“We have worse problems, V. Blair’s got photos of us.”
“Then he came along, and like a twisted piece of metal that’s burned beyond recognition, I emerged from the fire. Different. Changed.”
—from the journal of Violet St. Lyons
MY FRAGILE WORLD was collapsing.
I sipped on tequila that he’d poured me and looked down at the pictures again. He’d downed two shots of bourbon already, his hands unsteady.
Pics of me. Of us. Of her.
“These will be in the papers and on every social media site she can get to post them,” he said. “You are all I’m worried about, V.”
I gazed at them, my eyes stopping over one of us on my patio, him on his knees with his mouth between my legs as my body arched in ecstasy. My skin blazed at the memory, echoes of the passion we’d shared—and now everyone in the world would see. The society people in New York. Geoff. My old musician friends. Worst of all, the board of directors for the orphanage.
My stomach dropped when I saw the ones of him and Blair, her lips stuck out in that stupid duck face. Frozen, I stared at it. Unable to focus on anything but his face on a pillow next to hers.
My eyes flashed from one picture to the next, and I bent over to breathe better.
Inhale and exhale. Don’t vomit.
“I know what you’re thinking, but the one of Blair—it happened the night I came over here and Geoff was here. She showed up at my house when I was trashed and got in my bed. She must have thought I’d fuck her if she was there. Nothing happened. I woke up and she was just there. That’s the morning you saw her leaving my house.”
I swallowed. “Something happened. Her boobs are on your chest.”
He kneeled down. “V, I had no clue she was even in my bed until I woke up. You were the only thing I could think about that night. You and Geoff.”
I turned my head away from him and clutched my glass as if it were a lifeline, realizing the magnitude. The Mystery Girl and Sebastian Tate would finally be splayed out for millions to post, share, tweet, and crucify. Someone would probably write a song about it. It would definitely be fodder for the comedians on SNL.
I looked down at the pictures. “Remind me to pass on the makeup next time. And to not have sex outdoors. Obviously,” I said, forcing my shoulders to move in a nonchalant shrug like I didn’t care, but he knew the truth. I was devastated by these.
“If I can talk to her, maybe I can convince her not to go through with it. I’m so fucking sorry.”
I was barely listening.
She’d won. At everything. Because even if she didn’t have him, she’d have public sympathy and a career. I had nothing. Not even him. Not really.
He was willing to toss us away just because I suggested I might want to go back to New York. Of course, I’d never leave him if he wanted me with him. I could do music anywhere.
If he could tell me he loved me.
He said my name in that husky voice of his, the one that sounded like sex, the one that made me want to rip his clothes off. “Violet—”
“Stop,” I said, clenching my fists. I stood and faced him, tossing back the last of my shot. “First off, I wish we’d never met.” I held my hand up. “No. Wait. I don’t wish that because then I wouldn’t know Spider or Mila. I—I wish I’d never fallen for you. Loving means losing, just like my parents.” I sucked in a breath.
He closed his eyes, a dazed expression on his face as if my words crushed him.
“You make me wish for things that will never be,” I whispered. “You want to be a star, and all I want is you.”
He scrubbed his face. “V, I’m sorry I got you involved with her. I’m going to do what I can to keep it out of the papers.”
“What? Go running back to her? Just to save me from public humiliation? What about your own reputation? How will Nora and Leo react to seeing their baby brother all over the media in the nude?”
More panic settled in me. Stares. Whispers. People who wanted to delve into my box of grief. “She couldn’t have timed this better. I’ll have to cancel the benefit. I can’t face those people. I can’t.”
I wasn’t strong enough.
He’d stopped his pacing, a muscle jerking in his cheek as he leaned down until his nose was level with mine. “Then this is goodbye, Violet? You’re giving up on us already?”
Did I hear a break in his voice? Impossible.
