Porsche was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps my buddy had skipped out after the new reports. I didn’t blame him. This was a media shitstorm, and everyone needed breathing room.
The reporters tailed me, snapping at my heels for morsels like starved dogs.
“Are you going to see her, Jarryd?” one of them asked. “Does Felicity know what you’re doing?”
I tamped down my anger. These fools wanted a reaction out of me, and I wouldn’t give it to them. I’d dealt with the press for years, and I understood how to handle them. Tearing shit up and going on attack mode with a reporter was the worst idea imaginable. They’d eat that up and regurgitate it for the views.
“What’s she like in bed?” a man asked.
I froze and looked over at the peon—a bald, skinny guy wearing stained jeans and a shirt that’d seen better days—there was a hole near the hem. His camera hung from a strap on his neck, and he grinned at me, grinned as if what he’d asked was the most reasonable thing in the world.
“Eh, Tombs? What’s the gypsy like in bed?”
Rage surged upward, bubbled behind my eyes, and took hold of me. I ground my teeth and held back, clung to the last bits of myself.
Another reporter stepped in. “Mr. Tombs, have you decided what you’re going to do about—”
“What’s this?” The iced tone, strident, feminine sailed over their heads and struck me right in the ears.
Felicity Swan came forward, and the crowd parted around her, too. They gave us space, a semi-circle of it on the sidewalk. A car rumbled past, tires sticky on the hot tar, and moved off again.
I couldn’t speak. The sight of her had gummed up the works. If I opened my mouth now, I’d explode rather than talking.
“You’ve got a following already, Jarryd,” she said. “Typical. I’m the one who’s suffered through all these months, and you’re the one who gets the coverage.” Crocodile tears sprang to her eyes, trickled down her tan cheeks.
This would’ve been more convincing had I not witnessed this woman do the same on set hundreds of times. Felicity was one of those talented actresses who could channel whichever emotion she wished. Her skill had been one of the reasons she’d attracted me.
Now, it had the opposite effect. At this rate, I’d grind my teeth to nubs.
“I can’t believe you did this to me,” she whimpered.
“Cut the shit,” I replied.
And the reporters jerked their cameras upward, flashes went off again.
The unearthly anger boiled higher. I stepped off the sidewalk and into the road. Felicity mimicked me. She wanted this to happen then. She saw the effect she’d had on me and she wanted me to tell her exactly what I thought.
“I did nothing but love you,” she said.
“That must be why you fucked the pool boy. And Brigman.” That brought murmurs from the onlookers. “Come on, Felicity,” I said. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Or that I didn’t know? You’ve never been good at keeping secrets.”
“Fuck you,” she spat.
“No, fuck you,” I yelled back. “Fuck you for trying to mess this up. Well, I’ll tell you one thing, you haven’t fucked anything up. I’m going to see her right now, and fuck it, I’ll make her mine.”
“Do that and you’ll lose everything,” she said, and the tears continued, a constant stream. Christ, she’d dehydrate herself. “You’ll lose everything just like your father did.”<
br />
Whoa. Low blow.
“Quiet,” I replied. Felicity had been there for the fight between Dad and I. She understood how deeply that hurt.
“That’s what you’re heading for, babe. You’re going to become just like him. A failure. You’ll lose everything, and all because you couldn’t keep your dick out of another woman.” She raised her chin.
The skinny dude in the ripped clothes lifted his camera and snapped a pic of her. That’d be all over E! by tonight.
“I’m done.” I made a time out sign. “This is over. Get out of my way.” Commands that carried the weight of authority.
Felicity raised a penciled eyebrow. “Or what, Jarryd, you’re going to hit me?”
Fuck her for even saying that. She challenged me because I’d treated her well during our time together. Or wasted time. She saw that treatment as a weakness.
I’ll show her strength.
“You’re off the movie,” I said. “You’re no longer doing Pride’s Death.”
