Rouse Me
by Crystal Kaswell
Copyright © 2014 Crystal Kaswell
All rights reserved worldwide.
No part of this e-book may be copied or sold.
Prologue
Hot Celeb Newz
Monday, 7:15 A.M.
Do we hear wedding bells? Last night, once rising starlet, Alyssa Summers, was seen walking the 3rd Street Promenade with a two carat engagement ring on her finger. According to our sources, Miss Summers's long-time boyfriend, Ryan Knight, popped the question over dinner.
We wish Alyssa the best of luck—she's going to need it! Her future hubby is a family law attorney who specializes in the high-profile divorces of wealthy, powerful men. According to our insiders, Mr. Knight is utterly merciless when it comes to alimony and child support agreements. Remember, dear, get another attorney to look over that prenup.
We hope this means the end of her “mental health hiatus.” Together isn't the same without her!
Chapter 1
I wake up drenched in sweat, my heart pounding in my chest. Did I dream up last night or did Ryan really ask me to marry him?
Did I dream that I said yes and that Ryan whisked me back home? That he was some mix of affectionate and aggressive when he laid me on our bed and stripped me naked, and kissed me—serious kisses, not the usual pecks—until I asked for more? Did I dream about the close thrusts in missionary, my attention fading in and out, my gaze drifting to the ring?
And there it is, on my left hand. It's a big, showy thing, meant to broadcast my “engaged” status to anyone who even glances at me. Meant to broadcast Ryan's status to anyone who sees us together.
There's no way I dreamed up this ring.
I am engaged to Ryan.
I should be excited.
I am excited. Of course I'm excited. Ryan has done a lot for me. He deserves to be my husband.
Still, I try to avoid the ring's reflection as I brush my teeth. It's impossible. The enormous rock catches the light at every angle. It must have cost a fortune. Ryan is doing well, really well, but he didn't need to drop so much money on a piece of jewelry. It's not as if I'll be able to wear it often if I go back to acting. And I don't want to get into fights about why I'm not wearing his expensive ring.
In the kitchen, Ryan fixes our usual breakfasts—an egg white omelet for him, oatmeal and fruit for me. He kisses me, a soft peck on the lips.
“Good morning, Mrs. Knight,” he says with a smile. There's another fight I don't want to have—whether or not I'll take his name.
I fix our coffees—black for him, agave and almond milk in mine. I know, I'm one of those Los Angeles people, but there is no room for sugar or half and half on my recovery diet.
We eat quietly for a few minutes. I read on my Kindle. Ryan works on his laptop. It's our normal routine, but today Ryan is especially annoyed.
“What is this?” he asks, turning the laptop to me. And there it is—his name on Google, and half a dozen celebrity gossip websites running with the story of our engagement. And here I thought everyone forgot about me.
“You proposed at a popular restaurant. What did you think would happen?” I ask.
“It's supposed to be private,” he says. As if I had something to do with our names appearing on celebrity gossip sites. As if he didn't know, going in, that I am enough of a C-list actress to be interesting to people interested only in fame. As if our engagement is somehow less special because people know about it.
“If you wanted it to be private, why didn't you do it here?” I ask.
“I'm not going to ask you to be my wife over take out in the condo.” He sinks into his bad mood, poring over the gossip sites, the expression in his hazel eyes growing more and more irritated.
“I guess I under-estimated how much everyone wants to talk about you,” he adds.
“They'll have forgotten by this weekend.”
“My parents are going to find out we're engaged from some gossip site.”
“Your parents don't follow gossip.”
“Someone is going to call them,” he says.
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“There's nothing you can do.” He slips his suit jacket over his shoulders and packs his briefcase. “In a few years, no one will remember who you are, and we'll never have to deal with this kind of thing.”
Is that supposed to be comforting?
He kisses me on the cheek on his way out the door. I turn over his words.
In a few years, no one will remember who you are.
In a few years, Alyssa Summers, you will not be anything but my wife.
***
I expect my phone to flood with calls, or at least texts, of happy congratulations, but I don't get much. It's still early, and all the actors I know are either sleeping in or too busy to pay attention to gossip websites.
The only person desperate to reach me is Corine, my agent. She calls four times, but I don't pick up. I'm not ready to hear her perky voice and pretend I am nothing but ecstatic about this. I am not ready to make a decision on “official word from Alyssa Summers” vis-à-vis this engagement, or my sad, sordid past dabbling in bulimia—half the news blurbs felt the need to mention that unverified fact.
I am not ready, but it is better than hearing my ring tone over and over again, wondering why I am watching TV instead of talking to another human being.
She calls again. I pick up. “Mazel tov, darling,” she practically screams into the phone. “I have an audition for you.”
My stomach fills with butterflies. It's been so long since I've done any acting. Nearly a year. Just the thought of preparing for an audition—marking up a script, running my lines, losing myself in the scene—makes me cringe with nostalgia. An audition. I try to catch my breath. There's an audition. For me. That means there's a role. For me. If I get it, if I don't fuck it up, I might have a life again.