“If I don’t say goodbye, then you will.” I walked past him, enjoying the hiss of breath when I let my hand drift over his crotch. “This moment is begging for a soundtrack, don’t you think?” I said, coming to a stop by the stereo system and cranking up Kurt Cobain’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Holding my hands up in the “horns rocking out” signal, I bobbed my head to the beat while he watched, anger flickering across his face. I danced and twirled around, closing my eyes, the music vibrating through my body, my fingers itching for my violin.
My eyes flew open. He’d strode over to me and clicked the stereo off, chest still heaving. He shoved his hands in my hair and dragged my face to his, and I groaned at the fire that blazed in my body. I felt the warm heat of his skin, and I pressed closer and inhaled. He smelled like bourbon and sex—a rock star’s diet—and I panted with need, cursing myself at the same time.
How would I ever get over him?
He pressed his thumbs across my mouth. Gentle. But his voice was angry. “You can’t wait to high-tail it back to your lawyer boyfriend, can you?”
“I plead the fifth,” I ground out, staring at his full lips. I licked my own.
We stared at each other until he exhaled heavily and put his back to me, his muscles as taut as the guitar strings he played. He verged on breaking.
Yeah, well, welcome to my world. For two years I’d been a prisoner of pain, and I’d be damned before I let him put me back there.
Yet at the same time, I reached my hand out to him. Stupid hand.
But of course, he didn’t see it.
“So long, V,” he said soft as a whisper, staring at the ground as if I was breaking his heart, when all along it was the other way around.
My lungs seized and words failed me.
Just look at me! I wanted to scream as his broad shoulders faced his house as if ready to leave. In truth, it wasn’t me who was giving up, but him. I was merely pushing him toward the choice I already knew he wanted.
It happened. He took a step from me, then another and another until he was nothing but a speck as he crossed the grass between our houses.
I clutched my chest and wanted to fall to the ground and rail on it. Alone. Again.
THE REST OF the morning passed in a blur. I drank more tequila and ended up on the couch. My phone buzzed on and off. I didn’t care, my head replaying pictures of me nude, pictures of Blair and Sebastian.
I refused to cry over him.
Mila came and banged on my door. I ignored her.
Wilson called and left me several voicemails.
Geoff called again, but I never picked up. Nothing mattered.
Mrs. Smythe called, and I immediately felt sick. How could I tell her that me as the public figure of the orphanage was in danger.
Should I step down as the spokesperson?
Should I give up on my dreams?
Where was the resolve and guts-over-fear attitude I’d adopted?
Where was Violet?
I walked around the house, running my fingers over things that belonged to my parents. A photo of us on vacation in Paris that sat on a table in the den, a scarf my mother knitted for me one Christmas that hung on a peg, my father’s astronomy journal next to mine on the coffee table. With a deep breath, I opened it and traced his slanted handwriting. I flipped to the last entry, made a few weeks before his death. Emotion clawed at my chest as I read it … as I had a million times before.
“Saw a meteor shower tonight and it reminded me of Violet. Bright. Full of hope. We wait with bated breath to see how she shines.”
I set
the book down.
And at the end of it all, I reminded myself that I’d survived that horrific day.
I’d LIVED.
I was a fighter, and I was going to fight.
AFTER LUNCH, I went to Wilson’s after listening to his rather frantic messages about needing to talk to me. He also kept apologizing, but I couldn’t for the life of me think why.
He opened the door, wearing his LA Lakers hat, and led me to his office where I got a jolt.
Oh.
Dan Hing sat in a black leather chair, nursing a drink. I knew Wilson had powerful connections, but this was odd.
“I guess I should have called. Want me to come back later?” I commented.
Wilson shifted from one foot to the other, a cagey look on his face. “Truth is I wanted to talk to you alone, but since you’re here …”
What was going on? I flicked my eyes at Hing, seeing an opportunity, but just not sure how to play it. Maybe I could salvage some of this colossal mess created by Blair. So far my name wasn’t popping up anywhere on the internet, so whatever she was planning, she was taking her time and making us sweat.