Felicity staggered, her fake-lash encrusted eyes went round, and this time, the shock was real. She placed a palm to her chest, barely covered by a silken blouse, the V-neck clinging to her skin. “What?”
“You’re off the movie,” I replied.
“If I don’t move out of your way, I’m off the movie?”
“No,” I said, and the laugh that gurgled from my throat was pure rage. “You’re off the movie, regardless.” I walked around her, gave her the wide berth she deserved in case the toxicity was catching then walked off.
Heat beat down on the back of my neck, this from the sun rather than Felicity’s nuclear reaction to that announcement. She shrieked behind me—the howl silenced the gang of paps. “I’m not off the movie. You don’t get a say. You don’t get to do that!”
The words rolled off me like water off a duck’s back.
I walked on, thoughts bent on Aurora and getting to her before she did something she’d regret. No, something we’d both regret. I wouldn’t let her go like this. Not now, not ever, because I’d gone and done it.
I’d fallen in love with her, and not the bullshit love I’d felt for Felicity.
The more I examined those feelings, the more I realized that what Felicity and I’d had was comfortable, nothing more. Comfortable and easy, until it wasn’t anymore, and when all her pro acting skills fell away, the real her had been revealed.
With Aurora, it was more than the physical, it was friendship, too.
“I’m coming,” I said. “You’d better not leave.”
I tracked on, past a barbershop and a baker. Inside the stores, folks turned and stared as I passed by, and some pointed or snapped photos, but none of them came out to ask for autographs. Good deal, I didn’t have time for it today.
My cell phone buzzed in my pocket and stalled my steps. I dragged it out, hope building in my chest then grunted.
Rod Teller. Christ, what was the problem, now?
I swiped my thumb across the screen, put my phone to my ear and resumed walking. “Rod,” I said.
“Jarryd, do you want to explain to me why I received a hysterical call from Felicity? She was so fucking high-pitched, I’ve got a headache and every dog in America must be itching to answer her call.”
At least, he still had a sense of humor about all of this. “I fired her,” I said. “She’s off the movie.”
“You—you—you. You fucking what?”
“I fired her.”
“I give up, man. You’ve lost the last of your sanity. That girl you’re into must’ve sucked it out through your dick,” he said.
“Hey!”
“Right, sorry.” Rod backed off that topic right away. “What possessed you to do this?”
“She sabotaged Pride’s Death by feeding the press lies. She has to learn that the world doesn’t revolve around her. Talent isn’t an excuse for narcissism.”
“She’s the highest paid actress in Hollywood,” Rod said, and he’d gone all weak around the edges. His voice warbled, reminding me of water in a glass.
“And she’s also threatening to ruin me and you and everything,” I said. “I’m not in a habit of explaining my choices, Rod.”
“I’m an investor,” he replied. “You’re obligated to explain them to me.”
“And that’s the only reason I’m telling you this right now. You want Pride’s Death? You think it’ll be the next blockbuster? Then Felicity’s off the movie. I’ll find someone else. There are plenty of unknowns out there, waiting to be discovered. It’s time we give someone else a chance.” And god damn, if this wasn’t the first time I’d felt good about a decision in ages.
Rod’s heavy breathing filled the receiver and whistled in my ear. “Christ, tell me you’re not going to cast your new girlfriend in the spot.”
“No. She’s not an actress, and she wouldn’t want to do something like that anyway.” Yeah, and she didn’t want any of the attention I’d brought down on her either. My Aurora, mine in body and spirit.
Rod lit up a cigarette, huffed and puffed, and I pictured him in his seat, producing clouds of blue-gray smoke, around his rapidly balding head. “You sure about this? You sure it won’t make things worse?”
“It will likely make things worse,” I said. “At first. But in the long run, this will benefit the movie and my career.”
“And my bank balance?”