Deep breath. I can't get so excited. When I got out of treatment, Ryan made me promise to take a year off. It's only been eight months and that's yet another fight I don't want.
“What is it?”
“A friend's client is a showrunner. They're firing their lead actress. Or she's leaving. Rehab. Drugs. I forget. It doesn't matter. They're short one luscious blonde and you're available.”
“When did I become a luscious blonde?” I ask.
“You tell me, darling. I know platinum isn't your natural color.”
“When did I become luscious?”
“Don't tell me you’re insecure. Curvy is in. And you're what, a size 6?” A eight, actually, but who's counting? “Really, you should play up this bulimia thing. Everyone will be cheering for your recovery. You'll be a role model.”
She makes it sound so reasonable and altruistic, but she really means…Think of all the free press, Alyssa! I can get you on the cover of every health magazine, talking about how you beat an eating disorder. You can be the poster girl for sensible eating and loving your body. You can get asked stupid question after stupid question about your figure. No one gives two fucks about what's in your head. You're an actress. Let them ask about your exercise routine and makeup tips. That's all they want to know. Don't you want to be “The Next Marilyn Monroe”? You're both blonde and curvy. She's a sex symbol, you know?
Never mind that Ms. Monroe was so miserable she killed herself.
Corine soldiers on. “This show is perfect for you. It's on cable. Nice, easy 13 episode season. And the lead is such a fun character. A former model.”
“A model?”
“She's post-rehab. She's not supposed to be a size 0 anymore. I wouldn't try to put you through that,” Corine says. “Do you know how bad I would look—putting my bulimic client up for a part that would require her to lose weig
ht?” She says it so casually, like it's totally normal that everyone in the freaking world knows I spent the better part of three months in treatment for an eating disorder.
I'm a long way from a former model. It's not like I was ever super thin. On Together I played the slutty cheerleader—Cindy Bleachers. She was supposed to be all tits and ass, busting out of her teeny uniform. But a former model?
Could I really handle that?
“Auditions are tomorrow,” she says. “If you want to get back into the game, you aren't going to find a better opportunity.”
“But a model?” I ask.
“They're desperate and you're perfect.”
Say yes. Just say yes. Just scream yes and schedule the audition. You don't have to tell Ryan. You don't have to start a fight. Come on. Don't you miss it? Don't you miss reading a script 20 times, finding the nuance in every line? Don't you miss slipping into a role and channeling all the shit that's bothering you and putting it in the scene? Don't you miss being on set and working with other actors to create the most delightful imitation of life? Don't you miss being the professional woman you always wanted to be, excelling at your job, and coming home exhausted? Don't you miss knowing you kicked ass?
Don't you miss acting?
“I have to ask Ryan,” I say, and I hate myself for it. Why can't I just do it and deal with his irritation? Why can't I just do it and convince him later? It's so close it hurts. I could take this audition. I could kill it. I could get the part. Jesus, what if I got the part? I barely survived three seasons of Together and I was only second billing.
“Do you remember when you first moved to Los Angeles and tried to audition for a role as Ophelia?”
“Yes.”
“And I told you my girl is not going to play a role where she throws her life away over some brooding loser?”
“I seem to recall something more along the lines of 'Fuck Shakespeare, no one enjoys that thou and thee bullshit.'”
“Before you got Together, you would have killed someone for this kind of opportunity,” she says.
“I know,” I say, and I try to think up excuses to convince myself. I'm not ready. I'm out of practice. I'm still on hiatus. But none of them matter. I want this. I need this. I need this so much, it will crush me to say no.
Ryan won't like it. No, it's worse than that. It's a direct violation of our agreement. After treatment, he made me promise to take a one year hiatus. He made me promise to think about my life and if I really, really wanted to go back to acting. It seems silly to do something that made you so sick, even if it is your “passion.”
It isn't Ryan's fault. He's a great guy, but he wouldn't understand passion if it slapped him in the face.
“Listen, darling,” she says, “I know Ryan did a lot for you, helping you when you got sick, but you can't let him run your life.”
“I know.”
“Do you think opportunities like this come along every day? You'll hate yourself if you ignore this chance.” Damn. She's right. I will hate myself if I pass up this opportunity. And I'll hate Ryan if he keeps it from me…
“Okay,” I say. “I'll audition.”
I'll think of something to tell Ryan. I'll think of some way to convince him.
I have to.
Chapter 2
Daydreams get the best of me. I am back on set, on another TV show, this time with a sane showrunner. My co-stars and I are best friends. We talk about motivations and practice our lines while we wait. We are all on the same wavelength, melding our interpretations of the scenes, laughing between takes, eager to bring the emotionality every time.
It's just like Together, only without the pesky voice in my head asking me to stuff my face with junk.
When I snap out of it, I am eager to channel my energy into something. But there's nothing here, nothing but glass windows and modern furniture. I need to get out. I need to talk to Ryan, to convince him this is a good idea. Or at least to get a feel for where he stands. We did just get engaged. He should be in a good mood. Right?