I sat down across from Hing, tension radiating in the room. I wasn’t sure why.
Weird undercurrent or not, he was fascinating to chat with. Thirty-five years old and he’d already directed and co-produced two Academy Award-winning movies, one an independent film and the other a blockbuster World War II film. No wonder Sebastian was itching to work for him. He was movie gold.
Hipster handsome with his skinny jeans and Einstein shirt, he kept sneaking little glances at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. He adjusted his black-rimmed glasses and peered at me with eagle eyes.
He didn’t miss much, and I don’t think he cared that I was aware he was staring.
“You seem to have something on your mind, Mr. Hing.” I was feeling blunt. Bruised.
He lit a cigar. “Forgive me. It—it’s just that Wilson here told me who you are, the lone survivor of Flight 215. I find it morbidly fascinating.”
My familiar walls shot up. “I’m not a freak.”
“No! Not at all.” He shook his head. “You’re gorgeous.”
Uh-huh. I narrowed my eyes at him. He wasn’t fooling me.
“I’ve had a shitty day, so if you have something to say, just say it.”
He tossed his head back and laughed, a deep rich sound. “I like your style, V, and the way you look. The hair is a bit much for me, but it suits you—and LA. The truth is, I’m looking for a new project to develop, this time as a full producer, so I’d have complete control over it from creation to the end.”
Not sure what this had to do with me.
“I’ve got thousands of scripts and novels on my desk. Five were bestsellers last year, but not one of them interests me. I want fresh. Something that’s never been done. Something that will tug at every heartstring in America, rip their guts out and make them cry like fucking babies.”
I barked out a laugh. “Want to put me in a movie? Sorry to disappoint, but I can’t act my way out of a paper bag. At my school Christmas play they gave me the only silent part, the kid who held the star up over baby Jesus.”
“That’s not what I had in mind actually.”
I slanted a look at Wilson, who gave me an apologetic shrug.
I waited. It came.
Hing said, “Wilson mentioned—”
“Nope, leave my name out,” Wilson interjected. “I told you she was a private person.” He patted my hand. “Sorry, I ever brought your name up to him, sweetheart. It all started when I invited him to the benefit and before I knew it, he’d pieced together who you were. He’s a one-track kind of guy and once he gets an idea—I’m sorry. I had no idea he was going to broach the topic here. I wanted to talk to you first.” He sent Hing a glare.
Hing chuckled. “I made him millions on the last movie I did, V. He felt like he owed it to me to tell me about you once I inquired. I’m an asshole, but I think we have the possibility of a fantastic movie here. With you.”
I felt my face redden at the discerning way he looked at me. I took to tapping my leg.
“I’m sorry,” Wilson said again, his face obviously pained as he sat across from me. “If you want to go now, I wouldn’t blame you.”
I sucked up some nerve. I had to see this through. “No, I’m good.” I turned to Hing. “You don’t want me to act for you. So what were you thinking?”
He sat there for a few beats, pursing his lips. “I want your story about the crash, your battle to escape the plane, your struggles with your grief, and even the orphanage. Of course, I’d like to take a peek at your journal as well, see if we can pull anything from it.”
Oh. My eyes widened. But how—
“I saw it lots of times at your house, V, but I swear I never read it or even touched it.” Wilson grimaced. “You know I have my own grief with my wife. I’d never betray that.”
“Don’t blame Wilson. He let it slip about the journal, and once he did, I convinced him you wouldn’t care if I approached you. And, if you say no, then there’s no harm, no foul. We can forget we even spoke, and I’ll write you a check for ten thousand dollars today for your orphanage. Either way.” He paused. “I am not here to ambush you, and in fact, I had no idea you were coming over. I was here to convince Wilson to let me call you up. He was refusing, of course.”
Wilson grunted. “Like you’d listen.”
I waved him on with my hands. “Fine. Make your spiel to me. You’re not the only Hollywood person who’s ever tried to make a deal with me.”