“Yes,” I replied. “And your bank balance.” Yet, Felicity off the movie didn’t automatically cure the issues I had with Pride’s Death. The characters seemed one-dimensional, surreal. They didn’t have any real flavor, yet.
“You know, Felicity’s going to kick up another shitstorm because of this. I don’t know how much more you can take.”
“I don’t take shit,” I replied. “And I don’t produce it either. That’s why the movie has taken time, Rod. I want it to be perfect.” And with Felicity out of it, I might stand a chance. But would her attempts to ruin me ruin Pride’s Death for good?
Did I even care with Aurora in the picture?
Rod was silent on the other end of the line, mulling it over and puffing on that cigarette intermittently.
“Fine,” Rod said, at long last. “Fine, kiddo. I’ll trust you on this. If you can make this go away, or at least do some damn damage control, I’ll kiss your ass, both cheeks, and give you a round the world to go with it.”
“Do I want to know what a round the world is?”
“No. No, you damn well don’t,” he replied. “Clean it up. Clean it the hell up. I meant what I said earlier. If anything else goes wrong… I trust your instincts with Felicity, she’s trouble but—”
“Yeah, I hear you.”
“Good.” And he hung up.
I stowed the phone and scanned the street. Wrought iron lampposts, trees, some of their branches low-hanging, leaves littering the tarmac beneath them. Peaceful Moondance in all its beauty, and it’d been disturbed by all this damn drama.
The Moondance General Store appeared on my right, bobbling into view with each step. Its glass front door swung open and I held my breath—but an elderly couple appeared instead of anyone who might’ve induced another fit of anger.
They smiled at me then wandered off, hand-in-hand. The woman, her hair tufty around her ears but styled nevertheless, rested her head on her husband’s shoulder for a moment, and he kissed the top of it.
The tenderness hit me in the gut.
That was what I’d have with Aurora.
Chapter 26
Aurora
The velvet walls of the tent flapped in a slight breeze. The wind had picked up, and the clouds overhead had darkened as I’d driven from the RV park to the fairgrounds next door. Already, many of the stalls had closed for the day in anticipation of the storm.
The Ferris wheel stood stationary, and stragglers milled around the food stalls that were still open. The scent of buttery popcorn drifted on the air, along with the occasional burst of laughter or a distant rumble of thunder.
I took it all in, savoring every last bit of this moment. It would be my last in Moondance. After this, I’d be on the road again, and I likely wouldn’t find a gig as good as this one or the job at the Moondance Bar and Grill in another town.
The attitudes of townsfolk could be archaic when it came to folks like me. Travelers brought bad luck or they thieved or stole babies from their cots or any other combination of mythical tale based on nihilism.
I sighed then entered my tent, the velvet flaps rustling behind me.
For a second, the moment overwhelmed me. I’d met Jarryd in this tent, at this fair, for the first time. His cologne materialized, a ghost whiff of his smell, and I swayed on the spot.
“You can do this,” I whispered. “You’ve done it so many times before.” Packed up my shit, shoved it in the RV, and taken off. Just Mistress and me on the road, together. Two gals on the run. It would be fun.
I couldn’t force myself to believe that, no matter how I tried.
I walked to the collapsible bookcase in the corner and set to work on it. I’d only left a couple items in here, none of the important things like my crystal ball or the tarot decks. Just the shelf, the table and chairs, and the tent itself.
I made quick work of collapsing the shelf, concentrating on the menial task, rather than the pain that still hadn’t left me. A low, humming throb in the left side of my chest, right over my heart.
Finally, the bookcase was folded up. I worked on the table next, kicking the legs inward then clipping them to its underside. The top of it was scarred by wax marks or burns from hot plates. Mom and I had spent a lot of our meals at this table—she’d always preferred eating under the sky.
Every piece of furniture in here had a memory attached to her, and it all stung.
What would she have done in this situation? Would she have told me to run or stay? Oh, please, it’s not like you have a choice. You made your damn bed, now you’re going to have to lie in it.