I wear his favorite dress—a sleek black and white thing that screams trophy wife—and drive to his office. I practice my potential speech in the elevator. I love you, Ryan. I'll be so happy. This will be so good for both of us. I won't be lonely all day. I won't bother you at work. I won't be such a needy, whiny wreck.
But I know it won't convince him.
Relax, Alyssa, he's your fiancé. He has to listen to you. He has to consider it. Right?
The suite is as clean as it is elegant. White walls. Oak furniture. A sleek silver sign bearing the name of the law firm: Lawrence and Knight. It's only Ryan and his partner, Luke Lawrence. I've still never met him. He leaves every day at a very reasonable 6:00PM.
I knock on Ryan's door. “Come in,” he says. Ryan looks up for a second, just enough to register my presence. He isn’t surprised or delighted, just aware. “What's wrong, sweetheart?”
“I miss you. That's all.”
“Can't you miss me at home?”
“It's lonely at home,” I say. I stop by Ryan's office every so often. Usually, he's too busy to see me, and he asks me to wait at the bar across the street. Eventually, I get bored of anticipating his lecture— why can't you stop at one drink, Alyssa? — and I go home.
Ryan's hazel eyes connect with mine. He gives me a once over, clearly approving of my classy yet sexy dress.
“What's really on your mind?” he asks.
I bite my lip. How can I phrase it? How can I convince him? What could I possibly say?
“Corine called,” I say.
“The woman who let you run yourself into the ground?”
“It wasn't her job to babysit me. It was her job to get me more money.”
“Why did Corine call?” He says her name with such disdain. Does he really blame her for my downward spiral? It's not like she could have done anything about it. He couldn't even do anything about it. He didn't even know about it until I was firmly entrenched in a habit of purging every other night.
“She wanted to say congrats.”
“Sweetheart, I know you didn't bring up your agent just to let me know she's happy we're engaged.”
“What if I started auditioning again?” I say. Fuck, there's nowhere to go from here if he says no and I get the part. I'll have to admit to deception or cover it up with more lies.
“I thought we decided you would take a year off.”
“You decided that.”
“Because you weren't ready to put your health first,” he says.
“Ryan, I can't sit in the apartment all day. It's boring.”
“What about your books?” Does he really think an unlimited supply of books is going to placate me? Don't get me wrong. I love books. I love losing myself between the pages. But it's not acting. It's not becoming a character. It's not creating life out of nothing.
“It's been almost nine months,” I say. “And I've been doing really well. Why can't I end the hiatus a little early?”
“You've been at it for 10 years. Don't you think it's time to move on?”
“I was a series regular for three years,” I say. “And I killed myself trying to get those parts.”
“Listen to yourself.”
“I only meant I worked hard.”
“But you were right. You nearly killed yourself.”
“You can't blame my eating disorder on acting,” I say.
“It's a lot of pressure on you, sweetheart. Everyone's eyes are on you. Everyone talks about how your body looks. Do you really want to see articles debating who is hotter—you or your costars—or, God forbid, articles about how you are too fat?”
“It will be different. They want me. They want my abilities. My fat ass.”
“Your ass isn't fat.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Take it back,” he says.
“Okay, my ass is normal.”
“It's a joke today. Tomorrow, it's a diet plan or a personal trainer or a bottle of
herbal metabolism boosters.”
“I won't do any of that. I swear.”
“It's not a good idea.”
“I'm not going to wait forever,” I say.
“You just got better, sweetheart. Why do you want to go back to the lifestyle that made you so sick?”
“Because I love it.”
Ryan sighs, “You're an adult. I can't force you to stay on hiatus, but I do wish you'd put your health first. We agreed on those ground rules for a reason.”
“Please, Ryan.”
He kisses me on the forehead. “You don't need to worry about your career anymore,” he says. “We're engaged now. I'm going to keep taking care of you.”
Lucky me.
“We'll talk about it in a few weeks,” he says. “After you've given it some serious thought.”
A knock on the door interrupts us.
“That must be Luke. Ignore him,” Ryan says.
Luke steps inside. He's taller than I imagined. Younger too. In his late 20s probably. He's built like a runner—tall with long, lean muscles. And he's handsome. Very handsome. His coffee-colored eyes and messy black hair stand out against his light skin.
Okay, handsome was the wrong word. He's hot. Smoking hot.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he says. “You must be Alyssa. I'm Luke. Luke Lawrence.”
His eyes connect with mine. Jesus, his eyes are amazing—the darkest of browns, big and full of life. He holds my gaze as he shakes my hand. I nod. He's Luke. Luke Lawrence. Ryan's partner. Remember Ryan, your fiancé? He's standing behind you.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
Luke brushes his fingers across my wrist, and I feel a rush of electricity flood my body. I gulp. It's nice enough when Ryan touches me, but it's nothing like this. Nothing so intense.
“What do you want?” Ryan asks, barely able to hide his hostility.
“We've been working together three years. Don't you think it's time I met your girlfriend? Excuse me, your fiancée.”
“You've had chances,” Ryan says.
“Aren't you going to offer her something to drink?” Luke asks.
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