His eyes gleamed. “But you’ve never talked to anyone as big as me.”
What was up with the level of male cockiness in this town?
“First off, I want to make this film about hope and music—I know that’s important to you. I want to focus on how you grew up in this idyllic setting—Park Avenue apartments and a beach house at the Hamptons—but you lost something vital when your parents were killed …” and so he talked, and I listened.
He promised me millions.
“I don’t need your millions, Hing. I have my own.”
He pondered me. “But what if I told you that I would make you a permanent fixture on my set. You’d be able to see it in production. We could talk about your concerns.”
I smiled coolly. “Hypothetically, if I sold it to you, I’d want more control.”
He smirked and took a swig from a drink Wilson had poured him. “You’re tougher than you look, V. First, I’d have to read your story to even know that if it had what I wanted.”
“Don’t get coy now, Hing.”
He sucked on his cigar.
I shifted around in my seat, getting comfortable. I took my time as I eyed him, sipping on a glass of water. I set it down. “Do you know how terrifying it was to see people sucked out of a plane? And for some reason people want details.” I got light-headed talking about it, but it wasn’t as bad as in the past. I had to do this. Face my fears. A sense of calm came over me. “Did you know that nightmares have haunted me for two years, and it wasn’t until recently that I pieced together that my father actually saved me? Now, I can recall him fighting to get me on that seat cushion. He put me there, and then let go. So I could live.”
Hing’s mouth parted.
I continued. “I’m sure you’ve seen the pictures of them hauling me up in the harness to that helicopter, but what you may not know is technically I had no heartbeat nor was I breathing. The medic brought me back with CPR. Wouldn’t you like to know what I saw when I was dead?” I said softly.
His hand stilled its tapping against the desk.
“If you want my story, then give me what I want.” I had no idea what I wanted. Not yet.
He nodded. “Fine, I’ll make you an associate producer. You can be there from day one. You will have a vote in wardrobe, talent, location, hell even the damn gripper boy. Does that make you happy?”
I kept my face blank.
“Think on it, V.�
�� He grinned. “Now that we have that out of the way, let’s talk about Sebastian Tate.”
My mouth flew open and my eyes went straight to Wilson.
Could he not keep any of my secrets?
He held his hands up. “I have no idea what he’s talking about. Swear.”
“What?” Hing said. “Does this mean you and him are—a thing? All I meant is that he’s your neighbor and I was wondering if you knew him. I was under the impression he was dating Blair Storm? Am I wrong?”
“It’s not what you think,” I said hurriedly.
Hing’s eyes gleamed. “You’re the Mystery Girl from the Hollywood Insider, aren’t you? The one he was caught kissing.”
“No.”
He settled back in his chair. “I don’t believe you. Is he dating Blair Storm or not? If we’re going to work together, we need full disclosure, V.”
“I never said we were working together, Hing.”
He smiled. “Touché.”
I focused on staying cool. This was Sebastian’s movie career here. “I know that you didn’t choose him for your zombie movie.”
“True. When the story broke about him and you, I assumed there was truth to all the rumors that he was irresponsible. Plus, if I went with Blair, I wouldn’t want any lover’s tiffs.” He tapped his ashes. “What do you know about him?”
“He’s worth a million Blair Storms.”
“Go on, I’m listening.”
I sat there, mulling, searching for the right words. “His parents were murdered when he was eight, and even though he could have let that define him, he didn’t. He’s the strongest person I know, and he believes that life is good. His grief never broke him like it did me.” I looked at my twitching hands. “He left home at eighteen, forged his own way and has managed his band ever since. He moved here for two reasons: to make a movie with you and get his friend and bandmate Spider off the road for a while. Spider is irresponsible and maybe even an alcoholic, but Sebastian is determined to take care of him. Sebastian’s a lot like you. He sees what he wants and he goes and gets it any way he can. Not many twenty-three-year-olds can claim that.”
Very Twisted Things (Briarcrest Academy #3) Page 18
